Who Killed Father Christmas and Other Unseasonable Demises (1996) by Patricia Moyes

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BOOKS BY PATRICIA MOYES
THE HENRY TIBBETT MYSTERIES
Dead Men Don’t Ski
The Sunken Sailor (U.S. title, Down Among the Dead Men)
Death on the Agenda
Murder a la Mode
Falling Star
Johnny Under Ground
Murder Fantastical
Death and the Dutch Uncle
Who Saw FJer Die (U.S. title, Many Deadly Returns)
Season of Snows and Sins
The Curious Affair of the Third Dog
Black Widower
To Kill a Coconut (U.S. title, The Coconut Killings)
Who Is Simon Warwick?
Angel Death
A Six-Letter Word for Death
Night Ferry to Death
Black Girl, White Girl
Twice in a Blue Moon
SHORT STORY COLLECTION

Who Killed Father Christmas? And Other Unseasonable Demises
OMNIBUS VOLUME
Murder by 3 ’s (including Down Among the Dead Men, Dead Men
Don’t Ski, and Falling Star)
CHILDREN’S BOOK
Helter-Skelter
NON-FICTION
After All, They’re Only Cats . . .

How to Talk to Your Cat
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Clll'Pf.Nfi LANPRD PUB LISHERS NORFOLK, VIRGINIA 1996

Copyright © 1996 by Patricia Moyes
Cover copyright © 1996 by Crippen Sc Landru, Publishers
Cover design by Deborah Miller
Crippen Sc Landru logo by Eric D. Greene
ISBN (limited edition): 1-885941-08-0
ISBN (trade edition): 1-885941-09-9
FIRST EDITION
1098 7 65 43 2 1
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
Crippen Sc Landru, Publishers

P. O. Box 9315
Norfolk, VA 23505-9315
USA
CONTENTS
Introduction 7
Short Stories
Deadlock 11
A Suitable Revenge 16
A Man Without Papers 22
Love at Second Sight 31
The Most Hated Man in London 36
A Young Man Called Smith 39
Who Killed Father Christmas? 64
Beyond the Reef 73
A Whispering in the Reeds 80
A Matter of Succession 98
Hit and Run 104
The Honest Blackmailer 109
The Small Train Robbery 116
A Lonely Profession 124
Faces of Betrayal 137
The Faithful Cat 148
Flowers of the Dead 162
The Extra Mile 171
The Man Who Had Everything 179
Family Christmas 187
A Detective Novella
The Holly Wreath 197

INTRODUCTION
I’ve never thought of myself as a short story writer: my natural line
of sight has always seemed to be the full-length novel. So the stories in
this book are nearly all either fortuitous, or written because I was
especially asked to do them, and I have never been able to resist a
challenge (nor, of course, the certainty of a sale!).
Many years ago in London there was a daily paper—now, alas,
defunct—called The Evening News, which, bless its heart, published a short
story every day. Needless to say, they paid almost nothing, but as a
young and struggling writer I was greatly flattered to be asked to do half-
a-dozen for them. When I say that these were short stories, I do mean
short: just a few hundred words, some of which were usually cut by sub
editors to make more room for the latest murder or Parliamentary
scandal.
To my surprise, I found that they were great fun to do, and not as
difficult as I had feared. You can convey quite a lot of character in a few
lines of dialogue (much the most economical way of doing it); and the
plot, while inevitably simple, could be developed without too much rush
so long as there was an unexpected twist in the tail. So there were the
three main elements of a novel in potted form.
To tell the truth, I had not even thought about those stories for years,
until Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine asked me if 1 had any old short
stories, and I found that, by a lucky chance, I had kept most of the very
dog-eared carbon copies over many years and moves to several different
countries. I am delighted that these youthful efforts are now resurfacing
in book form.
After that, I became immersed in full-length books, and only wrote
“The Holly Wreath” when asked to do so by a British women’s magazine
as a five-part serial. This couldn’t have been a greater contrast to the
Evening News’ short shorts, being almost a mini-novel. Once again, fun to
do—but I did rather miss the challenge of telling a story in a few hundred
words.
The scene now moves to the U.S.A., where my husband had taken a
job in Washington, D.C. I had rather made a point of not going to
writers’ conferences, not realizing the great fun and friendship that I was
8 WHO KILLED FATHER CHRISTMAS?
missing, but when I read about a big conference coming up in New York,
at which I would be able to meet up with many friends from Europe, I
decided to break my rule and go to it.
As at all conferences, we were all issued with plastic nameplates to
wear for easy identification. On the very first day, no less than three
separate people came up to me, peered at my name tag, and said, “Are
you really Patricia Moyes?” I assured them that I was. In almost the
same words, each of them said, “Good heavens, I thought you were a
pseudonym for somebody else.”
“Why on earth should you think that?”
“Because nobody has ever seen you!”
It was at that point that I began attending conferences. 1 had no wish
to go through life as a pseudonym.
These conferences are wonderful experiences. You make so many
friends among other writers and readers, and you get a chance to get to
know some of the legendary figures of the mystery world—people I never
thought I would be lucky enough to meet.
It was at another conference, not long afterwards, that a bearded
character, whose face was vaguely familiar, came up to me at one of the
many functions. “You’re Patricia Moyes, aren’t you?” Oh, joy. Not a
pseudonym any more.
“Yes.” I peered at his name tag, and nearly fainted. Of course I
should have recognized him. The legendary Fred Dannay, survivor of the
duo of authors who were Ellery Queen.
Without preamble, he said, “Why don’t you ever write me any short
stories?”
Pulling myself together, 1 said, “Well, I don’t think I’m much good at
it. And then, the market is surely very limited.”
Fred didn’t ever beat about the bush. “I will buy,” he said, “any story
you write, sight unseen, for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.” And he was
gone, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, before I could even thank him.
Well, I was deep in finishing a book at the time, and I’m ashamed I
did nothing about it right away, although I treasured that moment, and
still do. However, not long afterwards my husband had a serious
automobile accident. He was very ill and needed a lot of nursing, and I
was so worried about him that I found it hard to find the concentration
to start another novel. I remembered what Dannay had said. Wouldn’t
a short story be just the therapy I needed?
The editor of EQMM at that time was Eleanor Sullivan, of blessed
memory, who subsequently became a great friend. Poor Eleanor. When
I sent her the first story, I didn’t actually beat her over the head with
INTRODUCTION 9
Fred’s promise, but muttered something about Mr. Dannay having
seemed interested. Maybe he beat her over the head, I don’t know.
Anyhow, she took the story, and was promptly inundated by a spate of
the things from me—all of which she dutifully published.
The only one which ever fooled her was “A Lonely Profession.” I
don’t think it will fool you, because 1 altered the ending slightly for
clarification. The only other instance 1 have heard of Eleanor being
baffled was by Isaac Asimov, who wrote a story about a French boy in
America who identified a place on a bus journey as “The place of the
Cross of Lorraine.”
This turned out to be the Exxon double cross, which is the cross of
Lorraine tilted to one side. I feel 1 am in good company.
I would like to pay my own small tribute to Eleanor, a wonderful
editor, adored by all her authors, a woman bathed in laughter and
bubbling with good humour. Knowing she had incurable cancer, she went
on working right up to the end. Life can be terribly unfair, or so it seems;
but Eleanor brought all her zest and joy to it, and we can only give thanks
for having known her.
What now? I am not going to pontificate on the Art of the Short
Story—or anything else that I know nothing about. I have already told
you what I find are the vital elements, but they may not hold true for
everybody. All I can say is that they are fun to write and leave one with
a sense of mini-achievement. Back to work, P. Moyes!
Finally, I should like to thank Douglas Greene of Crippen &. Landru
(what a marvellous name for a publisher of mysteries—I fell apart when
I read it) for working so hard to assemble these trifles. It is fantastic for
me personally to have so many pieces of my past gathered together
between the same covers. Old friends and new, ghosts, places lived in and
visited, beloved animals—these stories are like little windows onto my life.
I also hope they may amuse you, the reader.
Patricia Moyes
Virgin Gorda
British Virgin Islands
February 1996
DEADLOCK
U TC A T ’omen,” remarked ex-Sergeant Blackbush unoriginally,
\ / “are strange creatures. No doubt about it.” He placed
V V his pint pot carefully on the counter and wiped his
luxuriant gray mustache. Until recently he had been a well-known and
respected member of the Sussex Constabulary. “Did I ever tell you about
the mink coat case?”
“Not that I remember.” The landlord of The Three Feathers glanced
round the empty bar and up at the clock. Ten past six. The hard
working rural population of the village of Appledeep would not be in for
their evening beers for nearly an hour. “Let’s have it, then, Fred.”
“1 was working in Dover at the time,” said Fred Blackbush. “We’d all
been alerted because of the Fontenoy robbery. I daresay you remember
the case. Mayfair flat burgled of thousands of pounds worth of jewels,
while the family was at the theater. The chief suspect was the maid, who
disappeared along with the loot. We had her description. Little mousy
Irish girl by the name of Biddy O’Reilly. She was caught in the end.”
“I thought this was a story about a mink coat,” said the landlord.
“So it is,” said Blackbush. “1 only mentioned the robbery to explain
why I was on the platform at Dover Harbour station when the Golden
Arrow came in. The C.I.D. thought the thief might try to smuggle the
jewels out of the country, so all ports were being watched. Any suspicious
behavior to be investigated, and all that.
“Well, there I am on the platform, keeping a lookout, like, when the
Golden Arrow comes in from Victoria, and these two ladies get out of a
first-class compartment. Hopping mad, both of them, and arguing fit to
beat the band. Beautifully dressed, they are, and good lookers, too. One
blonde and the other brunette, and as la-di-dah as they come. The
blonde one has a mink coat over her arm—one of the fancy colors,
permutations they call them. Sort of pale beige. And they stand there on
the platform going at each other hammer and tongs. Then the blonde
spots me, and calls me over.
“ ‘Officer,’ she says, ‘you must help me. This woman stole my coat.’
‘Nonsense, officer,’ says the brunette. ‘This woman is either a
criminal or mentally unbalanced. This is my coat, and always has been.
Perhaps the heat has affected her brain,’ she adds, nasty-like, it being
September and a warmish day at that.
“ ‘Now, now,’ I says. ‘What’s all this?’
“Then they both start to talk at once, calling each other all the names
under the sun, and I can see we’re in for a regular set-to.
“ ‘Better come along to the police station, ladies,’ I says. ‘Then you
can tell me about it quietly.’
“ ‘I’ll miss my boat—,’ says the blonde.
‘There’ll be another,’ I say. ‘You wouldn’t want to leave without
your coat, now, would you, madam?’
“ ‘I have no intention of leaving without my coat,’ says the blonde.
“ ‘Neither have I,’ says the brunette, and we’re off again.
“Well, in the end I get them to agree to come to the station, though
I can see neither of them likes the idea. I take the coat into custody, and
then I get a statement from each of them separately. First, I have a chat
with the brunette.
“ ‘Officer,’ she says, flouncing into my office, ‘this situation is intol
erable, and I demand—’
“ ‘Now, now,’ says I, ‘let’s get things in their proper order. What is
your name, madam?’
“ ‘Miss Pamela Westwood,’ she says, ‘and here’s my passport to prove
it.’
“Well, all that seemed in order, so I asked her what happened.
“ ‘I got into the train at Victoria,’ she says, ‘into an empty first-class
compartment. I had my coat over my arm. Just before the train left, this
other woman got in. She seemed agreeable enough, and we started
chatting. After about half an hour they announced that coffee was being
served in the dining-car, and I thought I’d like a cup. I was just leaving
the compartment, taking my coat with me, when this woman said, ‘Oh,
don’t bother to take your coat. I’ll look after it for you.’ Well, as I told
you, she seemed to be a charming and well-bred person, so I agreed.
When I came back, I thanked her for keeping an eye on my coat. You
can imagine how I felt when she replied, ‘Your coat? I’m afraid I don’t
understand. That is my coat.’ For a moment I thought I’d gone mad.
‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘You know perfectly well that it’s mine. It
has my initials embroidered in the lining.’ She had the effrontery to smile
at that. ‘My initials, you mean,’ she said. ‘P.W. Paulette Whittaker.
And the label of the furrier, Furmodes, Ltd. of Wigmore Street.’ Then
she brought out her passport, and sure enough her initials are the same
as mine. But I swear that’s my coat!’
DEADLOCK 13
“Now,” continued Fred Blackbush, “you may not know it, but what
the lady described is an old trick in the fur-stealing business. I didn’t
doubt for a moment that Miss Westwood was telling the truth.
“ ‘The best thing we can do, madam,’ I say, ‘is to telephone Fur-
modes. They’ll be able to confirm that they sold the coat to you.’
“ ‘I’m afraid that’s no good,’ she says. ‘You see, I bought it second
hand and stitched my own initials into it.’
“That makes me wonder a bit, I must say, because she doesn’t look
the sort of lady who’d buy a second-hand mink, but then you never can
tell. Anyhow, 1 thought it was time I heard the other lady’s version.
“The blonde one—Mrs. Whittaker—was in a real fury. Raging, she
was.
“ ‘Officer,’ she says, all hoity-toity, ‘I trust that everything is settled
now, and that I can take my coat and go. I shall be late for an appoint
ment in Paris as it is.’
“ ‘Just a minute, madam,’ I say. ‘I understand you bought this coat
at Furmodes. We can easily check—’
“ ‘I didn’t buy it,’ says Mrs. Whittaker. ‘It was given to me as a gift.
And it’s my coat!’
“ ‘How did the other lady come to claim it as hers?’ I ask.
“ ‘She stole it!’
“ ‘Stole it?’
“ ‘Yes. At Victoria Station. I went into the buffet for a cup of coffee
before the train left and foolishly put the coat down on a chair beside me.
When I turned round, it had gone. I was just in time to see that woman
disappearing through the door with my coat over her arm. I jumped up
and ran after her, and saw her going through the barrier to the Golden
Arrow, which was just about to leave. As I was, talcing that train anyway,
I thought the best thing to do was to follow her into the compartment.
I knew the train didn’t stop between London and Dover. As soon as I got
into the carriage, I challenged her with having stolen my coat. I said that
as I was in a hurry to get to Paris, I’d take no further action if she gave it
back at once. If you’ll believe it, she had the barefaced impudence to
maintain it was hers. Unfortunately, her initials are the same as mine—
she produced her passport to prove it. I told her, in that case, I would call
a policeman as soon as we reached Dover—and 1 did. It was a blessing
you were on the platform.’ ”
Fred Blackbush drained his pint pot, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Well, you see my dilemma. What am I going to do? I think a bit,
and then I get both ladies into my office together, and I say, ‘Ladies, this
is something I can’t decide here and now. All I can do is keep the coat,
14 WHO IGLLED FATHER CHRISTMAS?
while we make inquiries in London. Surely one or the other of you can
produce witnesses to say whose coat it really is?’
“Both of them look taken aback at that.
“ ‘I can’t,’ says the brunette, Miss Westwood, very firm, ‘I bought the
coat at an auction sale the day before yesterday, and 1 paid cash. I didn’t
even give my name. I stitched in the initials myself last night. This was
the first time I’d ever worn the coat.’
“ ‘I can’t prove anything, either,’ says the blonde, very embarrassed.
“ ‘Why not, madam? If the coat was a gift—’
“ ‘It was a present,’ she says, blushing, ‘from a certain person. My
husband knows nothing about it, and I refuse to bring the other person
into this. You’ll just have to take my word for it.’
“ ‘You’ll have to take mine,' says the dark-haired one, ‘and I can’t
waste any more time here. I have to get to Paris, and I’m not going
without my mink.’
“ ‘I have to get to Paris, too,’ says the blonde, ‘and I’m not going
without my mink.’
“The thing seems to be a deadlock, and I can tell you I’m sweating.
It’s a terrible thing for a man to get involved in a quarrel between ladies,
and these two were a couple of spitfires if ever I saw one. I’m sitting
there, wondering what on earth to do, when suddenly I remember
something—something I’ve read in the Bible.
“ ‘Ladies,’ 1 say, ‘the best I can suggest is that I cut the coat in two so
that you can each have half.’
“There’s a moment of absolute silence. Then the brunette says, quite
calmly, ‘All right. I suppose I can have a stole made out of it.’
“But the other—blonde Mrs. Whittaker—she yells out, hysterical-like,
‘No! You can’t cut up my beautiful coat! I’d rather she had it!’
Blackbush paused, and took a drink from his refilled tankard.
“So you decided it belonged to the blonde after all, did you?” said
the landlord.
Fred grinned. “In a way,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in Solomon’s case it was a baby he suggested cutting up, but
this was only a coat. I asked myself why Miss Westwood took it so
calmly, and Mrs. Whittaker got so worked up. There was a policewoman
in the room, of course, since I was questioning ladies, so I asked her to go
and get a pair of scissors. At that the blonde gets proper frantic. ‘Give it
to her!’ she screams. ‘Give it to her, only don’t cut it!’
“So what happened?” asked the landlord.
DEADLOCK 15
“I took the scissors,” said Blackbush, “and I started to rip out the
lining. I didn’t ever intend to cut the fur, of course. That was just a
bluff. But as soon as I started, the blonde made a dash for the door. And
no wonder. I took one look at the place where I’ve ripped the lining out,
and I said, ‘You’re both under arrest. You, Miss Westwood for
attempting to steal a valuable permutation mink coat, the property of
Mrs. Paulette Whittaker. And you, Mrs. Whittaker, alias Biddy O’Reilly,
for stealing the Fontenoy jewels.’
“Yes, that’s the way it was. Miss Westwood had stolen the coat at
Victoria, all right. She’d seen the initials in it were the same as hers, and
decided the chance was too good to miss. Of course, she told me a good
story about the way fur thieves operate on trains, because she was one
herself, and should know. What she didn’t know was that the coat she
took had the stolen jewels hidden in it, between the fur and the lining.
That’s why Mrs. Whittaker—that was her real name, incidentally—didn’t
dare raise the alarm at Victoria, as an innocent woman would have done.
It was only at Dover, when she really thought she was going to lose the
coat, that she called a policeman in desperation. As for the little mousy
Irish girl, Biddy O’Reilly—that was just Paulette Whittaker’s disguise
when she took the job with the Fontenoys.”
“I should have thought you’d have been suspicious from the
beginning,” said the landlord, “seeing a woman wearing a mink coat on
a hot summer day.”
Fred Blackbush shook his head and smiled. “If you think,” he said,
“that a little bit of sun is going to keep a lady from wearing her mink—
well, you just don’t understand women, chum.”
London Evening News, 1961

A SUITABLE REVENGE
W
hen Herbert Sprott first decided that he must kill his sister
Myrtle, he was genuinely distressed at the idea. Not that he
had ever liked her; on the contrary, he had feared and hated
her ever since childhood, when Myrtle, with her four years’ seniority, had
bullied and taunted him into submission. The particular mixture of
tyranny and possessive devotion which she exercised had been as
powerful then as it was now.
Herbert had made one effort to escape when he was 22, after his
father’s death. He had broken away from his mother and Myrtle, and
used the small amount of cash which his father had left him to put down
a deposit on a small house in the suburbs. The bulk of his father’s
money, as he well knew, was left in trust for his mother, Myrtle, and
himself. Not until two of the three were dead would it be freed for the
third—except in the unlikely event of all the surviving parties agreeing to
break the trust.
For a year Herbert had been quietly happy in his little house. He had
even become engaged, secretly, to a girl named Betty whom he met at the
Amateur Dramatic Society. His job in the Mutual and General Insurance
Company was not spectacular, but he enjoyed it and he asked no more of
life. And then his mother had died, and inevitably Myrtle had insisted
on moving in “to look after poor Herbert.” The engagement had not long
survived her arrival. Betty had departed in angry tears, and
Herbert—after a short period of fury—had resigned himself to a life of
servitude with his sister.
What really annoyed him most was that Myrtle was universally
admired for her devotion to her brother. She was a handsome woman,
with her black hair and deep blue eyes, and several men had been bold
enough to propose marriage to her. She had turned them all down on the
pretext that she could not abandon poor Herbert. She was an excellent
cook and housekeeper, and a good businesswoman. She ran the house
and administered the trust and organized clubs and charities in the
neighborhood with ruthless efficiency. Herbert was considered to be a
very lucky man indeed.
A SUITABLE REVENGE 17
Like most people who resort to violence, Herbert was basically weak.
It was weakness which had made him allow Myrtle to wreck his
engagement, and it was weakness which started him gambling at the age
of 40—weakness, combined with a hazy notion that only money could
give him the strength to defy his sister.
He lost, of course; and as he tried to make good his losses, he found
his income inadequate and began dipping into the Company’s funds.
Now things were desperate. Soon the annual audit was due, and Herbert
knew that he had not been clever enough to conceal his crime. He had
to have money, and he had to have it soon. There were only two
alternatives: either to confess to Myrtle and beg her to agree to break the
trust, or to kill her. For Herbert, the second alternative was much less
terrifying than the first. His distress at the prospect was caused simply
by a conviction that to kill Myrtle would be an act of lese-majeste on a
scale which he had never before contemplated.
Once formulated, however, the idea began to appeal to him more and
more, and to give him a strange, quiet confidence. When Myrtle scolded
him for coming into the house in galoshes, or lectured him on his
slackness in weeding the garden, he answered her as humbly as ever. But
at the back of his mind there ran, like a lilting refrain, “I’m going to kill
you. You don’t know it, but I am. You’re only alive now because 1
choose to let you live a little longer. What does your power over me
amount to compared with that?”
His work improved noticeably. Colleagues were surprised to find a
new firmness in him, a willingness to make decisions. They could not
know, of course, that having made the great decision to kill Myrtle,
business decisions seemed infinitely small and easy in comparison. His
chief wrote a glowing report on him and recommended him for
promotion.
Herbert himself was quite unaware of all this, because his whole
concentration was occupied in working out how Myrtle should die. For,
of course, no breath of suspicion must attach to him. He was even
looking forward to playing the part of the heartbroken, bereaved
brother—a suitable revenge, he felt, for Myrtle’s hypocritical concern for
him after his broken engagement. After all, fatal accidents happened
every day in ordinary houses. This was to be just another of them.
The more Herbert considered his plan, the better he liked it. He
knew that the first essential for a successful murderer was never to depart
one whit from his normal routine; and it was within this routine that
Herbert laid his scheme.
Routine in the Sprott household was rigid and invariable. Myrtle saw
to that. Every evening, as the clock chimed ten, Myrtle would fold up her
knitting and say, “Well, I’m off to bed now, Herbert. You won’t forget
my cocoa, will you?”
And Herbert would reply dutifully, “No, dear. Will you take a
sleeping pill with it tonight?”
Here the response varied between, “Indeed I will. I haven’t slept a
wink all this week,” and “Certainly not. I don’t believe in drugging
myself.”
Herbert would then say timidly, “You don’t mind if I sit up and do
the crossword for a few minutes?”—to which the answer was a sniff, and
“I can’t understand grown men wasting their time with such nonsense.”
This dialogue, with minor variations, had been repeated each night
for the past 20 years. It was followed by Myrtle’s withdrawal upstairs,
while Herbert filled in a word or so of The Times crossword puzzle. At
10:30 prompt, he would go upstairs himself, bearing a cup of hot cocoa
for Myrtle, with or without sleeping pill, as instructed. This he would
take to her in bed, his final duty being to see that all her windows were
securely shut—for Myrtle suffered from what she called “thin blood,” and
had a horror of cold bedrooms.
The final ritual dialogue went as follows:
“Here’s your cocoa, dear.”
“Thank you, Herbert. Have you locked the front door?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And the scullery window?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Switch out my gas fire, will you Herbert?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Good night then, Herbert.”
“Good night, Myrtle.”
After this Herbert was free to go to bed, while Myrtle sipped her
cocoa and read her library book.
In the morning Herbert rose at seven and made his own breakfast.
Having done so, he would take a cup of tea up to his sister in bed, saying
as he came into the room, “Here we are then. Half-past seven.”
He would then pull back the curtains and light the gas fire. Myrtle,
gulping tea, would say, “Thank you, Herbert. Have a good day at the
office. What time will you be home?”
Both of them knew that he would be home at 6:37 precisely, and that
no deviation from this would be tolerated. Nevertheless, Herbert would
play the game and reply, “About half-past six, 1 expect, dear”—just as
though there were a doubt about it, as though he had a choice.
So, evening and morning, the ritual farce was played out, and within
this ritual Herbert saw his opportunity. Extra sleeping pills crushed up
in the hot cocoa, enough to make Myrtle sleep on in the morning. A gas
fire that went out accidentally in a sealed room. Only the other day he
had read of such a tragedy. And afterward, he, Herbert Sprott, would be
free. More than that, he would have won. He would be rich and strong
and indomitable, because he would have had his revenge.
It was all surprisingly easy. When the moment came, Herbert found
that his hand did not shake at all as he crushed the six sleeping pills in
the bathroom and stirred them carefully into the cup.
“Here’s your cocoa, dear.”
“Thank you, Herbert. Have you locked the front door?”
“Yes, dear.”
Inside, his heart sang, “It’s the last time. Never again. Never again.”
“Good night then, Herbert.”
“Good night, Myrtle.”
Herbert switched off the fire and went out of the room. He had a
glimpse of Myrtle picking up her library book and putting the cup to her
lips. He went to his own room and slept soundly.
In the morning he woke with the feeling that something special and
exciting was about to happen, and almost at once remembered that this
was the day when he was to kill Myrtle. In fact, his plan was already in
operation. Resisting the temptation to peep into her room to see if the
pills had acted, Herbert went about his ordinary routine. At 7:30 he took
Myrtle’s tea upstairs, saying as usual, “Here we are then. Half-past
seven.” For there was always the possibility that the pills might not have
taken effect.
He need not have worried. For the first time in 20 years Myrtle did
not stir. She was sleeping peacefully and soundly. Herbert put the cup
on the table by her bed, went over to the gas fire, and lit a match. He
had even considered the possibility of somebody noticing the absence of
a burnt-out match. Then he blew the match out, dropped it in the
ashtray on the mantelpiece, and turned on the gas; after which he walked
quickly out of the room, shutting the door—with its well-fitting draft-
excluder—carefully behind him. He went downstairs, collected his
umbrella, bowler hat, and briefcase, and walked briskly to the
Underground station.
In the office he found a message that his Chief of Department wished
to see him. For a moment Herbert’s heart missed a beat. Could the
irregularities in the accounts already have been discovered? Then he
reassured himself. It was impossible. He had a clear two months in
which to set matters in order. He went into the Chief’s office.
His superior was affability itself. He complimented Herbert on the
improvement in his work, on his newfound initiative. He was delighted
to be able to tell Herbert that the recommendation for promotion had
been approved, together with a substantial salary increase. Herbert
thanked him gravely.
He went home that evening feeling calm and strong. He, Herbert
Sprott, the weakling, the good-for-nothing, had conquered in the end. It
struck him as merely arqusing that, with his new salary, he could have
managed without Myrtle’s money. The money had ceased to be
important. He whistled as he walked home from the station.
The sight of lights in the house did not surprise him. Very likely a
neighbor, getting no reply to the doorbell, had raised the alarm. He
wondered for a moment why there was no police car or ambulance, and
then concluded that by now they would have been and gone. He put his
key in the latch and went in, absolutely as usual.
Absolutely as usual, Myrtle’s voice from the kitchen said, “Is that you,
Herbert?”
Herbert stood perfectly still, pulling himself together. Something had
gone wrong. Never mind. He would have to try again. In a fair imitation
of his normal voice, he said, “Yes, dear.”
“Come in here a moment, Herbert. I want to talk to you.”
Slowly Herbert went into the kitchen. Myrtle, large and invincible
and very much alive, was stirring something in a saucepan. “Well,
Herbert,” she said, “how much money do you need?”
“I don’t know what—”
“Oh, yes, you do. I’ve been waiting for this. I might have known you
wouldn’t have the courage to tell me. I’ve known for some time about
your gambling. I’ve been through your briefcase and your desk.”
Herbert found no words. Myrtle went on, “Naturally, I’ve been
counting my sleeping pills carefully every night before I drank my cocoa.
When I found six of them missing last night, I poured the stuff down the
drain. I was wide-awake when you came in this morning. I just wanted
to see what you would do—to make absolutely sure. Of course, there will
be no scandal—so long as you do precisely as I say. I will give you the
money, but from now on you will hand your entire salary over to me each
month, and I will allow you as much as I think fit for fares and luncheons
and cigarettes. You are smoking too much, anyhow.”
She paused and looked at him. “Poor dear Herbert. Surely you
didn’t think you were clever enough to get away with it, did you?”
“No, dear,” said Herbert.
Then he walked out of the house and back to the Underground
station, where he threw himself under the next train, for it was clear that
his life was over.

A MAN WITHOUT PAPERS
I
f Arthur Vincent-Holmes had not been in a thoroughly bad temper
that day it would probably never have happened. As it was, every
thing had conspired to irritate and upset him.
For a start, he had not wanted to come to Geneva at all. He and his
wife had been invited to spend a week at Lord Strathsporran’s place in
the Highlands, where Arthur looked forward with keen anticipation to
slaughtering a large number of small birds with very little effort, since
they were driven relentlessly over the barrel of his gun by an army of
beaters. There would have been good food and drink, and plenty of the
noncontroversial conversation which was one of Arthur’s greatest
pleasures. As a professional debater, he found it a joyful relaxation to
propound his favorite theories to a select audience of people who agreed
passionately—and preferably inarticulately—with every word he said.
Not that he was incapable of dealing with opposition—far from it; but
opposition imposed a degree of forethought on his utterances which he
found irksome. Secure in the approval of his listeners, his opinions
flowed out easily in beautifully constructed cadences, nicely tempered
with wit. He had already formulated in his mind several epigrams on the
African situation, the problem of Pakistan, and the weaknesses of Soviet
economy—epigrams which he realized (for he was not a stupid man)
would be tricky to defend against informed disagreement. At
Strathsporran Castle, however, he could have whipped them out, one
after the other, to gratifying bursts of applause and laughter, thereby
enhancing his reputation as a diplomat who combined wit with common
sense.
All these delights, at the last moment, were denied him. Sir Sidney
Parkington, his immediate chief and delegate-elect to the International
Refugee Conference, had succumbed with inconsiderate lack of notice to
an acute attack of peritonitis, and in consequence Arthur found himself,
wifeless and disgruntled, condemned to three days of discussions in the
beige marble desert of the Palais des Nations.
His terms of reference, too, offended him—even though he privately
agreed wholeheartedly with the opinions he was to express. Nevertheless,
to sympathize profoundly with the plight of refugees, while at the same
A MAN WITHOUT PAPERS 23
time strictly refusing to increase aid or enlarge the quota to be admitted
to Great Britain, would certainly lay him open to easy sniping both from
sentimental do-gooders and practical Trade Unionists. He was already
bad-tempered when be boarded the plane at London Airport.
In Geneva things went from bad to worse. His favorite lakeside hotel
had been unable to give him a room, since its entire accommodations had
been commandeered by an Arab Sheik and his retinue of wives. Arthur,
his neat gray mustache bristling with distinguished indignation, found
himself booked into an inferior hotel and allotted a small room
overlooking a courtyard. On this score he had given hell to his Personal
Assistant, a mild, fair-haired young man named Pratt who wore rimless
glasses and whom Arthur suspected of left-wing leanings.
To crown it all there had been an unpleasant moment during the first
morning’s session of the conference, when the Indian delegate had
interrupted Arthur’s speech to inquire courteously whether the
representative of Great Britain had ever actually seen a refugee. Arthur,
who had not, was understandably angry at the irrelevance of the question.
Unfortunately, there had been some laughter. Arthur left the Palais des
Nations in a far from rosy frame of mind.
There was no meeting in the afternoon, so Arthur drove moodily back
to his hotel. As always when attending a conference abroad, he had
dismissed his official chauffeur and hired a self-drive car. Here again he
had been frustrated, for the wretched Pratt—with mumbled excuses about
the tourist season—had produced for him a small gray Volkswagen, the
exact replica of a thousand others in the city and hardly a vehicle to boost
the ego.
All the same, it was a car and it moved with pleasant liveliness. As
Arthur sped along the lakeside road, he became aware of the glory of the
autumn sunshine, of white sails scudding on blue water, of the icy majesty
of Mont Blanc, clear-cut against a cloudless sky. He made a sudden
decision. He would salve his ragged discontent by driving into France and
spending the night at Chamonix. There would be plenty of time to get
back by eleven o’clock in the morning, when the conference reopened.
And, Arthur reflected with grim satisfaction, he would telephone Pratt
and instruct him to find a decent room in a respectable hotel by
tomorrow. What if they were all full? That would be Pratt’s worry.
Arthur felt better already, thinking about Pratt’s discomfiture.
At the hotel he quickly packed his case, checked out, stowed his
passport and documents neatly in the glove compartment, ready for the
frontier, and took the road in a much gayer mood. On the Route de
Chene he remembered the exorbitant price of English cigarettes in France
and stopped to buy a carton. By the time be reached the frontier he was
humming the Prize Song from the Meistersinger under his breath.
The Swiss frontier guard waved him past, and a few yards farther on,
a French douanier came yawning out of his little hut.
“Your passport and green insurance card, please, Monsieur.”
“Volontiers, Monsieur.” Arthur spoke good French and enjoyed airing
it. He opened the glove compartment. Inside were a sticky packet of very
old toffee, one beige string glove, a tattered map of Spain, and a small
flashlight. Nothing else.
For a moment Arthur was overcome by a sense of utter unreality.
Such things did not happen. He unfolded the map of Spain in a sort of
despairing hope that his documents might be lurking inside it. A small
amount of pipe tobacco fell out on his knees. The douanier waited
patiently, with a slight smile.
After a seeming eternity Arthur said, “I’m sorry. There seems to be
some mistake.”
“Indeed, Monsieur?” The smile had begun to fade.
Arthur got out of the car, walked to the front, and lifted the hood.
Instead of his suitcase he found himself looking at an old gray blanket
and a bag containing snow chains. It was only then that he realized what
had happened. He remembered vaguely that there had been another gray
Volkswagen parked outside the tobacconist’s shop. He had foolishly left
his key in the ignition while he went into the shop. The other driver had
evidently done the same. And Arthur had taken the wrong car.
Panic surged up in him, but he quashed it at once. He managed to
give the douanier a charmingly assured smile. “I am very sorry, Monsieur,”
he said smoothly. “I have stupidly left my documents at home. I will
return for them.”
The Frenchman—a big, dark, burly fellow—was looking considerably
less friendly now, but Arthur did not intend to stay long enough to let his
doubts formulate. Surely his own car would still be there on the Route
de Chene. The thing was to get back to it as soon as possible. He swung
the car into a rapid reverse, and headed back toward Geneva. It was then
that two fair-haired, grim-faced officers came out of the Swiss frontier
post and planted themselves squarely in his path. One of them was a
gendarme, and he was fingering his revolver. Arthur stopped.
The taller of the two men approached the car. He said, with an edge
to his voice that Arthur did not like, “Your documents, please, Monsieur.”
“I’m terribly sorry, officer.” Arthur tried to keep the reassuring smile
on his face, but he could feel it stiffening under the strain. “There has
been a foolish mistake. I have left my documents at home.”
“There has certainly been a mistake,” said the gendarme, far from
pleasantly. “Will you be kind enough to step inside?” He had already
opened the door of the car in a marked manner. Arthur stepped inside.
The Swiss customs post was concrete and cheerless. Arthur followed
the gendarme into an inner office, which was bleakly furnished with a
cupboard, a desk, and two chairs. The gendarme sat down at the desk.
“So you have no documents, Monsieur? That is strange. May 1 ask
whether this is in fact your car?”
Arthur hesitated. Bereft of his diplomatic passport, he felt naked. “1
can explain—” he began.
“Is it your car, or isn’t it?”
“Well—no. Not exactly.”
“The car you are driving,” pursued the gendarme, without emotion,
“has just been reported by telephone as having been stolen.” He made a
note in a large dossier. “You understand that we shall have to detain you
while inquiries are made.”
Arthur made an effort to grasp the retreating coattails of reality.
“My good man,” he said, “this is ridiculous. Do you know to whom
you are talking?”
“No,” said the gendarme reasonably. “Since you have no papers of
any sort, it is impossible for us to establish your identity.”
“I am Arthur Vincent-Holmes, British delegate to the International
Refugee Conference.”
“That, Monsieur, remains to be seen. Whoever you are, you have yet
to explain how you came to be driving a stolen car, and why you
attempted to cross the frontier in it.”
“It was a mistake,” said Arthur. He heard his own voice rising
slightly, and made an effort to control it. “I took it by mistake.”
“Indeed?”
“I have a car exactly like this one. They were both parked on the
Route de Chene. I took the wrong car.”
The gendarme took a long cynical pull on his Gauloise, and then
stubbed it out very deliberately in the tin ashtray.
“Whereabouts on the Route de Chene?”
“I don’t know. Outside a tobacconist’s shop.”
The gendarme’s blue eyes glinted keenly. “And you drove all this way
in a car which was not yours, without noticing the difference?”
“The other car isn’t mine either,” said Arthur, anger getting the better
of his fright.
“Really? This becomes more and more interesting.”
“I mean, I had hired it. I had never driven it until today. It looks
exactly like this one.”
“Which firm did you hire it from?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“It was arranged for me by the secretariat here.”
“I see.” The gendarme paused, then said with the speed of a bullet,
“Why did you tell us that you had left your documents at home?”
“I . . . it seemed too complicated to explain. I just wanted to go back
and find my own car. ”
There was a short silence. Then the gendarme said, “I am sorry,
Monsieur. I have heard this sort of story too often to find it convincing.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!” Arthur’s indignation bubbled
like fondue. “I tell you, I am Arthur Vincent-Holmes of the British
Foreign Service, and I demand to be released immediately!”
“And yet you have no papers of identification?”
“How could I have any? They’re all in the car.”
“Not a letter, a driving license, anything?”
Furiously Arthur searched his pockets. His wallet, which was made
of the finest crocodile skin, contained 200 Swiss francs, 20 English
pounds, and the stubs of two London theater tickets. Other pockets
disgorged a spotless white linen handkerchief, an expensive fountain pen,
and a key ring. The gendarme picked up the theater tickets and regarded
them suspiciously.
“What are these?”
“Counterfoils of two tickets for the Lyric Theatre in London.”
“And what is that supposed to prove?”
“At least it shows I was in London last week.”
“Very interesting. We are on the track of a gang of car thieves who
operate internationally.”
“I demand,” said Arthur, feeling like a quotation from a phrase book,
“that you telephone the British Consul immediately.”
The gendarme sighed, a little wearily. “You are evidently not
acquainted with Swiss law, Monsieur. You have been apprehended under
suspicion of having committed a crime. In these circumstances we have
the right to hold you incommunicado until we have completed our
inquiries.”
“Are you trying to tell me that I am under arrest?”
“Yes, Monsieur."
“But I hold a diplomatic passport!”
The gendarme shrugged. “Where is it?”
“In my car.”
“So you say. I am sorry, Monsieur. My duty is clear. A man without
papers is automatically suspect these days. A man attempting to cross a
frontier without papers is even more suspect. And a man attempting to
do so in a stolen car—”
“I did not steal it!”
“However, Monsieur, we will be fair. We will check on your story.
What is the registration number of your car?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“I only hired it this morning. I didn’t even look at the number.”
“And you are staying at which hotel in Geneva?”
“The Hotel des Quais.”
“Why were you going to France?”
“To spend the night at Chamonix.”
“In which hotel?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t booked.”
“You were planning to return to Geneva tomorrow?”
“Of course. For the Conference.”
“I see. Wait there.”
The gendarme got up and walked out, shutting the door carefully
behind him. Arthur heard the key turning in the lock. In a fury he
jumped up and tried the handle. Suddenly the locked door brought home
to him the full realization of his position. He, Arthur Vincent-Holmes,
O.B.E., was under arrest, locked up like a criminal in a bare room in a
foreign frontier post, with a charge of thieving hanging over his head, and
no way of proving his identity. No comfortable diplomatic passport to
open every door with smiles. No Personal Assistant to smooth the way
ahead of him. Furiously he kicked the door and shouted, “You’ve got to
believe me! D’you hear, damn you! You’ve got to believe me!”
His voice echoed round the little room and died away into silence.
Arthur sat down and buried his face in his hands.
After what seemed an eternity, the key turned in the lock again, and
the gendarme came in.
“I have telephoned the Hotel des Quais,” he said. “It is true that a
Monsieur Vincent-Holmes stayed there last night, but he checked out
today, saying that he was returning to London.”
Miserably Arthur nodded. In his anguish he had forgotten that, not
wishing to make an unpleasant scene at the hotel by complaining, he had
indeed said just that.
28 WHO ICILLED FATHER CHRISTMAS?
“I . . . I was intending to go to a different hotel when I came back to
Geneva.”
“Why?”
“Because I was not satisfied with my room.”
The gendarme smiled grimly. “To proceed,” he said. “You maintain
that you left your car in the Route de Chene?”
“I swear I did.”
“It was a gray Volkswagen?”
“Yes. All my documents are in the glove compartment, and there is
a pigskin suitcase with my initials on it in gold under the bonnet.”
“That is strange. A patrol car has searched the Route de Chene and
there is no sign of any such car.” The gendarme looked at Arthur with
something very like pity. “I fear, Monsieur, that I cannot believe a word
of your story. The police van will be here in a few minutes. You may
smoke a cigarette if you wish.”
He pulled a large document toward him and began filling in the
spaces that checkered it like missing teeth. Arthur watched him in
fascinated misery. Name: allegedly Arthur Vincent-Holmes. Nationality:
allegedly British. Occupation: allegedly Diplomat. The gendarme paused,
then wrote in the margin in capital letters: NO PAPERS.
+ + +
It all ended happily, of course. Some two hours later the police found
Arthur’s hired car, which had been driven off by a gang of youths, who
soon abandoned it in a side street. The pigskin case was missing, but the
documents were there. Arthur was allowed to telephone to Pratt, who
arrived to collect his chief from the police station.
The sight of Arthur’s diplomatic passport brought about an abrupt
change of attitude in the Gendarmerie. They begged his pardon with
gratifying humility, and pointed out that they had only been doing their
duty.
As Arthur and Pratt were leaving, the gendarme who had effected the
arrest followed them to the door. Diffidently he dug a hand into the
pocket of his pale blue uniform, and produced a five-franc piece.
“I would like to give this to your Refugee Fund, Monsieur,” he said.
“You are doing fine work, you and your conference. I am not a rich
man—who is, these days? But still I wish to do what I can for . . . for the
people without papers.”
Arthur, who thought he detected a quick look of understanding
passing between Pratt and the gendarme, accepted the money with a bad
grace. He felt that they were both somehow laughing at him behind his
back, gloating over his recent humiliation. He was also very angry at the
loss of his suitcase, which had cost him a great deal of money.
+++
The next day, at the Conference, Arthur spoke with great force and
fluency. He roundly condemned the woolly thinking of those who
imagined that the refugee problem could be solved by opening all
frontiers to the stateless, the dispossessed, the unemployable. What was
needed, he argued, was an unsentimental, constructive approach. He
cleverly avoided specifying just what this approach should be. He sat
down amid warm applause.
When the session was over, he walked with Pratt along the splendid
marble gallery of the Palais, with its plate-glass windows overlooking the
tranquil lake. Arthur felt the satisfaction of a job well done. Single-
handed, he had swayed the French and American delegations to the point
where it was virtually certain that they would vote with him tomorrow.
There were other causes for satisfaction, too. Pratt, after a lot of
string pulling, had managed to get him a.room with a balcony at the
Hotel des Bergues, and to exchange the Volkswagen for a large Cadillac.
Tomorrow evening he would be back in London, and his wife had written
that Charlie Strathsporran would be heartbroken if he did not join the
house party for the weekend.
Pratt’s quiet voice beside him said, “There’s a collecting box just here,
sir.”
“A what?”
“A collecting box. For the Refugee Fund. I thought I’d remind you.
That five francs.”
“Oh, yes.” Arthur was momentarily irritated by the reminder of an
unpleasant incident. Then he began to think how he would spin it into
a good story for the entertainment of Strathsporran’s house guests. How
amusing it would be to debunk the vaunted efficiency of the Swiss. And
the gendarme’s five-franc piece was a pleasantly human touch to end on.
Verging on the sentimental, but legitimately so. A very good story.
He took the money out of his pocket and, on impulse, added ten
francs from his own wallet.
“It is only fair,” he said, “to give these unfortunate people some of my
money as well as most of my time.”
Pratt did not answer. He appeared not to have heard. He was
studying a photograph, displayed beside the collecting box, showing
refugees queuing up at some unspecified frontier, waiting for visas.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Well, Pratt, I’ll say goodbye for now. See
you tomorrow.”
“Goodbye, sir,” said Pratt politely.
Arthur walked down the corridor to the elevator. In his breast pocket
he could feel the hard, reassuring outline of his diplomatic passport,
which he now carried everywhere with him, just in case.

LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT
O
f course the ways of Fate are utterly illogical: otherwise, what
possible excuse could Providence have had for picking Bridie
Donovan, of all people, on whom to bestow the priceless gift of
prophetic dreams? And not just any old prophetic dreams, mind you, but
the first three horses in the Derby—one, two, three, just like that.
When you consider the number of earnest and hardworking
sportsmen in Dublin, when you think of the patient hours they spend
studying form, and the wear and tear to their vocal chords as they discuss
the merits of various runners in bars all up and down the city, it makes
you weep to think of such an unparalleled blessing being thrown away on
a chit of a girl, who’d never so much as bet sixpence on a raffle ticket.
She was a pretty enough little thing, to be sure, with her black hair
and blue eyes and creamy skin. I’d often thought so, in a vague sort of
way, since she came to work in the office. Perhaps I’d better explain
about the office. It’s a small import-export firm that I inherited from my
father a couple of years ago, much to the disgust of several uncles, who
considered that at twenty-five I wasn’t capable of running a bath, let
alone a business.
I think I can say I proved them wrong. I’m no financial genius, but
I managed to keep the place ticking over, and none of the customers
complained. There were just the five of us in the office. Me, in my
private room, signing letters and directing policy, which generally meant
doing the crossword puzzle and studying form. My three clerks—
Murphy, Regan, and O’Grady—in the big office where the real work was
done. And Bridie, flitting in and out with cups of tea from the little
cubicle where she sat with her typewriter. It was a nice, cosy little setup,
and we all enjoyed it.
Now, I’m not pretending that everything I’m going to tell you is first
hand because of course I wasn’t there for all of it—in fact, as you’ll see,
I don’t really come into the story at all. But I’ve heard it told so often
that I feel 1 can take a little poetic license. So here goes.
Well, it was on the morning of Derby Day, and we were all hard at
work. I had the Irish Times and Sporting Life out on my desk, and I was
putting in some hours of concentrated study. Next door, Murphy, Regan,
and O’Grady had just about every newspaper in Dublin between them,
and Regan had brought his form book. They hadn’t reached the arguing
stage: it was more like the quiet, reverent atmosphere you get at the start
of a prayer meeting. They didn’t even look up when Bridie came in. Nor
did they react when she said, as she hung up her coat, “I had the strangest
dream last night, so 1 did.”
Bridie wasn’t worried about getting no answer. She was used to
talking to herself on Big Race days. So as she combed her hair and
powdered her nose and took the cover off her typewriter, she prattled
gaily on.
“I was in this great fairground, see, like the one my auntie took me to
in Connemara, with coconut shies and swings and bounce-the-lady-out-of-
bed and all of it. But the one thing I’d set my heart on—in my dream,
this is—was to ride on the roundabout. You never saw such hobbyhorses,
all painted in red and blue, and gold and yellow, with manes made of real
horsehair and real eyes that were alive and tails that swished so that
they’d have taken the flies off the creatures, if there’d been any flies.
Beside the roundabout was a funny little man, like a pixie. So I asked
him how much was it for a ride, as I hadn’t but sixpence in my pocket.
And he said, ‘For you, Bridie Donovan, it’s nothing at all. Now, which
horse do you fancy?’ I said it was all the same to me, and he said, ‘Surely
you’ll be wanting the winner?’ ”
At the word “winner,” Murphy did look up for a moment. He’s a
little man with red hair and a sharp face, like a weasel. “What’s this
about a winner?” he asked.
“It’s nothing at all, only Bridie’s nonsense,” said Regan, who’s tall and
broad and dark as the devil.
“You may call it nonsense, Mr. Regan,” said Bridie with spirit, “but
indeed he did give me the winner. And the next two after it.”
“What do you mean, gave you the winner?” O’Grady demanded.
O’Grady’s a plump man in his forties, with soft fair hair like a baby’s,
and going bald fast.
Bridie closed her eyes. “I can hear him now,” she said. “He said,
‘The first is red as roses, and the second is yellow as corn, and the third
is blue as the sea. The first is from the fire, and the second is from the
earth, and the third is from the air.’ ”
There was a silence. Then O’Grady said, “Would you say all that
over again?”
Bridie said it again.
LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT 33
“Well, it’s a remarkable thing,” said O’Grady. “1 don’t know if you
fellows realize that there’s a horse called Flame Flower running today, and
another called Cornstalk, and a third by the name of Blue Gull.”
“Sure, and none of them in the least interesting,” said Murphy.
“Cornstalk might be worth a small investment, if the price were
right,” said Regan. “I suppose your friend didn’t give you the SP by any
chance?”
There was a general laugh at this, but finally O’Grady said, “I’ll have
a tanner each way on each of them, just for luck. You never can tell.”
I don’t need to tell you, of course, that Flame Flower romped home
at 20-1, with Cornstalk second at 100-8, and Blue Gull third at 7-2.
O’Grady netted over fourteen bob profit on his six tanners, although he
went down the drain with the rest of us on the favorite. However, as you
can imagine, it was not the amount won that caused the sensation but the
fact that Bridie should turn out to have these sensational powers, which
had clearly been bestowed by heaven for the purpose of making the
fortunes of Messrs. O’Grady, Murphy, and Regan.
That evening, after the office, the three of them took Bridie out to a
public house and bought her a bottle of Guinness—the first time such a
thing had happened in all her nineteen years, for she lived with an aunt
who was teetotal to a fault.
“Now, Bridie,” said O’Grady, “you’re to go to sleep tonight with a
pencil and paper under your pillow and in the morning you’re to write
down what you’ve dreamt. Every detail, mind. And you’re to tell nobody
but us three.”
“You want to find that fairground man again,” Murphy added. “And
when you do, take some trouble to cultivate him. Wish him good
morning, or good evening, as may be appropriate, and thank him for his
help.”
“You might tell him we’re sorry we didn’t take his first message more
seriously,” said Regan. “1 wouldn’t like him to think we’d ignored him,
and him taking all that trouble.”
Well, Bridie found herself back in the fairground that night in her
dreams, and she met the little attendant, who was as civil as could be, and
she gave him Regan’s message, which seemed to please him. He took her
over to the hoop-la stall, and the first ring she threw encircled a diamond
brooch made in the shape of a dart. O’Grady, Regan, and Murphy
scraped up a fiver between them to put on Bright Arrow in the three
thirty, and netted fifty quid.
The next night the fairground attendant took her to the sideshows
and pointed out a magnificent lion in a small cage. The syndicate put the
whole of the kitty on Noble Captive in the four o’clock, which came in at
three to one, so that meant fifty quid for each of them—although
Murphy, who was acting as treasurer, advised them to leave it all with
him for the next day’s investment.
How long this would have gone on nobody knows because on the
third day the syndicate made their big mistake. They grew too greedy,
and forgot their manners.
Regan started it by demanding that Bridie ask the man for the
starting prices of the horses he gave them. Murphy went further, and said
she should tell him that they wanted odds of at least ten to one on all his
selections. O’Grady added that the first time he’d given them the second
and third as well, and that he thought the service was slipping.
That night Bridie, being an honest and straightforward girl, repeated
to the fairground attendant what the trio had said. The little man
suddenly stopped smiling.
“Oh, so that’s the way of it, is it?” he said. “And what are you getting
out of all this, Bridie Donovan?”
“Nothing,” says Bridie.
“Not even a tanner to keep for yourself?”
“Not a thing,” says Bridie.
“Is that so?” says the man. “Well, you shall. I’ve got something good
for your friends tonight. Step this way.”
The following morning, Bridie turned up with her notebook as usual,
and the syndicate could see that there were several pages of it closely
written in Bridie’s clear hand. Their spirits rose.
“Come on now, my dear,” said Murphy. “Did you tell him what we
said?”
“I did that,” said Bridie demurely, “and he said he had a good thing
for you.”
“Let’s have it, then,” said Regan.
Bridie consulted her notes. “Last night,” she said, “he took me to the
big circus tent. There was a beautiful lady in pink tights riding round the
ring on two horses, standing up with one foot on each of them. One of
the horses was a chestnut, and the other was a big black creature. The
lady had a sash on her, with the name Joan embroidered on it in red.”
“Now there’s a funny thing,” said Murphy. “There doesn’t seem to
be any sort of a horse running with a name to fit to that.”
“Then,” Bridie went on, “the lady climbed down and kissed the black
horse and pinned a red rose on its bridle. But the chestnut trotted off to
the stables, where there was a little fat donkey nibbling away at some hay.
The donkey didn’t seem to realize that he wasn’t getting his fair share
LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT 35
because the chestnut was stealing all the hay from the other side of the
manger.”
“That’s a very odd dream,” said O’Grady, studying the lists of
runners. “I can’t see a horse to fit that.”
“Last of all,” said Bridie, “the donkey went off to where the black
horse was, and he brayed at the top of his lungs, so that all the animals
came running. They all started kicking the black horse, and biting it. . .
and then I woke up.”
“I make no sense of that at all,” said Regan. “You’d better tell your
man not to set us such riddles in future. We want the names quite
clearly.”
“There’s one name that’s clear, and that’s Joan,” said O’Grady. Then
he looked at Murphy, and said, “Your wife’s called Joan, isn’t she,
Murphy?” And then he looked at Regan, the big black fellow, and most
pointedly he looked at the red rose that Regan wore in his buttonhole.
At that, Murphy gave a sort of howl, “So that’s the way of it, is it?”
he yelled, rushing at Regan. “Riding in double harness, is she, and kissing
you and giving you roses!”
“Why couldn’t you keep your big useless mouth shut?” Regan
bellowed at O’Grady. “You’re the fat donkey, all right!”
“So I’m the donkey, am I?” shouted O’Grady to Murphy. “In that
case, what about the hay you’re stealing from my manger? Who made
you treasurer anyway?”
Well, as you can imagine, by this time there was a fine fight going on,
with everyone at everyone else’s throat, and swearing and shouting and
eyes being blacked and windows broken. When it got too loud, I thought
I’d better take a hand, so I came out of my office.
I suppose I must have seen the three men because it was difficult to
miss them, but frankly I didn’t notice. What I did see was Bridie,
cowering up in a corner, terrified and crying, and I realized quite suddenly
that here was the girl I’d been waiting for all my life.
“You’re fired, all of you!” I shouted to Murphy, Regan, and O’Grady.
They didn’t hear me, of course. They were throwing chairs by then. I
walked over to Bridie and picked her up in my arms and carried her out
of the office.
We’ve been married nearly a year now, and it’s coming up to Derby
Day again. I did mention it in passing to Bridie, but she just smiled and
told me she didn’t dream at all these days. Perhaps it’s just as well.

THE MOST HATED MAN IN LONDON
U T l isn’t often,” said the Chief Inspector to his class of trainee-
I detectives, “that you come across a case you can solve by pure
J L logic; but the Max Scotland murder was a classic, and I’ll give
you a big hint. It was all a question of timing.
“If ever a man asked to be killed, Max did. He was officially a
moneylender and unofficially a blackmailer. He conducted all his busi
ness, legitimate and otherwise, from an old-fashioned office in the City,
where he made his ‘clients’ call in person to hand over their money. Not
all of his victims were rich. Max was democratic. He’d exploit even five
bob’s worth of human misery.
“Since he was probably the most hated man in London, I wasn’t at all
surprised to hear, one Saturday, that he’d been found in his office with
his head bashed in. The alarm had been raised just before noon by Alfred
Lightfoot, a young clerk from a nearby shipping firm, who’d had an
appointment with Max, and found him dead.
“Now, here’s the interesting part. The suite of offices where Max
worked—if you can call it that—was guarded by a doorkeeper. An old
soldier, very reliable. There was no way in or out except past the cubicle
where this character, George Potts, was sitting all the morning.
“Potts told us that Max had arrived at ten o’clock. Nobody else was
in, it being Saturday, but during the morning Max had three visitors.
Sure enough, we found his engagement book on his desk, but it didn’t
help us much, because Max had used code names for his victims. He
fancied himself as a scholar and always gave the poor devils classical
names. A Mr. Mars was expected at ten fifteen, and a Mrs. Niobe at
eleven o’clock. Mr. Hermes—alias Lightfoot—was down for eleven thirty,
but the entry had been altered in Max’s writing to twelve o’clock.
“From the names I guessed that Mr. Mars was involved with
somebody else’s wife, that Niobe’s scandal had something to do with a
child, and that young Alfred might have been better-named Lightfinger.
Anyhow, it was obvious that each of them had a motive for murdering
Max.
“George Potts knew Lightfoot and Niobe by sight. They were what
he called ‘regulars’—came at the same time, first Saturday of every
THE MOST HATED MAN IN LONDON 37
month. He didn’t know their names, but he described Niobe as young,
beautiful, and rich—she wore a mink coat. As for Mr. Mars, he was a new
client—middle-aged, stout, and extremely prosperous-looking.
“Mr. Mars, George said, had arrived at ten fifteen prompt and spent
ten minutes in Max’s office. Then he’d come striding out, apparently
very agitated, slamming the door behind him. Niobe had only been in
the office for a minute or two. When she came out, she was crying—but
she always was, according to George. Lightfoot had arrived at five to
twelve. It hadn’t struck mid-day before he came running out of the office,
shouting murder.
“The next thing I did was to look at the office. It was bleak
enough—two chairs, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a safe. The safe was
open, and it was empty. The only cheerful thing about the room was the
coal fire, and from the look of the ashes all the papers from the safe had
been burnt in it.
“Max was lying on the floor between the desk and the safe. His head
had been smashed in from behind with a heavy iron poker. There was
less blood than I’d expected—only a sluggish stream that had dried up
just short of the doorway. There were no fingerprints except Max’s, but
there was a footprint. Just one, in the dried-up blood by the door. It was
the print of a very fashionable ladies’ shoe.
“We had one stroke of luck. Not all the papers in the grate were
completely burnt, and we found several scraps with legible names on
them—two of them women’s. We got hold of photographs of these two
ladies, and George Potts identified one of them as Niobe. She was Lady
Elizabeth Carter-Johnson, daughter of an earl and wife of a rising
politician. She was terribly distressed when I questioned her, begging me
to keep her name out of the papers because of her husband’s career. She
didn’t deny that she was being blackmailed, or that the footprint was
hers. She’d arrived promptly at eleven, gone into the office and found
Max lying there, dead. For a moment she’d been paralyzed with horror.
Then she’d run away and not raised the alarm, for fear of being involved.
“Alfred Lightfoot said he’d telephoned at twenty to eleven, spoken to
Max personally, and arranged to postpone his appointment. This was
confirmed by Lightfoot’s colleagues in his office. When he got there at
five to twelve, he had found Max dead. Well now . . .”
The Chief Inspector regarded his class quizzically. “How many
suspects have you eliminated so far?” There was dead silence.
“The first person in the clear,” the Chief Inspector went on, “was
Lightfoot. If he’d been the murderer, Lady Elizabeth would have found
Max alive, and couldn’t have described to me just how the body was
lying, as she did. Then, the lady was saved by her own footprint. The
doctor confirmed it would have taken about ten minutes for the stream
of blood to reach the door. If she’d killed Max, she couldn’t have left a
footprint where she did.
“It began to look black for Mr. Mars—in spite of the fact that
Lightfoot’s phone call apparently gave him a perfect alibi. You can
imagine my surprise when Mr. Mars telephoned Scotland Yard that
afternoon, before the murder was reported in the papers. He was a
businessman named Dacres, and the first of Max’s victims to have the
guts to report to the police. He swore he’d left Max alive and well at
twenty-five past ten. You see my dilemma? Apparently, all three were
telling the truth. Yet somebody was lying, and somebody had killed Max.
“I went and checked again with Potts. He was positive he’d got all
the times right. People were always punctual for Mr. Scotland, he said.
Never kept him waiting. After that I went back to the Yard and thought
it all out. And then I made my arrest.”
“You mean, you broke Dacres’ alibi, sir?”
“No.”
“But—”
“The murderer,” said the Chief Inspector, “was George Potts. I told
you that Max didn’t spurn the most humble of victims. After that second
interrogation I knew Potts was lying. He insisted that all three visitors
were punctual—but Lightfoot’s usual appointment was for eleven thirty,
and he didn’t turn up until five to twelve. Potts must have known that
the appointment had been changed—so he must have been in Max’s office
and seen the engagement book, after Lightfoot’s phone call and before
Lady Elizabeth arrived. And when Lady Elizabeth got there, Max had
been dead for ten minutes. So, allowing three minutes for the phone call,
George Potts must have killed him between seventeen and ten minutes to
eleven. As I said, just a simple question of timing.”

A YOUNG MAN CALLED SMITH
O
f course, the whole thing was my fault. I admit that. All the
same, even though my husband Tom says that I’m the daffiest,
most scatterbrained woman that ever walked, I maintain that it
was the sort of mistake anybody might have made.
It happened last summer, when Tom decided that since he was going
to Paris for the International Plastics Exhibition, he might as well take a
quick flip around his clients in Zurich, Vienna, Milan, and Lisbon while
he was about it. That’s one of the disadvantages of being married to a
tycoon. Half the time you see him only before breakfast and after dinner,
and the rest of the time you don’t see him at all. However, there are
compensations, like a flat in town and a rambling country house near the
Sussex coast and a well-stocked wardrobe and a bank manager who sees
you personally to the door, bowing all the way. I wouldn’t like you to
think I was complaining, especially as I happen to have the best and
sweetest husband in the world thrown in as a sort of bonus.
Tom’s quite a bit older than I am, and I think maybe that’s why he’s
so considerate, and why he worries about having to leave me alone when
he goes off on these trips. This time, I must admit that I was really quite
upset when he broke the bad news. You see, we were all set to go down
to Meadowcroft—that’s the Sussex house—for a couple of weeks’ peace
and quiet.
“Never mind, Margie love,” he said. “You go on down to Meadow
croft, and I’ll join you when I can.”
“I don’t like being there alone,” I objected. We don’t have any help
living-in at Meadowcroft, just a woman who comes in two mornings a
week.
Then Tom had an inspiration. “I know. Why don’t you take Sister
Susie down there with you? She’s on holiday, isn’t she? She’d probably
enjoy it, and she’ll be company for you. You can take it in turns to guard
my stamps.”
This last was a bit of a family joke. Tom’s passion in life, next to the
plastics business, is stamp collecting. He’s been at it ever since he was a
schoolboy, and by now—with money to spend and plenty of know-
how—he’s accumulated a collection worth several thousand pounds. As
he keeps on pointing out to me, stamps are just about the easiest things
for a thief to smuggle out of the country, and he’s so scared of his
collection’s being burgled that it travels everywhere with us, in a sort of
tin trunk. There are only two keys, one on Tom’s key ring and the other
in a special drawer in whichever house we’re in: Tom says he wouldn’t
trust it to my handbag, and 1 dare say he’s right. Mind you, it’s not that
he couldn’t afford to replace the whole collection over and over again: it’s
the time and trouble he’s put into those stamps that make them so
precious to him.
Well, my young sister Sue jumped at the idea of coming to
Meadowcroft with me. She was teaching at a primary school in South
London at the time, and, having blued all her available cash on a skiing
holiday in January, she was faced with the prospect of spending the long
summer vacation either doing a temporary job, or moping in her dismal
bedsitter in Clapham. As we drove down to Sussex, Sue confided to me
that my invitation had been especially welcome because she had just
parted forever from the latest of a long line of boyfriends.
“Not that I’m moping for him, Margie, don’t think that. He turned
out to be a complete birdbrain. But I’d sort of got used to having him
around.”
This seemed to give me an opportunity of bringing up a subject that
I’d had on my mind for some time.
“I do think, Sue,” I said, “that you ought to think seriously about
your future.” I tried to sound as mature and parental as I could, which
wasn’t very, considering that Sue’s twenty-three and I’m only five years
older: but since our parents died ten years ago, I’ve had to do quite a bit
of mothering vis-a-vis young Sue, and she generally took it very well when
I lectured her.
This time, however, she seemed to sense what was coming, and shut
up like a clam. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. She closed her
mouth very tight and looked out of the car window.
“Look, honey,” I said. “Let’s face it. You and I have only one asset
in this world—our looks. There’s no getting away from it.”
“I happen to think that other things matter,” said Sue, stubbornly.
“Of course they do,” I said. “It’s just that we don’t happen to be well
endowed with the other things. I admit you’re ten times as clever as I am,
but that still doesn’t put you in the Einstein class, does it? You may like
to think of yourself as a great intellect, but in fact you’re an overworked,
badly paid school teacher and likely to remain so, if you don’t get a grip
on yourself.”
A YOUNG MAN CALLED SMITH 41
“And do what?”
“Now where looks are concerned,” 1 went on, ignoring her
interruption, “you’re in the number one, A level, super first class. You
begin where Helen of Troy left off.”
This wasn’t such an exaggeration, either. As I’ve hinted, we’re both
quite personable, but whereas I tend to be the small, fluffy, blonde type,
Sue is sort of statuesque. I don’t mean in her measurements. I mean in
the sort of dignity and elegance she has. She’s got corn-colored hair and
green eyes the size of gob-stoppers and a honey and peaches skin, and
when she smiles it’s as though some goddess or archangel had dropped in
to make sure that all’s well with the world. My objection was that she
insisted on wasting these riches on penniless art students and would-be
poets—the whole tribe of washouts that Tom had christened “Sue’s
bearded weirdies.” I put this point of view to her now.
“I’m not suggesting,” I said, “that you should sell yourself for filthy
lucre, so stop looking at me like that. I’m just saying that if you’d only
take the trouble to meet a few people who are . . . well . . . getting on in
the world, as it were . . . then it’s almost a dead cert that you’ll fall in love
with one of them. Look at Tom and me. You don’t think I married him
for his money, do you?”
“Of course not, Margie.” Sue sounded shocked by the idea. “You
were just terribly lucky.”
“Lucky and sensible,” I pointed out. “I found Tom simply because I
decided to exclude from my circle of acquaintances any man whose
income fell below a certain level. And sure enough, after a bit, along came
Tom. Set your sights in the upper brackets, my girl—there are some nice
fellows up there, you know.”
Sue sighed. “I do get a bit bored with being broke,” she admitted.
“The trouble is, all the rich men I’ve ever met are so stupid. They’re
shallow, ill-informed, and fatuous.”
“That’s because you haven’t explored far enough,” 1 said. I could tell
I was making headway because Sue fell into a thoughtful meditation,
quite unlike her earlier hostile silence.
At last she said, “All right. I’ll give it a try. You introduce me to all
the rich men you can find while we’re at Meadowcroft, and I’ll be
prepared to consider them.”
“That’s my girl,” I said.
As it turned out, the laugh was on me because when we got to Sussex
I found that any of our neighbors who fell into the right category were
away sunning themselves in Elba or Sardinia. In England, the weather
was idyllic. The sun shone, and Sue and I had tea in the garden: but we
had it alone. She never said a word about our conversation in the car, but
I couldn’t help feeling that she was laughing at me, just a little.
After a week, I began to get worried in case she was bored, and fret
ting for the banished boyfriend. So I was pleased when, around teatime
on the second Tuesday, I looked up from my gardening to see a battered
red sports car making its way noisily up the drive. It looked and sounded
as though it had been constructed out of a do-it-yourself kit with several
vital parts missing, but as it roared to a shuddering halt outside the front
door, I saw that it contained a young man. Rather a good-looking young
man. I stepped out of the herbaceous border, beaming welcome.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
The young man jumped out of the car and came towards me. “Oh,”
he said. “You must be . . . I mean . . . are you Mrs. Westlake?”
“I am.”
“My name’s Smith. Bobby Smith. I work for Amalgamated Plastics.
I met your husband at the Paris Exhibition last week, Mrs. Westlake, and
when he heard I was planning to holiday in Shinglesea, he suggested I
should look you up. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I said. I didn’t try to make it sound too convincing. A
closer look at Mr. Smith had decided me that Sue and I could well do
without him. He was wearing a dirty duffel coat and crumpled grey flan
nels, and his brown hair looked as though it hadn’t been combed for a
week. In fact, he looked too much like a bearded weirdie for comfort, and
I hoped that he would take the hint from my chilly tone, and leave.
But not a bit of it. “So I thought I’d— ” he began. And then
suddenly his eyes seemed to grow larger, and to protrude as though
pushed from within, and his face turned a dull puce. He emitted a sound
which can best be transcribed as “glug.” What had happened, of course,
was that Sue had come out of the house.
“This is my sister, Sue Davidson,” I said. “Sue, meet Bobby Smith,
a friend of Tom’s.”
“How do you do?” gurgled Smith. “Delighted to meet you. Not
really a friend of Mr. Westlake’s, you know . . . just met at the Paris show
He had got hold of Sue’s hand by this time, and was pumping it up
and down as though he expected thereby to induce water to gush from
her mouth. Sue looked at him with, I was pleased to note, no enthusiasm
at all.
“How are you?” she said distantly, like a goddess making conversation
with some of the less desirable elements of the underworld. There was an
awkward pause.
I was aware of mixed emotions. Much as I wanted to be rid of the
young man, he had been invited by Tom to call on us, and hospitality is
hospitality. I didn’t feel I could send him packing without the elementary
courtesy of a cup of tea. This I offered, and he accepted with alacrity. I
left him in the drawing room with Sue while I went to boil the kettle.
When I came back, Sue was sitting on the sofa, with Bobby Smith as
close beside her as it was possible for him to be without actually con
stituting the basis for a complaint. Every time Sue edged away from him,
he shifted towards her to close the gap, and by now he had her pretty well
pinioned in the corner. He was talking about the insides of racing cars.
He continued to talk while we had our tea, and afterwards asked to be
shown Tom’s stamp collection, about which he had heard so much.
Reluctantly, I unlocked it, and, by making him walk over to the display
case to see it, succeeded momentarily in relieving the pressure on Sue.
As soon as the stamps had been inspected, admired, and locked up
again, Bobby reverted to the subject of cars, and began to press Sue to
come for what he called “a spin in my old bus.” Now, Sue is a gently nur
tured girl and finds it difficult to dish out a plain, discourteous refusal.
Having made it obvious in at least six different ways that she did not
want to go, she eventually agreed to a short ride, but only on condition
that I came, too.
It was purgatory. There was, strictly speaking, no back seat—just a
sort of bench covered with a filthy, moth-eaten rug. We scorched and
snarled our way to the nearest village where Bobby stopped at the inn and
bought us each a disgusting bottle of livid-green fizzy lemonade and a
petrified sausage roll. We eventually arrived home at half-past six; I was
aching in every muscle and bone, and it was with horror that I realized
that Bobby had no intention of departing. He settled himself comfortably
in the drawing room with the drink which I had felt in duty bound to
offer him.
When I went out to the kitchen to fetch more ice, Sue followed me.
As soon as the door was shut behind her, she let fly. “Margie, it’s too
awful] You must get rid of him! He’ll be here all night at this rate, and he
keeps trying to paw me . . . it’s disgusting. Can’t you do something?”
“Don’t worry, honey,” 1 said. “Leave him to me.”
I went back to the drawing room and said, with a cold smile. “Well,
Mr. Smith, I’m so sorry I can’t ask you to stay any longer, but my sister
and I are due at a cocktail party at seven, and we have to change. So—”
“Oh, that’s all right,” replied the wretched youth airily. “I’ll wait for
you down here, and drive you over to your party.”
“And how,” inquired Sue icily, “do we get back again?”
“I’ll wait for you,” he said, cheerfully. “I’d be glad to come in with
you, but I’m not really dressed for a social evening, and these country
houses are so hideously bourgeois. It’ll be up to you to slip away pretty
smartly, and we’ll all go out to dinner together.”
Sue shot me a look of utter despair, but I was able to take this one in
my stride. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith,” I said, “this isn’t the sort of party that
we want to slip away from, and we’re invited to stay on for dinner af
terwards.”
“Oh, I say,” he said. “What frightfully bad luck.” You could tell he
was really sorry for us, missing the treat of dining with him. “Anyhow, I’ll
wait till you leave, and speed you on your way.”
There was nothing for it. Sue and I had to go upstairs and solemnly
change into cocktail rig, and get the car out. Even then I didn’t think
we’d get rid of him. He insisted on writing down for Sue the address of
the third-rate boarding house in Shinglesea which had the bad luck to
have drawn his custom and he assured us that he’d be calling again very
soon. Our spirits lifted a little when he said that he was breaking his
holiday the following day to visit an aunt in Norfolk, but they sank again
when he urged us not to worry, as he’d be back by the weekend.
When we finally got into the car and drove off, he followed us for
several miles until I finally shook him off by superior local knowledge. It
was then, speeding recklessly up a leafy lane, that Sue and I both began
to laugh hysterically. By the time we got home, however, our mood had
hardened: and the last straw came when I found, on the drawing room
sofa, the gold propelling pencil which Bobby had produced from his
pocket to write his address for Sue. It bore the engraved initials R.S.
“He did it on purpose!” exploded Sue. “He deliberately left it behind
so that he’d have an excuse to come back. Well, he’s got another think
coming. We’ve got his address, so you can send it back to him, Margie,
with a note telling him to go and jump off the cliff.”
“I can’t very well do that,” I said, “but I can write and tell him that
you’ve had to go back to London. He won’t come here for the pleasure
of my company.”
“Good idea,” said Sue. “And the next time an unidentified car comes
up this drive, Margie, you and I are going to dive into the nearest
haystack and stay there until the all-clear sounds.”
She was wrong, of course. It was just after four next afternoon, and
I was in the pantry arranging some flowers that I’d cut from the garden,
when I heard the gentle purring of an expensive motor car in the drive.
For a moment, I had a panicky fear that it might be the unspeakable
Smith returned unexpectedly from Norfolk—but the well-bred murmur
of the engine reassured me. I went to the drawing room window and
looked out.
In the drive stood a grey E-type Jaguar, and beside it stood a young
man who might have stepped straight into a women’s magazine illus
tration, no questions asked. He was tall and slim, with straight, shining
fair hair, and he wore a beautifully cut sports jacket and a crisp white
shirt with a silk scarf in the neck of it. You could tell at a glance that he
didn’t suffer from halitosis, B.O., or dandruff. He was sunburnt, and even
from the drawing room I could see that his hands were as lean and sen
sitive a couple as ever caressed a steering wheel. Then he turned his head
towards me, and I saw that his eyes were dark cornflower blue, thus giving
him a score of ten out of ten. The reason he had turned was that Sue had
seen him from her swing chair on the lawn, and was walking over to in
vestigate.
By the time I got there, Sue was standing beside the Jaguar, gazing at
its proprietor with a sort of stunned expression. She did not actually say
“glug,” but it was implicit in her whole demeanor.
“Margie,” she said, in a faint voice, “this is Robin Smith. He’s a
friend of Tom’s. Mr. Smith, this is my sister, Mrs. Westlake.”
“How very nice to meet you.” The apparition turned to me, giving
me the full benefit of the dark blue eyes, together with a smile which
made even my matronly heart beat a little faster. “I ran into your
husband in Paris, and he suggested I might look you up. I’m holidaying
in Shinglesea for a week or two.”
“You will come in and have some tea, won’t you?” Sue asked
anxiously, with half an eye on me. 1 think she was afraid that I might not
have grasped that this was the exception that proved the rule.
“If you’re sure I’m not disturbing you,” said Robin. “I only meant to
stay a moment. . .” We fairly hustled him indoors.
I went off to get tea. When I came back, Sue was sitting—if that’s
the right word—on the sofa, displaying a length of exquisite leg, like a
goddess who has heard that Apollo will be along at any moment and is
anxious not to miss him. Robin was sitting on a small and rather
uncomfortable chair on the far side of the room, talking about the
implications of pop art. This seemed almost too good to be true. When,
over the cucumber sandwiches and thin bread and butter, he went on to
discuss twelfth century stained glass and the influence of Ezra Pound on
modern poetry and the correct method of preparing coq au vin, I could
barely contain myself for delight.
The effect on Sue was apparent. By the time we got to Ezra Pound,
she had stopped draping herself over the sofa, and was taking a lively part
in the conversation—which is more than I was, but that didn’t matter.
The important thing was that the two of them were striking sparks off
each other.
Eventually, we got round to the subject of cars, and Sue dropped a
couple of mammoth hints about how she’s always wondered what it
would be like to ride in a really fast car. Robin simply said that he’d
wondered the same thing himself, and hoped that a friend of his might let
him try a couple of laps at Silverstone in a Lotus one of these days. Then
he looked down at his watch, and said that he really must be going.
Sue was looking at me in a dumb, pleading sort of way, but I couldn’t
detain the man by force. I did my best to prolong the conversation by
asking where in Shinglesea he was staying.
“Just outside the town,” he said. “The Shinglesea Towers. Do you
know it?”
“I do indeed,” I said. It was one of the most exclusive and expensive
seaside hotels in Britain.
“It’s not bad,” he said. “Quite reasonable food, taken all in all, and
of course everything tastes better when eaten on a terrace on a warm,
moonlit night.”
“Like tonight,” said Sue, brazenly. (I felt quite ashamed of her.)
After that the poor man could hardly fail to invite us to dine with
him. He did it beautifully, though—exactly as though it was a brilliant
idea which had just occurred to him.
I tried to keep some semblance of dignity, but the way Sue said, “Oh,
yes, please,” ruined any effect it might have had. We both went up to
change, and I lent her my coffee-colored Balmain chiffon, my mutation
mink stole, and some diamond clips and a bracelet. I must say she looked
good enough to eat.
It was arranged that Sue and Robin should go ahead in the Jaguar,
and that I should follow on in the little runabout we keep in the country.
The two of them were in the lounge when I arrived, and Robin provided
us with cocktails and then went off to change. One doesn’t dine in a
sports jacket at the Shinglesea Towers. A few minutes later he came back
in a dark suit, looking more like an advertisement for gracious living than
ever, and we made our way through the dining room and out onto the
terrace.
Though I say it myself, we were quite a sensational-looking trio, and
we caused a stir. Waiters were fairly tripping over each other for the
privilege of showing us to our table, and I was aware of knives and forks
freezing into immobility all over the room as a hundred heads turned to
watch our progress. I sneaked a quick look at Sue, and was delighted to
see that she was carrying it off superbly. A goddess moving graciously
among her humble, earthly devotees. (I felt proud of her.)
It was an enchanted evening. We ate fois gras and homard a
I’Americaine and fresh peaches, and we drank champagne. Sue and Robin
danced together with as much ease and expertise as if they’d been
rehearsing for weeks, and in the intervals of dancing, they talked about
every subject under the sun. Most of the conversation was miles above
my head, but I was perfectly happy just to sit and listen. It seemed to me
that I was seeing my sister in her natural element for the first time. She
was never meant to live in a bedsitter and teach English to pudding-faced
kids, and it pleased me to think that Sue was obviously coming to the
same conclusion herself.
It seemed no time at all before the witching hour arrived. The band
played the last waltz, the dancers and diners dispersed, and Sue and I
found ourselves on the front steps of the hotel, shaking hands with Robin
and thanking him for a marvelous evening. Then we got into the car, and
I waved a last goodbye to Robin and drove off. At once, Sue burst into
tears.
“Take it easy, honey,” I said. “I know you’re excited and—”
“I’ve . . . I’ve n-never had such a b-b-beautiful evening in all my life
. . .” sobbed Sue.
“I know,” I said, soothingly, “But you’ll have plenty more.”
This produced a despairing wail. “I w-won’t! I’ll never see him
again!”
“That’s just nonsense,” I said. “He’s obviously crazy about you.”
“Then why d-didn’t he say a s-single word about meeting again?”
sniffed Sue. “He’s only here till next week, and he didn’t even ask for my
address in London, or give me his. I may as well face it, Margie,” she
went on, in a fresh burst of misery, “I b-bore him stiff. I’m not pretty
enough or clever enough or—”
“My dear young idiot,” I said firmly, “pull yourself together. Robin
Smith is a very correct and well-mannered young man. When you come
to think of it, he thrust his company on us this evening—”
“He didn’t!”
“I’m looking at it from his point of view. He turned up uninvited.
Then he asked us to dinner, and we accepted—but for all he knows, it
may have been just politeness on our part. What I’m driving at is that
the next move is up to us. Up to me, to be precise.”
“Is it?” Sue still sounded doubtful.
“Of course it is. I shall write to Robin tomorrow, and ask him to. . .
to . . . I know! To spend the weekend at Meadowcroft.”
“Margie, you’re all angel!” squeaked Sue, and nearly put us into the
ditch by flinging her arms round my neck just as I was taking a tricky
bend. She sang happily to herself the rest of the way home.
The next morning, when I went to my desk to write to Robin, I found
myself face to face with that horrible gold propelling pencil, and decided
to write both letters while I was about it. It was even more important,
now, to keep the unspeakable Bobby away from the house.
I spent some time composing the letters, and when I had finished I
felt quite pleased with them. I took them to Sue for her to read.
The first one went as follows:
Dear Mr. Smith,

Afteryour visit, I found the enclosed pencil, which I think belongs to
you. I am sending it back to saveyou the trouble of calling herefor it.
My sister has asked me to tell you that she has had to return to
London unexpectedly. I do not expect to see her again for some time.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret Westlake
“Pretty chilling, I think you’ll agree,” I said to Sue, with satisfaction.

She was for making it even ruder, but I protested that only a rhinoceros
would fail to get the message. I then showed her the second letter.
Dear Mr. Smith,

Neither Sue nor I feel that we thankedyou enoughfor entertaining
us so regally. It was a splendid evening, with superb food, drink, and
company—and Sue is still talking about her ride inyourfabulous car.
It occurred to me that, ifyou feelyou have had enough of hotel lifefor
the time being, you might like to spend this coming weekend with us here
at Meadowcroft. It would give us such pleasure—do sayyou’ll come, and
make it Friday evening if you can.
Very sincerely,
Margie Westlake
I had to drive into Shinglesea to do some shopping, so 1 decided to

drop the letters in by hand, to avoid delay. The two envelopes were lying
on my desk—one addressed to “R. Smith, Esq., Shinglesea Towers Hotel,”
and the other to “R. Smith, Esq., Ocean View, Pebble Road, Shinglesea.”
I wrapped the appropriate letter round the propelling pencil, and then
slipped both letters into the envelopes and sealed them. One I delivered
to the immaculate receptionist at the Shinglesea Towers, and the other to
the sleazy landlady of Ocean View. I expect you’ll have guessed by now
what happened, and I still maintain that anybody might have made the
same mistake.
Disaster struck with the arrival of the post on Friday morning. At
first, I was pleased to see a letter with the monogram of Shinglesea
Towers embossed on the envelope, but when I picked it up and felt the
long, thin, solid object inside, my heart did an unpleasant somersault. I
tore open the envelope. Out fell the propelling pencil. Trembling, I
opened the letter, which was written in a handsome Italian hand.
Dear Mrs. Westlake,

I am returning the pencil, as I am afraid that, despite the similarity
of initials, it is not mine.
I am sorry to hear thatyour sister has had to leave so suddenly.
Yours sincerely,
Robin Smith
Of course, I had to confess to Sue. She began to wail like a banshee,

declaring that her life had been ruined and that she might as well sign on
for the nearest convent straight away. This brought me to my senses.
“There’s no point just sitting there sniveling,” I said. “Fortunately,
no great harm has been done. 1 shall ring Robin straight away and
explain that there’s been a mistake.”
I contacted Robin at the Shinglesea Towers without any difficulty,
and although he sounded a bit standoffish at first—and no wonder, after
that letter—he soon melted, and said that he was delighted to hear that
Sue hadn’t had to go to London after all, and that nothing would please
him more than to spend the weekend with us. In fact, he said, he’d been
on the point of going back to London because he found hotels desperately
boring after a few days. Such was our rejoicing at this, and so pressing
was the planning of menus, and the shopping, and the deciding of what
clothes to wear, that the darker side of the picture remained completely
forgotten until after lunch.
It was only then, when Sue was up in my room trying on everything
in my wardrobe to see what suited her best, that the awful truth hit me.
If Robin had received the chilly letter, then the unspeakable Bobby had
received a gushing invitation to spend the weekend with us. An ordinary
person, I reflected, reading that letter with its references to superb food
and drink and a fabulous car, would realize immediately that there’d been
a mistake, but Bobby Smith was perfectly capable of construing it as a le
gitimate description of our hellish jaunt to the local pub. I fairly ran to
the telephone.
“Ocean View,” said the flat, unpleasant voice that I recognized as
belonging to the landlady.
“I want to speak to Mr. Robert Smith.”
“He’s left.”
“Yes, I know. But he’s back again, isn’t he? I mean, he said he was
coming back today.”
“He’s left and come back and left again. Not half an hour ago. No
consideration, some people haven’t.”
“You mean—he’s gone for good?”
“That’s what he said. Without so much as by-your-leave. The room
was reserved till Sunday.” The voice took on a menacing note.
“Do you know where he went?”
“I do not. To stay with friends in the neighborhood, he said. A likely
story, I don’t think. Hadn’t got the money to pay till Sunday, more like.”
“You don’t happen to know if he . . . I mean, I left a note for him this
morning and 1 wondered whether he’d received i t . . .”
“If it was left in, it’ll have been handed to him,” said the voice huffily.
“Thank you,” I said, and rang off.
As 1 came out into the hall, I met Sue careering down the stairs. She
was still wearing the gold lame evening dress that she’d been trying on
when I went to telephone. She clutched my arm.
“Margie! Coming up the drive! He’s here!”
“I thought as much,” I said, gloomily.
“You’ve got to get rid of him!”
“My dear Sue, I’ll do my best, but I can’t work miracles. You’d better
go up and change into something more suitable. And for heaven’s sake,
behave yourself.”
It was plain that Sue would have liked to express herself at some
length, doubtless on the ruined-life motif, but the angry snarl of the
home-made red car put an end to further conversation. Sue gave me a
look into which she managed to pack a couple of tirades, a tragic re
nunciation of all future happiness, and a raspberry. She then gathered up
the gold lame and scudded up the stairs like a goddess surprised by a
satyr, just as Bobby Smith walked in through the front door. He did not
even bother to ring.
“Ah, Margie! Here I am,” he announced unnecessarily. “Good idea
of yours, having me here for the weekend. Shinglesea was becoming
tedious.”
“As a matter, of fact—” I began, feebly.
“Shan’t be a moment. Just get my things out of the car.”
I followed him to the front door. The red menace was standing
steaming in the drive, and from its noisome interior Bobby began
producing an assortment of articles, as a conjuror will from a top hat.
First came three battered suitcases, and a kind of wickerwork basket tied
tip with string. Then a tennis racket, a snorkel mask, a pair of ice skates,
binoculars, a bagful of golf clubs, an inflatable air bed, and a string bag
full of paperback thrillers.
“Never know how the holiday’s going to turn out, do you?” remarked
Bobby, as he assembled this collection in the porch. “If you’ll just show
me my room, I’ll take this lot up, and then come back for the rest.”
“The rest?”
“Oh, just my cameras and transistor radio and tape recorder. 1 don’t
like leaving valuable equipment in an open car. You never know who’s
skulking in the shrubbery, do you?” He laughed loudly.
“No,” I said. “You don’t.”
“Well . . .” He was festooned with baggage by this time. “Lead on,
MacDuff. I’m right behind you. But quick, woman, before 1 drop the
lot.”
It was all too much for me. Meekly, I led the way to the smaller of
the two spare rooms.
When the last load of gear had been safely stowed away, Bobby
strolled into the drawing room, flopped onto the sofa and put his feet up,
and remarked, “Where’s young Sue?”
“She’s changing,” I said. I knew that Sue, from behind her bedroom,
door, must have observed what had happened, and I knew she wouldn’t
appear until she had to.
“Changing?” Bobby smiled, with repellent smugness. “She needn’t
have bothered to dress up just for me.”
“She isn’t,” I assured him.
“Just that we’re expecting another house guest. He should be here
any moment.”
Bobby looked really annoyed. “Oh, lord,” he said. “Couldn’t you
have put him off? We don’t want anybody else.”
There was a pretty solid statuette of the Goddess of Plenty in pink
jade on a small table near my right hand, and I came within an ace of
grabbing it and beaning the wretched youth. My hand was stayed,
however, by the whisper of tires in the drive: through the window, I saw
the Jaguar pulling up.
“There he is now,” I said, and hurried out.
Robin had only one suitcase (“No point in getting the rest of the stuff
out of the car,” he said). I took him up to the best spare room, where Sue
had lovingly arranged a big bowl of red roses. I showed him the guest
bathroom, and told him that drinks would be ready downstairs whenever
he was. When I came into the drawing room with the tray of glasses,
Bobby and Robin were both sitting there, eyeing each other with mutual
suspicion.
“Have you two introduced yourselves?” I asked, with a ghastly
attempt at gaiety. “Mr. Smith, meet Mr. Smith. Robin, this is Bobby.
Bobby—Robin.”
They smirked halfheartedly at each other, in the manner of small boys
forced to shake hands politely but only waiting for the schoolmaster’s
back to be turned for the rough stuff to begin.
“I thought perhaps you might know each other already,” I went on,
“since you both met Tom at the Plastics Exhibition in Paris.” This
produced no reaction. I blundered on. “Bobby’s in plastics, I know—
Amalgamated, isn’t it?” Bobby nodded. “1 suppose you’re in the same
line of country, Robin.”
“In a way,” said Robin. There was another endless pause.
“Well,” I said, “what about a drink?”
I poured the drinks, and we sat there in clammy silence. I offered a
tour of the garden, which both young men declined. Their attention was
fixed unswervingly on the door through which Sue might be expected to
appear.
At last I stood up and said, “Well, if I don’t get things going in the
kitchen, we’ll have no supper. Do help yourselves to drinks. I’ll see if I
can find that sister of mine to entertain you.”
I ran upstairs and into Sue’s room. She had changed into a simple
brown linen dress and was lying on her bed, reading a detective story.
“Sue!” I said. I wanted to shout, but I had to make do with a sort of
stage whisper. “For heaven’s sake! You’ve got to come down and help
me!”
“I won’t come down while that man’s in the house.”
“Don’t be childish! You simply can’t leave me to cope by myself.”
“It was all your fault in the first place,” Sue pointed out. “And
anyway, I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You’re not being
pursued by th a t. . . that gargoyle.”
“But—”
“Get him out of the house, and I’ll come down. Otherwise, I stay
here.”
“I can’t simply throw him out! He’s got about fifty suitcases, and he’s
just unpacked.”
Sue was sensible enough to see the logic of this. She relented a little.
“All right. Get him out of the place for an hour or so, to give me a chance
of seeing Robin alone . . . please, Margie . . . I promise I’ll behave if I can
have just an hour. . .”
Well, there was only one way to do it. I went downstairs again and
begged Bobby to take me for another ride in his gorgeous motor car.
I was gratified to see that I had judged him correctly. Nothing else
would have got him out of the house. As it was, I could see the inner
struggle that was going on, and I quickly tipped the balance by enthusing
in a nauseating way over the vile machine, and asking endless questions.
We were all three out in the drive by then, admiring the scarlet brute.
The grey jaguar stood quietly aloof, looking aristocratic and unamused.
Bobby had already dismissed it with a quick glance and a scathing, “I see
you’ve got one of those reliable old ladies. Too run-of-the-mill for my
taste, I’m afraid.” This had done nothing to endear him to Robin.
At last we set out, bumping and roaring across the countryside, with
Bobby humming tunelessly to himself, and me clutching the solider
portions of the vehicle and praying for a quick release. After about two
hundred years, we stopped at the same pub, and this time I insisted on
a double gin. After all, I wasn’t driving, and the mere sight of that green
lemonade made me feel sick.
To my surprise, Bobby started talking about Robin. Wanted to know
how long I’d known him, where I’d met him, and so on. Most
impertinent, I considered, but it’s difficult to refuse outright to answer a
question. By the time the catechism was over, I was uncomfortably aware
that I had revealed that I knew nothing whatsoever about Robin. “Any
more than I do about you,” I added, pointedly. “If you knew my husband
better, you’d understand. He’s a tremendously friendly soul, and he’s
continually issuing invitations to total strangers. I’m quite used to it.”
What I didn’t add was that, while it’s true that Tom does scatter
invitations, his scattering is usually very selective. He sums people up in
a flash, and has a way of finding out their entire life history in the time
that it takes most people to shake hands and comment on the weather.
Robin was just the sort of person who would appeal to Tom, but I
couldn’t understand how he had come to fraternize with a character like
Bobby Smith. I’d never known Tom to pick a dud before, and it bothered
me.
We got home eventually, to find that Sue and Robin had gone off in
the Jaguar. This made me very cross, and since Bobby obviously felt the
same way, a bond of a kind was created between us. I must say that he
was very useful in the kitchen, too. When, between us, we’d prepared a
delicious mixed grill and green salad and there was still no sign of the
others, we decided to go ahead and eat. I opened a bottle of Tom’s Vol-
nay, and by the time it was half empty, I had decided that Bobby Smith
might be almost tolerable if only he’d get the engine oil out of his
fingernails and try not to be so conceited.
Robin and Sue came back at half-past eight, sparkling and laughing
and hoping that we hadn’t waited dinner for them. I’m afraid I was
pretty terse with them both. Apart from anything else, Bobby had suc
ceeded in planting nasty little wisps of suspicion in my mind. I became
increasingly aware that I knew nothing whatsoever about either of these
two young men. I should never have invited one, let alone both, to stay
in the house. Sue and I were quite defenseless, several miles from the
nearest village, and with Tom’s stamp collection—let alone my jewelry—
simply asking to be burgled. Later on in the evening, when Sue actually
suggested getting the stamps out to show them to Robin, I could have
screamed. Since by now both our visitors knew where the key was nor
mally kept, I decided to slip it into my handbag and take it up to my
room for the night.
I slept hardly at all. I lay awake for hours, wishing that Tom were at
home or that I could contact him. As it was, I didn’t even know what
country he was in. Next morning I was up and about by seven, making
myself a cup of tea. And when the postman dropped a letter in Tom’s
handwriting through the letter box, it seemed like a direct answer to
prayer. I rushed to open it.
Tom’s not much of a letter writer. This was a typical scrawl, written
in the middle of a busy day from a hotel in Milan. All was going well, he
said. He was just off to Lisbon, and couldn’t possibly say when he’d be
home, but I could be sure it would be as soon as ever he could make it.
Paris had been magic, business-wise, and he’d bought me a little present.
The letter ended with his reassurances that I was the only girl in the
world as far as he was concerned, and sketched out a rough program of
what he planned to do the moment he got home. That was all. Then I
noticed the small letters at the bottom. I turned the page over and read—
P.S. You may get a visit from a young man called Smith. Met him in
Paris. A very bright lad, and could be important, so be specially nice to
him, willyou, angel? Thought he might be amusing companyfor Sister
Sue.
I read the P.S. three times, and each time it made me feel sicker. Of
course. What an idiot I’d been. It was too much even for the long arm
of coincidence that Tom should have met two young men in Paris, both
called Smith, both in plastics, and should have invited them both to visit
us. The letter clinched it. A young man, it said. Not two young men.
No, I had to face it. One of them was an impostor—an adventurer,
probably a criminal, who had overheard Tom’s invitation to the genuine
Smith, and taken a chance on cashing in on it. The question was—which
was the real Smith, and which was the phony? There seemed no way of
finding out.
I was sitting miserably in the kitchen, reading Tom’s P.S. for the
tenth time, when the door began to edge open slowly. My nerves were so
taut by then that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a Thing from
Outer Space creeping round the door. I let out a small scream. What
did, in fact, creep round the door was Bobby Smith. He was wearing an
ancient camel-hair dressing gown, and he looked like a Thing from Outer
Space that has left its comb and razor on a neighboring planet.
He appeared as surprised to see me as I was to see him. For a
moment, we goggled at each other. Then he gave a sort of gulp, and said,
“Oh. Good morning, Mrs. Westlake.”
“Good morning,” I said.
“I see you’re up.”
“Yes.”
“I . . . er . . . I woke early, and I thought I . . . that is . . . a cup of tea,
you know . . . ”
“Help yourself,” I said. “I’ve just made it.”
“Oh. Thanks very much.”
He sat down at the table opposite me and poured himself a beaker.
Then he said, “As a matter of fact, I’m glad to have an opportunity of
talking to you, Mrs. Westlake.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s about . . . well . . . it’s rather awkward, really. It’s about
Smith.”
“Robin Smith?”
“That’s right. It’s been worrying me ever since yesterday. You see,
I was positive I’d seen him before somewhere. And this morning, lying in
bed, it suddenly came to me.”
“What did?”
“Where I’d seen him. It was last week in Paris, at the Exhibition.”
“Well, of course it was.” I was in no mood for banalities, and I
suppose I must have spoken sharply because Bobby looked at me in a sur
prised way. Then he said, in a patronizing drawl, “I’m afraid you don’t
quite understand, Mrs. Westlake. Events like the Plastics Show . . . well,
they attract the best people in the business from all over the world . . .
people like your husband, for example . . . ”
“I know that.”
He leant forward, and took another gulp of tea. “They also attract a
crowd of hangers-on. The nastiest sort, who skulk around in the bars on
the off chance of getting an introduction to somebody important. All of
them are shady characters, and some are downright crooks.” He paused
impressively. “And your Robin Smith was one of them!”
“How can you be so sure?” I felt cold with fear, thinking of Sue.
“I remember now. It was the day I met Mr. Westlake. I noticed this
crowd of suspicious-looking shysters hanging round the bar where we
lunched. Robin Smith was one of them.”
“How curious,” I said, “that it’s taken you so long to recognize him.”
This did not disconcert Bobby. “It’s the clothes, you see. And the
beard.”
“The what?”
“The clothes, the car, the whole setup . . . he had me fooled for a bit,
I admit that. You see, when I saw him in Paris, he was as scruffy as the
rest of them. And he wore a beard. A disguise, I presume.”
“Bobby,” I said, faintly, “I think you must be making a mistake.”
“I hope I am, for your sake,” said the young wretch. “I suppose it just
might be one of those cases of doubles or identical twins that one reads
about, but I doubt it. I doubt it very much. So if you’ve got any val
uables in the house, I’d advise you to keep them under lock and key.”
“I shall go and have a bath,” I said.
By the time I had bathed and dressed and come downstairs again,
Bobby had gone. My dear, comforting Mrs. Waters had arrived and was
clucking round the kitchen like a plump Sussex hen. Coffee was brewing,
and a clutch of boiled eggs nestled under a tea cosy, beside a rackful of
toast. In the dining room, Robin—devastating as ever in a silk dressing
gown—was reading the morning paper. He jumped up as I came in.
“Good morning, Mrs. Westlake. What can I get you? Coffee, tea,
eggs?”
“I’ll serve myself, thank you, Robin,” I said.
He sat down again. When I had helped myself, he took a quick
glance round, as though to make sure we were alone, and then said, “I’m
afraid I owe you an apology for yesterday evening.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “If you and Sue
wanted to—”
“No, no. You don’t understand.” Again the furtive look round. “You
see, the reason we were so long over our drive was that Sue was telling me
about . . . ” He hesitated. “About the other Mr. Smith.”
“Bobby, you mean?”
“Yes. Now, I don’t want to alarm you, Mrs. Westlake, but just how
long have you known him? Have you checked up on his background and
his credentials? I was in Paris myself last week, and I know the sort of
undesirables who hang around international shows in the hope of meeting
a big man like your husband. Sue is distinctly worried about Smith, and
I don’t blame her.”
“Sue has taken a personal dislike to him,” I said. “That doesn’t make
him a criminal.”
“Of course it doesn’t. I’m not accusing anybody of anything,” said
Robin, rather hastily. “But I understand that he has shown a suspicious
interest in your husband’s stamp collection. Not to mention Sue’s
diamonds.”
“Sue’s—?” I began, astonished, and then I remembered our dinner in
Shinglesea. Of course Robin thought the jewels were hers. “He asked to
see Tom’s stamps, that’s all,” I said.
“Exactly. Now, what I’m going to suggest is that you’d be easier in
your mind if you turned the keys of the stamp collection and the jewel
cases over to me. It’s a man’s responsibility to look after valuables like
that. Sue absolutely agrees with me.”
“Certainly not!” I had blurted out the words before I could stop
myself. I gulped a bit, and then went on, more calmly, “I do appreciate
your offer, Robin, but I’m quite used to standing on my own feet, you
know.”
“Well, at least tell me where the keys are, so that I can keep an eye
on them. I noticed you didn’t put the stamp collection key back in its
usual place last night.”
“The keys are quite safe, thank you,” I said, hoping I sounded more
confident than I felt. “I think it’s better for all of us that nobody but
myself should know where they are.” Actually, they were in my sponge
bag.
“If you really feel like that . . .” said Robin, shaking his head
regretfully. And at that moment Sue appeared, looking ravishing in the
orange silk trousers and lilac shirt that I brought back from Italy in the
spring.
“Margie, darling,” she cried, “has Robin told you what I—?”
Fortunately, before she could get any further, Bobby came in, rubbing
his hands and enthusing about the weather. We all had breakfast.
While I was eating, I was also making a plan. I know I’m a
constitutional dimwit, so I dare say my strategy wasn’t up to much.
Napoleon or Alexander the Great would have done better. However, after
intensive brooding over two boiled eggs, I came to these conclusions:
1) One of the Smiths was an impostor.

2) I could see no way of ascertaining which.
3) The object of the impostor was robbery.
4) The object of the robbery was in the house, viz. Tom’s stamps or
my diamonds or both.
5) Nobody can steal a thing while separated from it by several miles
of Sussex.
6) We would therefore spend the day picnicking on the beach.
“I have decided,” I said, “that we will spend the day picnicking on the
beach.”
I didn’t exactly expect the others to fall over themselves with delight
at the idea, but I did think they might have shown a litde more polite en
thusiasm. However, my determination to keep both Smiths away from
Meadowcroft for as long as possible far outweighed any sensitive feelings
I might have had. I went ahead with my preparations regardless, and by
eleven o’clock we were rolling towards the coast—Sue and Robin in the
Jaguar, Bobby and myself in the runabout. I couldn’t have faced the
scarlet horror again to save my life. In the car Bobby made an attempt to
bring up the subject of Robin and his unreliability, but I was firm.
“I want to hear no more of that,” I said. “We’ve come out for a jolly
picnic, and a jolly picnic we’re jolly well going to have. So shut up.”
Well, it wasn’t all that jolly, but it might have been worse. The sun
shone, and the sea was smooth and blue, and the seagulls fooled about
catching crumbs in a distinctly diverting manner. We all swam and sun
bathed, and then I opened the vacuum flask and dished out ice-cold
martinis, and the atmosphere grew a little more relaxed.
Not for long, alas. Young Sue, in a euphorious state of mind and a
minuscule black bikini, had rashly decided to include even Bobby in the
sunshine of her smile. This, of course, revived all the miserable young
man’s ardor, with the result that he immediately tried to muscle in
between Robin and Sue. The effect of my carefully prepared picnic lunch
was quite spoiled by the fact that the two men were sniping at each other
verbally the whole time, as well as physically jockeying for position, which
made the whole party a bit restless. Afterwards, I managed to persuade
them both to go off for another swim while Sue and I took a nap. At least
that was the proposed program, but in fact I started pouring my heart out
to Sue the moment the men were out of earshot.
I told her about Tom’s letter, with its sinister P.S.; I told her about
Bobby’s suspicions and Robin’s sinister offer to look after the keys. 1
appealed to her to help me. Useless, of course. She was absolutely
furious.
“If anybody’s an impostor, it’s that frightful Bobby!” she said. “How
exactly like him, trying to blacken Robin’s character behind his back! Of
all the filthy, snide, low-down tricks . . . You wait. By the time I’ve
finished with that young man, he’ll wish he’d gone to Devil’s Island for
his holiday!”
“Do be reasonable, Sue,” I begged—but it was no good. However, by
pretty rigorous questioning, I was able to elicit some interesting
information not from her replies, but from her stubborn silences. It ap
peared that, in spite of all the time they had spent together, she knew as
little about Robin as when she first met him. He had not told her where
he worked, or what his job was. She did not know his address, or even
where he lived, although she had gathered that it was somewhere in
London. He had made no mention of parents, sisters, or brothers. The
only thing she had learned was that he did a lot of traveling, both in
England and on the continent—and this fact brought me no comfort.
By the time we got home, we were all fairly exhausted, what with the
fresh air, the hot sunshine, and the highly charged emotional atmosphere.
So it was not surprising that we all voted to call it a day quite soon after
supper and departed to our respective bedrooms.
I strung the keys of the stamp cabinet and my jewel case on a ribbon
round my neck, climbed into bed, and fell asleep almost at once. But a
couple of hours later I was awake again, tossing and turning and
brooding. I wasn’t really worried about the diamonds. I could see the
outline of the jewel case on my dressing table, faintly silhouetted against
the uncurtained window. Anyway, the diamonds were mine, and they
were well insured. Tom’s stamps, on the other hand, were quite a
different matter. A competent burglar could very easily pick the lock, and
some of the rarer specimens were virtually irreplaceable. I heard the hall
clock strike midnight, and then the half hour, and I could bear it no
longer. After all, I was responsible. I’d told Tom I would look after his
stamps, and I didn’t mean to let him down. I decided to go downstairs,
taking the jewel case with me, and sleep on the sofa beside the precious
collection.
The house was dark and sleeping as I tiptoed out of my room. I
slipped down the back stairs so as not to disturb the others, and for the
same reason I did not switch on any lights. I made my way through the
kitchen to the drawing room, groped my way to the sofa, stowed the jewel
box on the floor, and was about to settle down when a small, insistent
noise made me sit bolt upright, frozen with fright. I listened again.
There was no doubt about it. Someone was coming slowly and stealthily
down the main staircase and across the hall.
It was very dark in the drawing room, for the heavy damask curtains
were closely drawn. My eyes had become somewhat accustomed to the
gloom, but even so I could distinguish no more than the anonymous fig
ure of a man as he came slipping silently through the half-open doorway.
I sat rigid, not breathing. The man moved rather clumsily across the
room towards me, groping among the chairs and tables.
And then something else happened. More footsteps—louder this
time—and a second figure creeping in through the half-open door. A
moment of darkness and stillness. Then a step, a sudden crash as a table
overturned, and a man’s voice shouted, “Got you!”
All bedlam broke loose then. The dark room seemed full of flailing
arms and legs, snorts and grunts and shouts, the thud of falling furniture
and the tinkle of breaking ornaments. There was nothing for it but swift
action.
With my superior local knowledge, it was quite easy for me to make
my way to the door that led to the main hall, and neither of the
combatants was in any state to notice my movement. Once at the door,
I flung it open and switched on the light, as though 1 had just arrived
from upstairs. At the same moment, Sue came flying down the stairs like
a fugitive naiad in her pale green chiffon negligee. We stood together in
the doorway, watching with interest and apprehension as our two Mr.
Smiths rolled about on the floor, evidently bent on mutual destruction.
It was all over quite quickly. Robin was the stronger and fitter of the two,
and soon he had his rival securely pinioned, arms behind him, and was
sitting astride Bobby’s angrily writhing body.
“Well, Mrs. Westlake,” said Robin, only slightly out of breath, “what
did I tell you? I don’t think he’ll give you any more trouble. I suggest
that you ring the police at once.”
“Oh, Robin, you are wonderful,” said Sue.
“Mrs. Westlake,” came an indignant mutter from the floor. Bobby
was finding some difficulty in speaking through a mouthful of carpet,
“Mrs. Westlake! It’s all a mistake! I can explain—”
“Now, you two,” I said with as much authority as I could muster,
“will you kindly get up off the floor and sit down like reasonable human
beings and tell me what happened.”
Robin looked doubtful. “Is it safe to let him go?” he asked.
“I’ll take the responsibility,” I said. “Get up.”
The two of them climbed to their feet and dusted themselves off.
Fortunately Bobby was none the worse for his trouncing, and soon we
were all sitting round in armchairs, like a ghastly travesty of an ordinary
late-night party.
“Now,” I said, “I want both your stories. You first, Robin.”
“Very simple,” said Robin. “I was lying awake in bed when I heard
somebody moving about down here, and so I came down to investigate.
The room was pitch dark, but I could hear somebody breathing, and I
hadn’t been in here more than a few seconds before he attacked me.
Smith—if that is his name, which I doubt—obviously decided that attack
was the best form of defense.”
“A pack of lies!” shouted Bobby. “I’ve told you my suspicions
already, Mrs. Westlake, and I thought it probable that Smith—if that is
his name, which I doubt—would make an attempt at burglary tonight.
So instead of going to bed, I put out my light and kept watch from my
room. My door was very slightly ajar, and I could see his door. Sure
enough, soon after half-past twelve I saw him come out and sneak
downstairs. So I followed him, and caught him in here, red-handed. The
police should be informed at once.”
It was at that moment that Robin spotted the jewel case on the floor.
“That settles it,” he shouted. “Don’t you see? He’d already taken the
jewel case from upstairs!”
“I hadn’t! It was you—!”
“How could Robin have taken the jewel case,” Sue chimed in, “if you
watched him come out of his room and go downstairs?”
“Exactly!” said Robin, triumphantly. “Mrs. Westlake, I really advise
you to call the police.”
“So do I,” said Sue.
“And so do I,” said Bobby.
They were all looking at me. There was a terrible silence and then it
was broken by the loveliest sound I’ve ever heard in my life. The banging
of the front door, heavy steps in the hall, and Tom’s voice calling, “Hey,
Margie! Are you still up?”
I was out into the hall like a rocketing pheasant, and the next
moment my arms were round Tom’s neck and my nose firmly embedded
in his shift front. He seemed surprised.
“Here, I say, no need to overdo it, old girl,” he said, laughing. “Yes,
I got through in Lisbon by five o’clock, grabbed a plane at eight, picked
up my car at London Airport, and here I am.”
I didn’t say a word. I just propelled him into the drawing room. The
two young men were both on their feet, and 1 couldn’t help noticing that
Robin had gone very pale. Sue must have noticed it, too, because she had
edged over and was standing beside him in a protective sort of way, like
a tigress with a brood of cubs.
“Hello, young Sue,” said Tom cheerfully. “Having a good holiday?”
He turned to Bobby. “Ah, my young friend from Amalgamated Plastics.
So you found your way here. I hope Margie’s been looking after you.”
“Mrs. Westlake has been very kind,” said Bobby, with a nasty
emphasis.
Tom turned to me. “Young Bobby Smith,” he said, “is a future
captain of the plastics industry, and I’d say the same even if his father
weren’t the chairman and owner of Amalgamated Plastics. The boy’s
starting at the bottom and working up, and a very good thing, too. Your
father tells me you’re living on your salary,” he added, to Bobby.
“That’s right, sir.”
“Most creditable,” said Tom, “for a young fellow who must be a
millionaire in his own right already, eh?”
I closed my eyes. I heard Sue give a sort of strangled gasp. And then
1 opened my eyes again, and saw that Tom had turned to look at Robin.
That young man was standing very upright and swaying slightly, as
though facing a firing squad.
“Well,” said Tom, cheerfully, “and who’s this? Margie, aren’t you
going to introduce me—?” Then, suddenly, he stopped dead. And began
to laugh. “Good lord,” he said. “If it isn’t Robin.” He slapped Robin
affectionately on the back. “Why the fancy dress, eh? Come into money,
or something?” Robin went from white to pink and back again, but said
nothing. Tom said to me, “Didn’t recognize the young scamp for a
moment. Last time I saw him, in Paris, he was wearing dirty jeans, a shift
covered in paint, and a rather offensive beard. His usual rig.”
“So . . . you do know him . . .?” I began.
“Certainly I do. Known him for years. Son of one of my oldest
friends. You remember Valentine Smith.”
“The artist!” gasped Sue.
“That’s right. Could have been a big businessman, old Val, but
chucked it all to go beachcombing and painting. And Robin’s followed in
his footsteps. How’s the old man, Robin? Still stony broke and enjoying
it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Robin, in a small voice.
“Well,” Tom went on, “I’ll be frank with you, old lad, I’m glad to see
you smartening yourself up a bit. Life in a garret on bread and cheese is
all very well, but . . . So you’ve got yourself a steady job at last, have
you?”
“Of course he has,” said Sue. She was almost shouting, “He’s got an
E-type Jag and he stays in the best hotels and—”
“Please, Sue,” said Robin. He sounded as though he had a fishbone
stuck in his throat. “I think . . . I’d better explain. . .”
“Explain what?”
“I haven’t got a job. I haven’t got any money. The Jag isn’t mine—I
borrowed it. You see, last week I won five hundred pounds with a
Premium Bond, and—”
“A Premium Bond?” said Sue, as if she’d never heard of the things.
“That’s right. And a pal of mine bet me I couldn’t carry it off for a
week—staying in a snob hotel, and everything. So I borrowed the car,
bought some clothes, and came down here—”
“Why down here?” Sue was ominously quiet.
“Well, I knew my father’s old friend Tom Westlake had his country
house here—”
I could keep silent no longer. “I see,” I said. “I see it all very clearly.
You met Tom in Paris, and he told you that I would be here with my
sister. You reckoned that Tom’s sister-in-law would be a good catch. You
came here deliberately fortune-hunting—”
“Don’t say that,” pleaded Robin. “It sounds so terrible. It was just
a joke. I’d never met a rich, beautiful, spoilt girl, dripping in diamonds,
and I thought it would be a bit of fun to find one, and lead her on, and
then tell her I was only a penniless artist after all. I never reckoned that
she’d be a person like Sue—”
“Well,” I said, with triumph, “your plan misfired, didn’t it? Because
it may interest you to know that the diamonds and the mink and
everything else are mine. Sue teaches English in a primary school in
Clapham, and lives in a bedsitter, and—”
There didn’t seem much point in going on because I had lost my
audience. Sue and Robin were looking at each other in a starry-eyed sort
of way, and the next thing I knew they were locked in the sort of embrace
that was obviously going to go on for a very long time. There didn’t seem
anything for it but to melt tactfully into the kitchen and prepare drinks
all round.
I’d hustled Tom and Bobby out of the room, and was just leaving
myself, when Sue looked at me over Robin’s shoulder. “You see, Margie
darling,” she said, “I knew he was too nice to be rich!”
First publication unknown, but around 1961

WHO KILLED FATHER CHRISTMAS?
U S' ood morning, Mr. Borrowdale. Nippy out, isn’t it? You’re
I -^-in early, I see.” Little Miss MacArthur spoke with her usual
brisk brightness, which failed to conceal both envy and
dislike. She was unpacking a consignment of stout Teddy bears in the
stockroom behind the toy department at Barnum and Thrums, the
London store. “Smart as ever, Mr. Borrowdale,” she added, jealously.
I laid down my curly-brimmed bowler hat and cane and took off my
British warm overcoat. I don’t mind admitting that I do take pains to
dress as well as 1 can, and for some reason it seems to infuriate the Miss
MacArthurs of the world.
She prattled on, “Nice looking, these Teddies, don’t you think? Very
reasonable, too. Made in Hong Kong, that’ll be why. 1 think I’ll take one
for my sister’s youngest.”
The toy department at Bamum’s has little to recommend it to anyone
over the age of twelve, and normally it is tranquil and little populated.
However, at Christmastime it briefly becomes the bustling heart of the
great shop, and also provides useful vacation jobs for chaps like me who
wish to earn some money during the weeks before the university term
begins in January. Gone, I fear, are the days when undergraduates were
the gilded youth of England. We all have to work our passages these
days, and sometimes it means selling toys.
One advantage of the job is that employees—even temporaries like
me—are allowed to buy goods at a considerable discount, which helps
with the Christmas gift problem. As a matter of fact, I had already
decided to buy a Teddy bear for one of my nephews, and I mentioned as
much.
“Well, you’d better take it right away,” remarked Miss MacArthur,
“because I heard Mr. Harrington say he was taking two, and 1 think
Disaster has her eye on one.” Disaster was the unfortunate but inevitable
nickname of Miss Aster, who had been with the store for thirty-one years
but still made mistakes with her stockbook. I felt sorry for the old girl.
I had overheard a conversation between Mr. Harrington, the department
manager, and Mr. Andrews, the deputy store manager, and so I knew—
WHO KILLED FATHER CHISTMAS? 65
but Disaster didn’t—that she would be getting the sack as soon as the
Christmas rush was over.
Meanwhile, Miss MacArthur was arranging the bears on a shelf. They
sat there in grinning rows, brown and woolly, with boot-button eyes and
red ribbons round their necks.
It was then that Father Christmas came in. He’d been in the
cloakroom changing into his costume—white beard, red nose, and all. His
name was Bert Denman. He was a cheery soul who got on well with the
kids, and he’d had the Father Christmas job at Barnum’s each of the three
years I’d been selling there. Now he was carrying his sack, which he filled
every morning from the cheap items in the stockroom. A visit to Father
Christmas cost 50 pence, so naturally the gift that was fished out of the
sack couldn’t be worth more than 20 pence. However, to my surprise, he
went straight over to the row of Teddy bears and picked one off the shelf.
For some reason, he chose the only one with a blue instead of a red
ribbon.
Miss MacArthur was on to him in an instant. “What d ’you think
you’re doing, Mr. Denman? Those Teddies aren’t in your line at all—
much too dear. One pound ninety, they are.”
Father Christmas did not answer, and suddenly I realized that it was
not Bert Denman under the red robe. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Who are
you? You’re not our Father Christmas.”
He turned to face me, the Teddy bear in his hand. “That’s all right,”
he said. “Charlie Burrows is my name. I live in the same lodging house
with Bert Denman. He was taken poorly last night, and I’m standing in
for him.”
“Well,” said Miss MacArthur. “How very odd. Does Mr. Harrington
know?”
“Of course he does,” said Father Christmas.
As if on cue, Mr. Harrington himself came hurrying into the stock-
room. He always hurried everywhere, preceded by his small black mus
tache. He said, “Ah, there you are, Burrows. Fill up your sack, and I’ll
explain the job to you. Denman told you about the Teddy bear, did he?”
“Yes, Mr. Harrington.”
“Father Christmas can’t give away an expensive bear like that, Mr.
Harrington,” Miss MacArthur objected.
“Now, now, Miss MacArthur, it’s all arranged,” said Harrington
fussily. “A customer came in yesterday and made a special request that
Father Christmas should give his small daughter a Teddy bear this
morning. I knew this consignment was due on the shelves, so I promised
him one. It’s been paid for. The important thing, Burrows, is to remem
ber the child’s name. It’s . . . er . . . I have it written down somewhere.”
“Annabel Whitworth,” said Father Christmas. “Four years old, fair
hair, will be brought in by her mother.”
“I see that Denman briefed you well,” said Mr. Harrington, with an
icy smile. “Well, now, I’ll collect two bears for myself— one for my son
and one for my neighbor’s boy—and then I’ll show you the booth.”
Miss Aster arrived just then. She and Miss MacArthur finished
uncrating the bears and took one out to put on display next to a female
doll that, among other endearing traits, actually wet its diaper. Mr.
Harrington led our surrogate Father Christmas to his small canvas booth,
and the rest of us busied and braced ourselves for the moment when the
great glass doors opened and the floodtide was let in. The toy department
of a big store on December 23 is no place for weaklings.
It is curious that even such an apparently random stream of humanity
as Christmas shoppers displays a pattern of behavior. The earliest arrivals
in the toy department are office workers on their way to their jobs. The
actual toddlers, bent on an interview with Father Christmas, do not
appear until their mothers have had time to wash up breakfast, have a bit
of a go around the house, and catch the bus from Kensington or the tube
from Uxbridge.
On that particular morning it was just twenty-eight minutes past ten
when I saw Disaster, who was sitting in a decorated cash desk labeled
“The Elfin Grove,” take 50 pence from the first parent to usher her child
into Santa’s booth. For about two minutes the mother waited, chatting
quietly with Disaster. Then a loudly wailing infant emerged from the
booth.
The mother snatched her up, and—with that sixth sense that mothers
everywhere seem to develop)—interpreted the incoherent screams. “She
says that Father Christmas won’t talk to her. She says he’s asleep.”
It was clearly an emergency, even if a minor one, and Disaster was
already showing signs of panic. I excused myself from my customer—a
middle-aged gentleman who was playing with an electric train set—and
went over to see what I could do. By then, the mother was indignant.
“Fifty pence and the old man sound asleep and drunk as like as not,
and at half-past ten in the morning. Disgraceful, I call it. And here’s
poor little Poppy what had been looking forward to—”
I rushed into Father Christmas’s booth. The man who called himself
Charlie Burrows was slumped forward in his chair, looking for all the
world as if he were asleep; but when I shook him, his head lolled horribly,
and it was obvious that he was more than sleeping. The red robe
concealed the blood until it made my hand sticky. Father Christmas had
been stabbed in the back, and he was certainly dead.
I acted as fast as I could. First of all, I told Disaster to put up the
CLOSED sign outside Santa’s booth. Then I smoothed down Poppy’s
mother by leading her to a counter where I told her she could select any
toy up to one pound and have it free. Under pretext of keeping records,
1 got her name and address. Finally I cornered Mr. Harrington in his
office and told him the news.
I thought he was going to faint. “Dead? Murdered? Are you sure,
Mr. Borrowdale?”
“Quite sure, I’m afraid. You’d better telephone the police, Mr.
Harrington.”
“The police! In Bamum’s! What a terrible thing! I’ll telephone the
deputy store manager first and then the police.”
As a matter of fact, the police were surprisingly quick and discreet.
A plainclothes detective superintendent and his sergeant, a photographer,
and the police doctor arrived, not in a posse, but as individuals, unnoticed
among the crowd. They assembled in the booth, where the deputy
manager—Mr. Andrews—and Mr. Harrington and I were waiting for
them.
The superintendent introduced himself—his name was Armitage
—and inspected the body with an expression of cold fury on his face that
I couldn’t quite understand, although the reason became clear later. He
said very little. After some tedious formalities Armitage indicated that
the body might be removed.
“What’s the least conspicuous way to do it?” he asked.
“You can take him out through the back of the booth,” I said. “The
canvas overlaps right behind Santa’s chair. The door to the staff quarters
and the stockroom is just opposite, and from there you can take the
service lift to the goods entrance in the mews.”
The doctor and the photographer between them carried off their grim
burden on a collapsible stretcher, and Superintendent Armitage began
asking questions about the arrangements in the Father Christmas booth.
I did the explaining, since Mr. Harrington seemed to be verging on
hysteria.
Customers paid their 50 pence to Disaster in the Elfin Grove, and
then the child—usually alone—was propelled through the door of the
booth and into the presence of Father Christmas, who sat in his canvas-
backed director’s chair on a small dais facing the entrance, with his sack
of toys beside him. The child climbed onto his knee, whispered its
Christmas wishes, and was rewarded with a few friendly words and a
small gift from Santa’s sack.
What was not obvious to the clientele was the back entrance to the
booth, which enabled Father Christmas to slip in and out unobserved.
He usually had his coffee break at about 11:15, unless there was a very
heavy rush of business. Disaster would pick a moment when custom
seemed slow, put up the CLOSED notice, and inform Bert that he could
take a few minutes off. When he returned, he pressed a button by his
chair that rang a buzzer in the cashier’s booth. Down would come the
notice, and Santa was in business again.
Before Superintendent Armitage could comment on my remarks, Mr.
Harrington broke into a sort of despairing wail. “It must have been one
of the customers!” he cried.
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Armitage. “This is an inside job. He was
stabbed in the back with a long thin blade of some sort. The murderer
must have opened the back flap and stabbed him clean through the
canvas back of his chair. That must have been someone who knew the
exact arrangements. The murderer then used the back way to enter the
booth—”
“I don’t see how you can say that!” Harrington’s voice was rising
dangerously. “If the man was stabbed from outside, what makes you
think anybody came into the booth?”
“I’ll explain that in a minute, sir.”
Ignoring Armitage, Harrington went on. “In any case, he wasn’t our
regular Father Christmas! None of us had ever seen him before. Why on
earth would anybody kill a man that nobody knew?”
Armitage and the deputy manager exchanged glances. Then Armitage
said, “I knew him, sir. Very well. Charlie Burrows was one of our finest
plainclothes narcotics officers.”
Mr. Harrington had gone green. “You mean he was a policeman?”
“Exactly, sir. I’d better explain. A little time ago we got a tipoff from
an informer that an important consignment of high-grade heroin was to
be smuggled in from Hong Kong in a consignment of Christmas toys.
Teddy bears, in fact. The drug was to be in the Barnum and Thrums
carton, hidden inside a particular Teddy bear, which would be dis
tinguished by having a blue ribbon around its neck instead of a red one.”
“Surely,” I said, “you couldn’t get what you call an important
consignment inside one Teddy bear, even a big one.”
Armitage sighed. “Shows you aren’t familiar with the drug scene, sir,”
he said, “Why, half a pound of pure high-grade heroin is worth a fortune
on the streets.”
With a show of bluster Harrington said, “If you knew this, Super
intendent, why didn’t you simply intercept the consignment and
confiscate the drug? Look at the trouble that’s been—”
Armitage interrupted him. “If you’d just hear me out, sir. What I’ve
told you was the sum total of our information. We didn’t know who in
Barnum’s was going to pick up the heroin, or how or where it was to be
disposed of. We’re more interested in getting the people—the pushers—
than confiscating the cargo. So I had a word with Mr. Andrews here, and
he kindly agreed to let Charlie take on the Father Christmas job. And
Charlie set a little trap. Unfortunately, he paid for it with his life.” There
was an awkward silence.
He went on. “Mr. Andrews told us that the consignment had arrived
and was to be unpacked today. We know that staff get first pick, as it
were, at new stock, and we were naturally interested to see who would
select the bear with the blue ribbon. It was Charlie’s own idea to concoct
a story about a special present for a little girl—”
“You mean, that wasn’t true?” Harrington was outraged. “But I
spoke to the customer myself!”
“Yes, sir. That’s to say, you spoke to another of our people, who was
posing as the little girl’s father.”
“You’re very thorough,” Harrington said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Well, as I was saying, Charlie made a point
of selecting the bear with the blue ribbon and taking it off in his sack. He
knew that whoever was picking up the drop would have to come and get
it—or try to. You see, if we’d just allowed one of the staff to select it, that
person could simply have said that it was pure coincidence—blue was
such a pretty color. Difficult to prove criminal knowledge. You
understand?”
Nobody said anything. With quite a sense of dramatic effect
Armitage reached down into Santa’s sack and pulled out a Teddy bear.
It had a blue ribbon round its neck.
In a voice tense with strain Mr. Andrews said, “So the murderer
didn’t get away with the heroin. I thought you said—”
Superintendent Armitage produced a knife from his pocket. “We’ll
see,” he said. “With your permission, I’m going to open this bear.”
“Of course.”
The knife ripped through the nobbly brown fabric, and a lot of
stuffing fell out. Nothing else. Armitage made a good job of it. By the
time he had finished, the bear was in shreds: and nothing had emerged
from its interior except kapok.
Armitage surveyed the wreckage with a sort of bleak satisfaction.
Suddenly brisk, he said, “Now. Which staff members took bears from the
stockroom this morning?”
“I did,” 1 said at once.
“Anybody else?”
There was a silence. I said, “I believe you took two, didn’t you, Mr.
Harrington?”
“I . . . em . . . yes, now that you mention it.”
“Miss MacArthur took one,” I said. “It was she who unpacked the
carton. She said that Dis—Miss Aster—was going to take one.”
“I see.” Armitage was making notes. “I presume you each signed for
your purchases, and that the bears are now with your things in the staff
cloakroom.” Without waiting for an answer he turned to me. “How
many of these people saw Burrows select the bear with the blue ribbon?”
“All of us,” I said. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Harrington?”
Harrington just nodded. He looked sick.
“Well, then,” said Armitage, “I shall have to inspect all the bears that
you people removed from the stockroom.”
There was an element of black humor in the parade of the Teddies,
with their inane grins and knowing, beady eyes: but as one after the other
was dismembered, nothing more sensational was revealed than a growing
pile of kapok. The next step was to check the stockbook numbers—and
sure enough, one bear was missing.
It was actually Armitage’s sergeant who found it. It had been ripped
open and shoved behind a pile of boxes in the stockroom in a hasty
attempt at concealment. There was no ribbon round its neck, and it was
constructed very differently from the others. The kapok merely served as
a thin layer of stuffing between the fabric skin and a spherical womb of
pink plastic in the toy’s center. This plastic had been cut open and was
empty. It was abundantly clear what it must have contained.
“Well,” said the Superintendent, “it’s obvious what happened. The
murderer stabbed Burrows, slipped into the booth, and substituted an
innocent Teddy bear for the loaded one, at the same time changing the
neck ribbon. But he—or she—didn’t dare try walking out of the store
with the bear, not after a murder. So, before Charlie’s body was found,
the murderer dismembered the bear, took out the heroin, and hid it.” He
sighed again. “I’m afraid this means a body search. I’ll call the Yard for
a police matron for the ladies.”
It was all highly undignified and tedious, and poor old Disaster nearly
had a seizure, despite the fact that the police matron seemed a thoroughly
nice and kind woman. When it was all over, however, and our persons
and clothing had been practically turned inside out, still nothing had been
found. The four of us were required to wait in the staff restroom while
exhaustive searches were made for both the heroin and the weapon.
Disaster was in tears, Miss MacArthur was loudly indignant and
threatened to sue the police for false arrest, and Mr. Harrington devel
oped what he called a nervous stomach, on account, he said, of the way
the toy department was being left understaffed and unsupervised on one
of the busiest days of the year.
At long last Superintendent Armitage came in. He said, “Nothing.
Abso-bloody-lutely nothing. Well, I can’t keep you people here in
definitely. 1 suggest you all go out and get yourselves some lunch.” He
sounded very tired and cross and almost human.
With considerable relief we prepared to leave the staffroom. Only
Mr. Harrington announced that he felt too ill to eat anything, and that
he would remain in the department. The Misses MacArthur and Aster
left together. I put on my coat and took the escalator down to the ground
floor, among the burdened, chattering crowd.
I was out in the brisk air of the street when 1 heard Armitage’s voice
behind me.
“Just one moment, if you please, Mr. Borrowdale.”
I turned. “Yes, Superintendent. Can I help you?”
“You’re up at the university, aren’t you, sir? Just taken a temporary
job at Barnum’s for the vacation?”
“That’s right.”
“Do quite a bit of fencing, don’t you?”
He had my cane out of my hand before I knew what was happening.
The sergeant, an extraordinarily tough and unattractive character, showed
surprising dexterity and speed in getting an arm grip on me. Armitage
had unscrewed the top of the cane, and was whistling in a quiet,
appreciative manner. “Very nice. Very nice little sword stick. Something
like a stiletto. I don’t suppose Charlie felt a thing.”
“Now, look here,” I said. “You can’t make insinuations like that. Just
because I’m known as a bit of dandy, and carry a sword stick, that’s no
reason—”
“A dandy, eh?” said Armitage thoughtfully. He looked me up and
down in a curious manner, as if he thought something was missing.
It was at that moment that Miss MacArthur suddenly appeared round
the corner of the building.
“Oh, Mr. Borrowdale, look what I found! Lying down in the mews by
the goods entrance! It must have fallen out of the staffroom window!
Lucky I’ve got sharp eyes—it was behind a rubbish bin, I might easily
have missed it!” And she handed me my bowler hat.
That is to say, she would have done if Armitage hadn’t intercepted it.
It didn’t take him more than five seconds to find the packages of white
powder hidden between the hard shell of the hat and the oiled-silk lining.
Armitage said, “So you were going to peddle this stuff to young men
and women at the university, were you? Charming, I must say. Now you
can come back to the Yard and tell us all about your employers—if you
want a chance at saving your own neck, that is.”
M iss MacArthur was goggling at me. “Oh, Mr. Borrowdale!” she
squeaked. “Have I gone and done something wrong?”
I never did like Miss MacArthur.
Whodunnit?, 1980
BEYOND THE REEF
I
t was the best sort of Caribbean day—and days do not come much
better than that. Brilliant sun sparkled on brilliant sea, white sails
leaned to a briskly steady breeze, and on the crescent of the white-
coral sand beach in front of the Hawksworth Inn, sunbathers roasted
themselves to a golden brown, basted with coconut oil, while swimmers
splashed merrily and schools of snorkelers explored the multi-colored
wonders of the reef.
All this, however, brought no comfort to Claire Hawksworth, as she
sat in her office at the hotel, gazing moodily out at the gardens ablaze
with hibiscus, toward the sea beyond.
At last she said, “She can’t live forever.”
“She seems to be having a good try at it,” remarked her companion,
Dave Brigham. He was the manager of the Hawksworth Inn, and Claire
the widowed owner. They were referring to Miss Alicia Hawksworth,
aunt of Claire’s late husband Giles—an extremely wealthy old lady who
made no secret of the fact that she had willed all her money to Claire and
the Hawksworth Inn.
Claire sighed, remembering. Everything had started off so well, from
the time when she had become secretary to and finally married Giles
Hawksworth in London fifteen years ago. Giles was a chartered
accountant—not, Claire suspected, a brilliant one, but full of charm and
with Aunt Alicia always in the background to provide. Yes, life had been
fun and uncomplicated then—parties, shopping sprees, Caribbean
holidays.
Then, after five years of marriage, Giles—still only in his thirties—had
developed rheumatoid arthritis. The pain grew more severe, he became
less and less mobile, and he reacted badly to the drugs prescribed. If only,
said his doctors, he could move out of cold, clammy London to a
permanently warm climate, if possible by the sea.
Naturally both Claire and Giles had thought at once of their favorite
island, and Aunt Alicia was enthusiastic. Giles could not bear to be idle
for the rest of his life, and there would hardly be enough work on Palm
Island to keep an accountant busy; but there was a small hotel for sale.
Aunt Alicia gave Giles the money, and he bought the place. Her only
condition was that the name should be changed from Smugglers Cove to
the Hawksworth Inn. Claire, twenty-five years old and very pretty, would
make a perfect hostess, while Giles’s expertise in accountancy would take
care of the business side of things. An ideal arrangement.
Aunt Alicia’s insistence on the change of name was significant.
Unmarried herself, she had what amounted to a near-mania about the
Hawksworth family. She had only two surviving relatives—her late
brother’s sons, Giles and Patrick. Fortunately for Claire and Giles, Aunt
Alicia had always disliked Patrick. First, she had reproached him bitterly
for not marrying, and then—when he finally did—had taken a violent
dislike to his wife, Sheila. This was mainly but not entirely because
Sheila from the outset had announced her intention of remaining
childless. She was a busy journalist, Patrick a successful lawyer, they had
all the money they needed, and neither wanted a family. For some years
Aunt Alicia had not written to or visited Patrick and Sheila.
Claire knew that Alicia Hawksworth had never really forgiven her,
Claire, for not having children either even though doctors had proved that
the fault did not lie with her. Nevertheless, making the best of a bad
situation, Aunt Alicia had left her fortune to Giles, and the Hawksworth
Inn was to provide the family with at least a sort of immortality.
At first the venture had prospered. The Inn was charming—a cluster
of individual cottages scattered in tropical gardens around a beautiful and
protected beach. Giles renovated the cottages, engaged a fine chef, and
hired the island’s best gardeners to turn the grounds into a showplace.
Caribbean tourism was on the upswing, and the Hawksworth Inn swung
up with it. It quickly gained a reputation among rich and discriminating
Americans, and was nearly always full. Needless to say, Giles kept the
accounts impeccably, and soon the Inn was making a good profit.
Once a year, in February, Aunt Alicia came out and stayed for a
month in the finest of the beachside cottages. She would have spent
more time there, she confided to Claire, had it not been for her cats,
whom she missed grievously, even though they were left in the loving and
capable hands of her housekeeper, Mrs. Bradley. Yes, those had been
good days, too.
And then, two years ago and with devastating suddenness, Giles died
of a heart attack, and Claire was left to run the Hawksworth Inn on her
own. Aunt Alicia had assured her that she need not worry. The money
that would have come to Giles would be hers eventually, so that she could
always carry on the Inn. If Patrick and that selfish, spoiled wife of his
had had children, things might have been different, but now it was Claire
and the Inn who were to perpetuate the name of Hawksworth.
BEYOND THE REEF 75
It is possible to feel sorry for Claire, and to understand how she came
to get involved with Dave Brigham. There are Dave Brighams all over the
Caribbean—white men, drifters, superficially attractive, living by their
wits, dropouts from the workaday world. A rich, attractive widow with
a hotel of her own was exactly what Dave was looking for. He became
first her friend, then her lover, and finally her manager.
Claire had been coping as best she could with the complications of
hotel finance, but Dave assured her that he would take all that
burdensome work off her shoulders. He did. He also took the profits,
made a horrendous mess of management, and became his own best
customer at the bar. Soon the hotel, although outwardly prosperous, was
in dire financial straits. Claire did not dare appeal to Aunt Alicia, and so
reluctantly fell in with Dave’s scheme to raise a mortgage. And another.
And another. Now things were really desperate, and the only thing that
could save the Inn was Aunt Alicia’s money. She was eighty-five and
could not live forever—but, as Dave remarked, she was having a good try
at it.
Alicia Hawksworth was a spry, wiry, featherweight old lady, full of
energy and fit as a fiddle. Every morning while she was at the Inn she
took a swim before breakfast, jogged on the beach before lunch, and took
another swim after her short postprandial siesta. Claire could see her
now, wading skinnily out of the water and onto the beach. There seemed
no reason why she should not live for another twenty years. Still, at the
very worst, Aunt Alicia and her money were still there. As a last resort,
Claire could confess her mismanagement and her financial predicament
(no mention of her personal relationship with Dave, of course). Surely
Aunt Alicia would not let the Inn die.
The postal system of remote islands is inclined to be primitive.
Letters from Europe and the United States arrive by a series of carriers,
starting off with jet airliners, and ending up with unpredictable small
boats. However, after about two weeks, they generally turn up around six
o’clock in the evening.
It was before the mail had come in—at about a quarter to six—that
Claire came into the bar to find Aunt Alicia sitting at a table with a
couple of wealthy American holiday-makers with whom she had struck up
a friendship. There was nothing odd about this, except perhaps that the
American gentleman was just replacing a gold ballpoint pen in his shirt
pocket, and that Aunt Alicia was tucking a letter of some sort into a large
Air Mail envelope. However, Alicia started almost guiltily when Claire
came in, then murmured thanks to her American friends, rose to her feet
and trotted over to Claire.
“My dear,” she said. “Such news! I have been looking for you to tell
you but you were not in your office.”
“I was—checking supplies,” said Claire.
“Well, now, let us go to your office and 1 will explain. It is so
exciting! I know you will be as pleased as I am.”
In the office Aunt Alicia said breathlessly, “This afternoon I received
a telephone call from Patrick. Your brother-in-law, you know.”
Claire just looked at her. Alicia went on, “The most wonderful news!
The thing I have been waiting for all my life, and never thought would
happen. Sheila has had a baby! A son! Patrick telephoned me at home,
and Mrs. Bradley gave him this number.”
Still Claire found nothing to say.
“Now, Claire dear, I don’t want you to be upset, and I know you will
understand that the Hawksworth money belongs by moral right to the
Hawksworth heir. And I can see that you have no need of it—your hotel
is running splendidly, my dear. You must be making a very good profit.
So I have written to Patrick and Sheila telling them that everything I
have—well, almost everything—will be put in trust for the baby. And I
have written to Mr. Bridgenorth, my solicitor, changing my will. You do
understand, don’t you, my dear?”
Faintly Claire said, “I thought a will had to be drawn up by a lawyer
“Oh, no, dear Claire. This is quite legal. I got those two nice
Americans to witness my signature. It may not be written on the usual
legal form, but I can assure you that it is a valid will. It will go off on the
boat tomorrow morning, and will certainly reach England before I do.”
Miss Hawksworth was on the second day of her holiday. “You do see
why I must do this, Claire dear? Naturally, you will get something—three
thousand and some of my jewelry
Claire forced her frozen face into a smile. Three thousand. She
needed at least fifty thousand. “Of course I understand, Aunt Alicia. I
must write and congratulate Patrick and Sheila.”
Aunt Alicia smiled indulgently. “I knew you would understand, my
dear. Patrick was quite droll on the telephone,” she went on. “He kept
saying ‘Sheila’s furious. It was just a mistake, but we didn’t find out in
time.’ Just a mistake, indeed!”
“A mistake, indeed,” thought Claire grimly. Aloud she said, “Well,
I’d better go and see what’s happening in the kitchen.”
Later, after Aunt Alicia had gone to bed, Claire walked past the desk
where guests left their mail to be stamped and collected by the early boat.
There were three letters in Aunt Alicia’s characteristic hand. One to Mr.
BEYOND THE REEF 77
and Mrs. Patrick Hawksworth. One to H. Bridgenorth Esq., of Messrs.
Bridgenorth, Simpson and Penworthy. And one to Mrs. Bradley at Aunt
Alicia’s home address. Let that one go—having a lovely time, hope the
cats are well. Claire glanced quickly around to make sure that nobody
was in sight, and slipped the other two letters into her pocket. Then she
went to find Dave.
“You had the sense to take the letters?” was his first question.
“Of course.”
“The mails take so long, she won’t expect a reply to reach her here.
But suppose she phones or sends a telegram?”
Claire shook her head. “Not legally binding,” she said. “But that
document would be. A will can be written on anything, so long as it’s
dated and witnessed and states that it supersedes all previous wills.” She
half smiled. “I went through it all when Giles died. I know.”
“Well,” said Dave, very matter-of-fact, “it’s perfectly obvious that
Miss Alicia Hawksworth must not go back to England—ever again.”
“I don’t want to think about it,” Claire said.
“But you must, my darling. It’s the only way. After all, she’s eighty-
five. Nobody will be surprised. The only questions are—how and when?”
“We don’t want to get the hotel a bad reputation,” said Claire.
“Exactly. Which rules out poison or a boating accident. If only she
were a bit frailer, to make it more believable . . . ” Dave was pacing up
and down the small office. “She’s so damn fit. All this swimming and—”
He stopped abruptly. “Swimming. That’s it. Anybody who goes swim
ming before breakfast at her age, ignores the signs, and goes beyond the
reef—”
Claire said, “She’s already made a lot of friends among the guests
here. They know she really only goes paddling. Best leave it until—let
me see—” She consulted the wall chart which showed dates of bookings.
“Sunday morning, two weeks from now. All the people she knows will be
leaving by Saturday, and a new lot arriving on Sunday. But how—?”
“You’ve still got those pills, haven’t you? The ones the doctor gave
you to help you sleep after Giles died?”
“Yes.” Claire’s voice was a whisper.
“Half a dozen should do it. Give me the pills and the letters—which
I’ll burn. Leave it to me.”
So Claire—who had always been a practical girl—handed over the
sleeping pills and the letters and left it to Dave. In fact, after two weeks
she had almost—but not quite—forgotten that Aunt Alicia was to be
drowned on Sunday morning.
It was almost unbelievably simple. Dave, who frequently acted as
barman, administered the pills to Aunt Alicia in a final bedtime drink
concocted with so many aromatic West Indian spices that any bitter taste
was completely masked. When he got to the cottage at five a.m.—how
clever Giles had been to insure absolute privacy for every unit—Aunt
Alicia was in a deep sleep.
It was unpleasant but not difficult to remove her nightdress and get
her into a swimsuit. Light as a leaf, he carried her to the water, and swam
with her past the notice which said: SWIMMERS. DANGER. DO NOT
GO BEYOND THIS POINT. In other words, beyond the protective reef.
Then he held her under for long enough. More than long enough.
Afterward he went back to his cottage for another hour’s sleep.
It was one of the breakfast waitresses who first remarked that Aunt
Alicia was missing. “Miss Hawksworth not having breakfast today?” she
asked Dave, who was always up and about early.
“Doesn’t seem like it. Having a lie-in for once,” he replied.
At nine o’clock, as usual, Claire appeared. In front of several of the
staff and guests Dave said to her, “Your aunt seems to be sleeping late.
Nobody’s seen her.”
Claire’s brow wrinkled. “That’s funny,” she said. “She never misses
her morning swim. Maybe I’d better go down to the cottage and see.”
Three minutes later she was back. “I can’t understand it. Her night
dress is on the bed, but she’s not there. I’ve told her and told her not to
go swimming too far out in the early morning, when there’s nobody else
on the beach . . . ”
Very soon it was all over the hotel. Poor Mrs. Hawksworth. This old
aunt of hers, eighty-five, mind you, insisted on going for an early swim
and just hasn’t come back . . . what a terrible thing . . .
The police were called, and the Coast Guard. The body was found
the next day, washed up by the tide on Great Seal Island, just across the
strait. Coroner’s inquest. Accidental death by drowning. Body by then
unsuitable for shipping home. A dignified burial at sea. Announcement
in the London Times. Telegrams to Patrick and Sheila and Mrs. Bradley.
Claire and Dave decided to do strictly nothing about making contact
with Mr. Bridgenorth. Mustn’t seem greedy. Wills take some time to be
probated in England, nothing to worry about, the news will come sooner
or later.
After a couple of weeks, letters of condolence began to arrive from
England. One of the first was from Mrs. Bradley, the housekeeper.
BEYOND THE REEF 79
Dear Mrs. Hawksworth,
Oh, what a shockyour telegram gave me. Poor Miss Alicia—but
then, she was getting on in years, had to be expected I suppose. I am
keeping the cats, which are in the pink and eating well, as you’ll be glad
to hear. One last thing I was able to dofor poor Miss Alicia. Just a few
days before she died I got a letterfrom her writtenfromyour hotel. Well,
that’s in a manner of speaking, because when I opened it I found she had
put it in the wrong envelope and it was reallyfor Mr. Bridgenorth, who
I know well, being Miss Alicia’s solicitor. Something about her will, I
think, though of course I didn’t read it. I called him right away, but
funnily enough he never received the letter she must have meant for me.
Anyhow, I forwarded the letter to him right away, so trust that all is in
order.
With much sympathy onyour sad loss,
Yoursfaithfully,
M. Bradley.
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1982

A WHISPERING IN THE REEDS
hey were an odd couple, the Grimmetts. That was the considered
T opinion of the village of Little Hartney in the county of Dorset in

southwest England. Mind you, the villagers considered all out
siders to be odd—outsiders being those who had not been born and bred
in the village, or lived there for at least twenty-five years. But in this case
the opinion of the village was shared by such comparative newcomers as
the Crompton-Bassetts, who had retired to Little Hartney from London
a mere five years ago, and the New Vicar, who had replaced the Old Vicar
on the latter’s death eight years earlier.
Major (ret’d) Arthur Grimmett and his wife Louise had bought and
moved into Pear Tree Cottage the previous year. Pear Tree was really
more than a cottage, although it retained its ancient name. It was a
pretty if heterogeneous house standing about a mile outside the village,
not far from the railway station. The core of it—now the large living
room and hallway—was all that remained of the Elizabethan cottage for
which it was named. Successive generations of owners had added to it,
both upward and outward, in a variety of styles ranging from Georgian to
Victorian, and coming up to date in the nineteen-thirties with the ugly
red-brick garage. It was a private house in every sense of the word, its
garden secret behind thick yew hedges, and its big, solid wooden gates
opening only for the admittance or egress of the occupants. For the
Grimmetts took conspicuously little interest in the life of Little Hartney.
The Major himself was a type which Little Hartney recognized and
would have been prepared to tolerate—patently ex-Army, with ramrod
bearing and a bristly gray mustache. He must have been very good-
looking as a young man, the village ladies told each other. Still was—in
a mature way, if you know what I mean, dear. Surely he had taken an
early retirement—not near sixty if you ask me. Comfortably off, though.
You couldn’t run Pear Tree Cottage on nothing a year, and none of the
local tradespeople had any complaints about overdue bills.
No, the only thing wrong with the Major was his meanness. Miserly,
some people might call it. Over such little things, too. Charlie Burbridge,
who worked on and off at Pear Tree as gardener and general handyman,
reported with some bitterness that the Major kept a felt pen and marked
A WHISPERING IN THE REEDS 81
the level of every bottle of drink in his bar cupboard, and even the levels
of the sugar, flour, and tea in the transparent kitchen containers, not to
mention using a dipstick to check on the petrol in his station wagon; and
if he owed you nine pound, nine pence and a halfpenny for work done,
nine pound, nine pence and a halfpenny was what you got—never nine
pound, ten pence.
The English, of course, are used to eccentrics and tend to regard them
with a sort of pride rather than censure. Moreover, although nobody
knew any details, there were rumors of a tragedy surrounding the death
of the Major’s first wife. This automatically turned him into a romantic
figure, even if he did check the level on the sugar jar and count the After
Dinner mints every evening before the box was put away. This last tidbit
came from Mrs. Masters, who had come in to cook and wash up for one
of the very few dinner parties given by the Grimmetts—a return of
hospitality to the Crompton-Bassetts and the Vicar and his lady.
No, the Major would have been tolerated, and even, in time, liked
—but his wife was really too much for Little Hartney to take. Louise
Grimmett stood out in Little Hartney like an orchid in a vase of daisies.
Worse, she hated and despised the village and its people, and made no
secret of it. She spent a lot of her time in London, and the village was
united in its opinion that it would be a good thing if she went there and
stayed there, for good.
To add a final straw, she was not even what the British still call a
“lady.” Her voice showed neither the soft burr of the West Country nor
the universal brisk bray of the aristocracy. It was the voice of a big-city
suburb—that distressingly ugly accent which is favored by talk-show hosts
on television, proving them to be neither upperclass nor regionally
oriented. Unlike in the case of the Major, who clearly came from the top-
drawer of society, eccentricity in such a person as Louise was absolutely
unacceptable.
The one thing that nobody could deny was that Louise Grimmett was
beautiful. A good twenty years younger than her husband, she had the
figure of a fashion model, a fine face with sharp yet delicate cheekbones,
and a classically pointed jawline. Her honey-blonde hair was natural
—never a trace of darkness at the roots, and with the silky sheen that
even the most expensive bleaches destroy. If she wore too much makeup
—and the village considered that she did—it was concentrated on her eyes
and mouth. Her smooth, lightly tanned complexion had no need of any
artificial assistance. On the occasions—and they were rare—when Major
and Mrs. Grimmett appeared in public together, they certainly made a
handsome couple.
Louise Grimmett found many things to complain about concerning
the village of Little Hartney, quite apart from its insufferable dullness.
For one thing, Pear Tree Cottage was uncomfortable in the extreme.
Accustomed to central heating, she discovered that log fires—picturesque
though they might be—succeeded merely in toasting one’s front, while ice
formed on one’s back. She found the plumbing woefully inadequate
—four bedrooms and only one bathroom—and in winter she complained
continually of drafts.
To make things worse, Little Hartney’s electricity supply was
notoriously unreliable, so that even the electric radiators which Louise
had installed frequently ceased to function, generally when a heavy
snowstorm struck an electricity line, or lightning struck a pylon—in other
words, in the worst possible weather. And so, to the scandal of the
village, she had forced the Major to install a private petrol-driven electric
generator which could be brought into operation when the power failed.
The good people of Little Hartney knew that places like hospitals and
supermarkets with cold-storage compartments and suchlike places had
generators—well, stands to reason, you couldn’t have the power going off
in the middle of an operation, or have a lot of frozen food spoiling, but
just for a private house with two people . . . “Well,” said the ladies of
Little Hartney, with the special inflection which belies the meaning of the
word. The dictionary definition of “well” used as an interjection is
“expressing surprise.” But it was not surprise which was here expressed—
it was outrage.
Major Grimmett did what he could to accommodate Louise’s tastes.
He had an extra bathroom put in for her especial use. It was not entirely
satisfactory, for it had to be on the ground floor, where the old butler’s
pantry used to be—there was no way of putting it upstairs without
sacrificing a bedroom. However, Louise furnished it with a sunken pink
oval bath and a handbasin in the shape of a fluted pink shell, with golden
dolphins for taps and pink-tinted mirror everywhere.
The bathroom became her favorite room in the house, and the
Major—to his secret relief—was banished to the austerity of the plain
white-tiled bathroom upstairs. Louise also insisted on mounting an
electric heater on the wall above the bath, and this really distressed
Arthur Grimmett. He constantly told Louise that it was extremely
dangerous, and could lead to electrocution and death, if there should
happen to be an accident. Louise laughed at him, as usual.
Naturally, a favorite topic of conversation in the village was why these
two unlikely characters had decided to marry in the first place, and why,
having done so, they should have picked as their home a village such as
Little Hartney, which they obviously disliked. Theories ranging from the
sinister to the ridiculous were put forward, over mugs of beer and cups of
coffee, but none of them got anywhere near to the truth, which was
surprisingly simple.
It has been remarked that Louise had the figure of a fashion model
and the voice of a suburban housewife. The astute reader will have come
to the obvious conclusion. Louise was born the daughter of a plumber in
a south London suburb (which may have accounted for her obsession
with bathrooms), and she had left that suburb to make a career as a
fashion model.
As soon as it became clear that her extraordinary good looks and
photogenic qualities were going to insure her success as a photographic
model, Louise moved permanently to London, where she shared a small
apartment in a fashionable area with another girl in the same profession.
Such girls, with their outstanding beauty, have many social oppor
tunities, and it was not many months before Louise was introduced at a
party to Reginald, 4th Earl of Southwater, whose country mansion lay
about ten miles from Little Hartney.
It took Reggie Southwater only a very short time to come to the
conclusion that Louise was exactly what he needed as an antidote to his
beaky, sharp-tongued, aristocratic Countess, and their brood of grown and
growing children. His heir, Lord Benstead, had recently married and
produced an heir of his own—since when he had become intolerably
pompous and imbued with a grisly reverence for The Family; Susannah,
Reggie’s eldest daughter, was entirely preoccupied with the horses to
which she bore so close a facial resemblance; Timothy was up at Oxford
and already being spoken of as a future right-wing politician; while the
youngest, Sarah, was captain of hockey at her expensive boarding school.
What a boring lot they were, Reggie sometimes thought to himself.
Yet he, too, could not quite escape his sense of responsibility as head
of the family. He remembered maxims about not fouling one’s own
nest—and, in any case, if his affair with Louise should become a public
scandal, the thought of being lectured on morals by his own eldest son
was more than he could contemplate. The answer to his problem was
complex, but at least the first step was clear. Louise must be made
—outwardly at least—respectable. That meant marriage, and to a decent,
well-bred chap at that. It was then that he met his old friend Arthur
Grimmett.
Reggie Southwater was a few years older than Arthur, and they had
served as officers in the same regiment during the Second World War
—Arthur Grimmett being a professional career soldier, and Reggie (then
Lord Benstead, for his father was still alive) merely a war-time volunteer.
The two had become friends during the grueling campaign in Europe
following the invasion of Normandy. Both had survived, and Reggie had
acted as best man when, a few years after the war, Arthur Grimmett had
married a plain but very wealthy girl named Teresa Duckworth, an
orphan, and sole heiress to the considerable sum for which her father had
sold his chain of shoe stores to a large conglomerate shortly before his
death.
Then Reggie’s father died, and as the new Earl of Southwater, Reggie
had to spend more and more time on the family estates in Dorset. The
Grimmetts settled in Camberley, where Arthur’s regiment was stationed.
Inevitably the two men drifted apart. Arthur and Teresa Grimmett did,
however, attend the wedding of Lord Southwater to his new Countess,
herself the daughter of an Earl. Reggie prided himself on not forgetting
his old friends.
It was about fifteen years after the Southwater wedding that the
scandal—if that is not too strong a word—involving the death of the first
Mrs. Grimmett hit the newspapers. Arthur had been away from home for
the night, staying with friends, and had come back the next day to find
Teresa dead in her bath—electrocuted by an electric heater which had
somehow worked loose from its mounting on the wall and fallen into the
tub.
On the face of it, a most unfortunate accident, no more. But of
course there had to be an inquest, of course the newspapers reported that
Major Grimmett stood to inherit a considerable fortune, and medical
evidence showed that Teresa must have died on the evening that Arthur
left home, rather than in the morning before he arrived back.
The Grimmetts’ maid—a pretty girl who had a score to settle with
Arthur, because she had flirted with him and been rebuffed—gave
evidence in a shy, honeyed voice that Madam never took a bath in the
evening, only in the morning, except perhaps if she and the Major were
going to an important dinner party.
The friends with whom Arthur stayed the night were forced to admit,
unwillingly, that the invitation had not come from them. Arthur had
telephoned them the previous day, asking if he might spend the night
there, as Teresa was going to be out late with friends, and might bring
them home at all hours.
An expert electrician gave evidence that the heater had been badly
mounted—“an ’orrible job” was his actual expression—and might have
given way and fallen into the bath at any time. There was nothing to
suggest that it had been deliberately tampered with—but then, it
wouldn’t ’ave needed much, would it?
The Coroner’s Jury, which was not composed of the greatest intellects
in the land, returned a verdict of “Murder by Person or Persons Un
known,” and the police were more or less forced to arrest Arthur.
Once again the facts were simple. Unlikely as it may seem, Teresa
Grimmett had, if not a lover, at least an admirer—an ex-boyfriend from
her own cheerful, ambitious, Midlands-business milieu, whom she had
rejected while under the spell of Major Arthur Grimmett, who was an
Officer and a Gentleman and could address at least one Lord by his
Christian name. In fact, Arthur came from an impoverished if genteel
family, who had sacrificed all they had to send him to Sandhurst Military
Academy to become an officer in the Regular Army, which was a career
for a gentleman. Apart from Teresa’s money, all he had was his pay.
Now, Teresa was a good-natured creature, and although she con
trolled the purse strings, she never abused her position. On this one
sentimental occasion, however (her admirer was visiting Camberley in an
attempt to interest the British Army in his new type of portable field
latrine), she had set her heart on entertaining him alone. Consequently
she had asked Arthur, very nicely, if he would mind spending the night
elsewhere. Her expected guest was the reason for her admittedly unusual
evening bath.
Teresa was already dead when her admirer had attempted to tele
phone (getting no reply, naturally) to explain that he would have to
cancel the date, owing to an unexpectedly fruitful contact in Portsmouth
which gave him the hope that the Navy might order the latrines. After
several tries he had come to the conclusion that Teresa was a little
flibbertigibbet who probably had been planning to stand him up, anyway.
Only the next day did he read of her death in a short newspaper
paragraph.
Arthur was tried for the murder of his wife and acquitted for lack of
evidence. Teresa’s boyfriend never came forward. He was happily
married and had no wish to stir up trouble. He told himself—truthfully,
one hopes—that had Arthur been found guilty, he would have made a
clean breast of it and told the whole story, for what it was worth.
Arthur’s acquittal, however, seemed to let the boyfriend off the hook, and
his life resumed its usual calm path.
Not so Arthur’s. He announced his intention of resigning his com
mission, in the interests of The Regiment. Reggie Southwater, who had
stood gallantly by his old friend in his hour of need, was one of the people
who tried to persuade Arthur that no such drastic action was necessary—
after all, he had been acquitted, hadn’t he? But Arthur was an Officer
and a Gentleman, and there is no arguing with such people. The
Regiment had in some way been tainted, and Arthur felt it his duty to
resign. He added that he would probably Go Abroad—which to an
Officer and a Gentleman means to Hell.
On reflection, however, Reggie Southwater wondered if Arthur’s
decision might not have been the right one, after all. He was obviously
never going to be a success in the army. Admittedly, he had been a mere
Second Lieutenant, the youngest regular officer in the regiment, during
the Second World War; but by now, had he shown initiative and a talent
for leadership, he should surely have been a Colonel, if not a Brigadier-
General. No, Arthur was one of those military men who got promoted by
inevitable steps to the rank of Major at the age of about forty, and remain
there until retirement. Meanwhile, with Teresa’s money, Arthur could be
free to leave the army and enjoy life. Reggie Southwater decided that his
old friend had done the best thing, and thought no more about him.
No more, that is, until years later, shortly after he had embarked on
his affair with Louise. The meeting of Reggie and Arthur was quite by
chance, in a London pub. Arthur, shabbily well-dressed, was clearly down
on his luck. After a few beers the truth came out.
Arthur, a man of his word, had gone abroad after resigning from the
army. There he had run through his late wife’s money with impressive
speed, helped on by a host of shady characters who must have marked
him down as easy prey. It was the old story—gambling, phony invest
ments, glittering promises of untold riches if only he would put down a
few paltry thousands in cash right now. And so it was that Arthur
Grimmett was back in London, with nothing to live on but a pension
which was greatly reduced by his early retirement, and which was being
steadily eroded by inflation. In his early fifties, with nothing but a
truncated army career behind him, he was finding it impossible to get a
job. By the sixth beer he was as near to sobbing on Reggie’s shoulder as
an Officer and a Gentleman can ever be.
Reggie had patted him on the back, taken his address, and promised
to see what he could do for his old friend. And that evening the plan was
born.
Reggie invited Arthur Grimmett to his London house, alone, and
made his proposal with considerable tact. Omitting the frills, what it
boiled down to was this: Arthur should marry Louise—a marriage in name
only, that was to be strictly understood. Reggie would provide money to
buy a suitable country house—it turned out to be Pear Tree Cottage—
within a reasonable distance of Southwater Manor. Reggie would also
settle a considerable sum of money on Louise—the couple would be able
to live comfortably on the income, and the capital sum would be for
Louise to dip into if she wished, and finally to dispose of as she thought
fit in her will. No strings, in fact.
At the same time Reggie proposed to acquire a comfortable apartment
in a neighboring large town—one in a building big enough to insure
anonymity. Here he and Louise would meet and make their home, during
those visits to outlying parts of the Southwater Estate which he was
constantly having to make. After all, the Southwater property extended
into four counties, with segments in several big cities, and fortunately
Reggie had always taken the administration of the estate very seriously.
His wife and family would find nothing remarkable in his frequent
absences from home, to which they were well accustomed.
For her part, Louise would account for her absences by saying that she
was going to London. Actually, Reggie confided to Arthur, he never
intended to visit London with Louise. He was altogether too well-known
a figure, and she would be sure to insist on going to theaters and
restaurants. Somebody would spot them, and a scandal would start.
Well, what about it, old man?
To Arthur it sounded like a dream come true. He accepted with
alacrity. Louise took a little more persuasion. She loved London, enjoyed
her work, and had no desire to bury herself in some one-horse country
village. On the other hand, the money was undoubtedly enticing, and the
career of a fashion model does not last forever. What is more, she would
have an unassailable social position, and she quite took to Arthur when
she finally consented to meet him. She first saw Pear Tree Cottage on a
balmy afternoon in early summer, when none of its inconveniences and
all of its charms were in evidence. The engagement was announced in The
Times, the wedding took place quietly at a Registrar’s Office, and the
Grimmetts moved to Little Hartney and their new life.
Reggie Southwater thought of everything—or almost everything. He
told his formidable Countess that an old friend of his from wartime days,
Major Arthur Grimmett, now retired, had moved to Little Hartney with
his wife—“You may remember them, darling, they were at our wedding.”
He suggested that it would be civil to call on them, and invite them to
Southwater Manor.
Neither visit was a spectacular success. Lady Southwater admired the
improvements to Pear Tree Cottage, suppressing a shudder of well-bred
horror at the pink bathroom, while Arthur proudly showed off the new
generator to Reggie. The generator was, in fact, quite easy to operate, but
Arthur made a big thing about being the only person who was capable of
managing it. Even Charlie Burbridge wasn’t allowed to as much as touch
it. “See here, Reggie, you push this switch to engage the battery, and
then . . . ” Reggie Southwater suppressed a yawn and glanced covertly at
his watch, calculating how soon they could decently take their departure.
At Southwater Manor, Louise tried to find complimentary things to
say about the rows of painted Southwaters in the portrait gallery—“Ooh,
that’s a pretty dress. Funny the way they did their hair then, wasn’t it?”
—and Arthur surveyed an array of fat pigs and dairy cows with the in
difference of a townsman who considers that bacon comes from the
supermarket in cellophane packages and milk in easy-pour containers.
Nevertheless, a respectable social connection had been established, so that
if Reggie and Louise were seen together, it could be passed off as a chance
meeting of friends.
All would have gone smoothly had it not been for the one factor
which Reggie had not considered—and which he really should have taken
into his calculations, at least as a possibility. Arthur Grimmett, that
apparently emotionless Officer and Gentleman, fell hopelessly in love
with Louise. It should be explained that, before this happened, Arthur
had shown no signs of the miserliness which caused so much comment in
Little Hartney. He was now, however, under a considerable strain, and
since he had (as he now persuaded himself) been cheated out of the en
joyment of his most precious possession, his wife, he was determined that
he would not be cheated in any other way. And so he began marking the
whisky bottle and counting the After Dinner mints.
To the reader with, as it were, a bird’s-eye view of the whole situation,
everything now becomes reasonable and understandable. Arthur’s mean
ness, Louise’s frequent trips away from hone, the fact that the couple
remained in Little Hartney despite their obvious dislike of the place, and
—most of all—Arthur’s paranoid fear of the electric heater in Louise’s
bath-room. The whole matter of Teresa’s death had long since been for
gotten, and both Reggie and Arthur had decided that it would be foolish
to mention it to Louise—or, in fact, to anybody else. The vague rumors
in the village had originated with a formidable old lady known as Granny
Perkins, who was eighty-six and prided herself on never forgetting a name.
Her computer-like memory had come up with something to do with a
Major Arthur Grimmett and the sad death of his wife. No more. But for
Little Hartney it was enough to start a whispering in the reeds.
Events then moved slowly but with inevitability to their climax.
Louise, bored with Little Hartney, bored with the anonymous apartment,
yearning for London and a spot of life, began to grow increasingly dis
satisfied with the attentions of the Earl of Southwater. Little by little she
also grew fonder of Arthur. She realized that he was infatuated with her
and would do anything for her. One day she suggested that they might
spend a weekend in London together. Reggie, she explained, was away on
holiday in Sardinia with his family. Arthur could do with a break, and so
could she. Why didn’t they book a suite at the Savoy or somewhere and
see that new musical show?
They did, and after the show they went to a nightclub, where they
danced and had a fair amount to drink. Naturally they ended up in bed
together. And why not? They were man and wife, after all.
When Reggie got back from Sardinia, he immediately telephoned
Louise, and—employing their usual code—requested the services of a tem
porary secretary to help him with his estate business on the following
weekend. Louise replied, coolly, that she was sorry, it would not be con
venient. The secretarial bureau had nobody available for those dates.
Furious, Reggie stormed out of Southwater Manor (where the code
was maintained in case a member of the family should be listening in)
and re-telephoned Pear Tree Cottage from a public call box.
“What d’you mean, not convenient?” he shouted.
“Me and Arthur,” said Louise disdainfully, “happen to be spending
that weekend in Paris. I might be able to fit you in the week after.”
It was during the Paris weekend that Louise told Arthur that she had
finally made her will, leaving everything to him. “That’ll teach old Pie-
face,” she added, this being one of her politer nicknames for the Earl.
By her own standards Louise was an honest girl. She did indeed meet
Reggie Southwater in the anonymous apartment the following week, in
order to inform him that the arrangement between them was now at an
end.
“It was just one of those things,” she said. She loved to talk in
cliches. “Fun while it lasted, and no harm done, eh?”
“No harm done?” Lord Southwater could not believe his ears. “I’ve
given you a house, a husband, a social position—and a lot of money.”
“And you’ve had your money’s worth, love,” said Louise practically.
“Anyhow, what’s the money to you? I daresay it all went down against
income tax as Estate Expenses.”
The fact that this was true did nothing to improve his Lordship’s
temper. In a rage he accused Louise of being unfaithful to him.
“With my own husband? That’s a turn-up for the book, if you like,”
she retorted. Then, being essentially a kind girl, she patted his cheek.
“Cheer up, Reggie. You’ll find somebody else. A change is as good as a
rest, you know.”
Louise took the whole thing in her stride, but Arthur was frankly
terrified. He knew Reggie as a vindictive man perfectly capable of
violence, and he was sure that it was against him that the full blast of
Southwater’s wrath would be unleashed. He had just one hold over
Reggie. He could expose the latter’s liaison with Louise. Or could he?
Yes, there must be people who would recognize them as the couple in the
anonymous apartment. Of course, it would put him, Arthur, in a
ridiculous light, but anything was better than—than what? Arthur could
only envisage physical violence, which was bad enough in itself; but the
Southwater family might be capable of anything.
Arthur never answered the telephone these days if he could help it,
but one early summer evening it rang just at the time when Louise was
always basking in the pink tub with the golden dolphin taps.
“Ah, my old friend Arthur, how are you?”
Arthur could not believe his ears. There was no mistaking Reggie’s
voice, but the latter appeared to be imitating a cooing dove. Was it
possible that Louise had broken off the affair without mentioning—?
Anything was possible. Of course, with the break between Reggie and
Louise, there came the question of money. Arthur had no desire to go
back to living on his pension. Then he pulled himself together. The
house and the money had been an outright gift to Louise, and she had
assured him that she would never leave him and that she had made a will
in his favor.
Quite jauntily he replied, “Hello there, Reggie, old chap. Anything
I can do for you?”
“I’d appreciate a word with you, old man.” Southwater sounded
positively embarrassed. “Alone, if you understand me. I think you may
be able to help me.”
Arthur’s heart rose. Good old Louise. Reggie obviously suspected
another lover and was trying to enlist Arthur’s help.
“Of course, Reggie. I quite understand. When would suit you? I
know you’re a busy man.”
“Let’s see.” There was a pause, as though Reggie were consulting his
engagement book. “How about—no, that’s no good, there’s a meeting of
tenants . . . Thursday seems to be the best day. Thursday of next week.
Okay?”
“Certainly. Where shall we meet?”
“Oh, here at the Manor, if that’s all right with you. Cecily will be
somewhere around, but I’ll explain that this is a private conference.
About three in the afternoon?”
“Suits me splendidly, old man.”
“Well then—oh, just a moment. Blast it. Got to see my stockbroker
then, and you know how these fellows run on. Could you make it a bit
later? Around six thirty, say?”
“Of course. Be delighted.”
“No need to bring your car, with petrol at the price it is. You’re close
to the station, aren’t you?”
“A couple of minutes’ walk.”
“Then—do you know the train times?”
“Twenty past every hour, from London,” Arthur replied promptly.
He and Louise had been using the railway to and from London quite a bit
lately.
“Capital. Southwater Halt is the next station from you. Catch the
six twenty, and I’ll have the car there to meet you—oh, damn it, Cecily
will be using it. Has a bridge party starting at six. Get a cab from the
station, will you, old man? Always lots of them there, waiting for the
London train.”
So it was with no more than a sense of intrigued anticipation that
Arthur kissed Louise goodbye on Thursday evening as she went off to her
regular before-dinner soak in the pink bath, then caught the 6:20 to
Southwater Halt. From there he took a taxi to the Manor, where he was
met by the butler, deferent but firm.
“Good evening, Major Grimmett. Please step this way, into the
drawing room. Whom did you wish to see? His Lordship? Oh, I am very
sorry, sir. His Lordship is out.”
“But he made a definite appointment over the telephone—”
The butler smiled, understanding and sad, “I fear his Lordship is
sometimes a little careless as regards his engagements, sir,” he said. “His
secretary is on holiday this week, and there have been several unfortunate
misunderstandings. If you will accompany me to the library, sir, we can
consult his Lordship’s agenda together.”
On the leather-topped desk was a large diary, with a page for each
day, and a line for each hour from 7:00 a.m. to twelve midnight. For
Thursday afternoon the page was blank. For Friday, it read—“3:00 p.m.
stockbroker. 6:30 p.m. Arthur Grimmett.”
“You see, sir—?” said the butler, who seemed to have experienced life
and all its tragedies. “His Lordship entered your appointment on the
wrong day. I do not doubt that he mentioned Thursday on the tele
phone, but in fact he wrote it down for Friday.”
Arthur said, “He told me he couldn’t send the car, because Lady
Cecily had a bridge party at six.”
The butler opened a similar book, which had Lady Southwater
inscribed in gold letters on the outside. “You see the entry, sir? Friday.
6 p.m. Bridge with Lady Peterson. Order car and chauffeur for 5:45.”
The butler sighed. “I am really very sorry, sir, that you had a wasted
journey, but you see how it is”
“But Lord Southwater has no engagements entered for this evening,”
Arthur protested. “Where is he? Why can’t 1 see him?”
“He is out, sir.” The butler unbent a little. “He found himself at a
loose end and asked me to connect him on the telephone with his friends,
Sir Rupert and Lady Forster, who live some five miles away—somewhat
although not exactly in your direction, sir. I know that he had been
planning a visit there for some time, and he confided in me that he
proposed to walk over to see them.” The butler unbent still further,
recognizing in Arthur an Officer and a Gentleman, before whom even
butlers may become almost human.
“Unlike yourself, sir,” the butler went on, “his Lordship has to watch
his weight these days, and his doctor has prescribed a low-calorie diet and
at least five miles of brisk walking each day. His Lordship finds this
regime easier to observe if his walk has a definite aim, if you understand
me. So, when not otherwise engaged, he often makes a call on foot to
friends who live at an appropriate distance. He left the house shortly
after five thirty, sir. I fancy Sir Rupert will drive him home for dinner at
eight. I would not expect to see him sooner.”
Disgruntled, Arthur consulted his watch, and said, “What’s the time
of the next train back to Little Hartney?”
“The seven forty-five, sir. Many of his Lordship’s guests take it back
to London.”
Those the old duck hasn’t invited to stay to dinner, was Arthur’s
thought, but he kept it to himself. Aloud, he said, “Well, bring me a
whisky and soda, there’s a good fellow, and then call me a cab. I’ll be off
home on the famous seven forty-five.”
Pear Tree Cottage looked inviting in the summer gloaming as Arthur
walked back up the garden path soon after eight. Except—there was
something wrong. It took no more than a split second to realize what it
was. No lights were burning in the house. One of these damn power
failures, thought Arthur, and poor little Louise doesn’t know how to work
the generator. He quickened his pace and was running by the time he
reached the front door.
He found Louise in the sunken pink bath, together with the electric
heater from the wall, and just as dead as Teresa had been under similar
circumstances. The catastrophe, from a purely technical point of view,
had blown the fuse of all the wall outlets but had left the ceiling lights
unaffected. Since no light was lit, it was obvious that by the time dusk
had fallen Louise Grimmett had had no need of any earthly illumination.
The police were thorough. They started off by treating the whole
thing as an accident. Charlie Burbridge assured them that, on Mrs.
Grimmett’s instructions, he had made absolutely sure only the previous
week that the screws holding the heater to the wall were firmly in place.
Just before the Grimmetts had left for London, in fact. Mrs. Grimmett,
he said, had told him that her husband was afraid the appliance might be
dangerous.
On closer inspection, however, Police Sergeant Nichols had noticed
that the plugs into which the screws had been inserted into the masonry
wall were missing. That meant that the heater had not been properly
secured at all, in fact, and might have fallen any time; even a sharp blow
struck in the right place from outside the wall could have dislodged the
heater and caused it to fall into the bath.
The mills of the British police grind slowly, but—as the poet says—
they grind exceeding small. The death of Major Grimmett’s first wife and
his trial and acquittal on that occasion were unearthed.
So it was another Brides-in-the-Bath case, was it? Funny, though,
that having been arrested and tried the first time, he’d pull the same trick
again. Still . . . no doubt about it, another wealthy wife, another in
heritance. Looks bad for the Major, agreed the senior police officers on
the case.
The Major’s alibi looked a bit thin, too. Said he’d been over at
Southwater Manor, for an appointment with Lord Southwater. Reggie—
in his usual vague, confidence-inspiring way—agreed cheerfully that he
might easily have made a mistake when talking on the telephone, but that
he himself felt sure that he had invited Arthur for Friday, as entered in his
engagement book.
Senior policemen, brooding on whether or not to arrest Arthur,
pointed out to each other that Mrs. Grimmett was just going to her bath
when her husband left the house—and who but he would have known
that? He could very easily have removed the screw plugs earlier in the
day, lurked outside until he was sure his wife was in the water and the
heater on, and then sent it plunging into the bath with a blow from
outside the wall, and still made the 6:20 train. The ticket collector at
Little Hartney had remarked that Major Grimmett had arrived at the
station barely in time to catch the train. Arthur’s reply was that it had
been such a beautiful evening he had strolled from home slowly. All very
well, said the senior policemen to each other, but you could hardly call it
irrefutable evidence.
It was then that the most curious fact in the whole case suddenly
came to light, almost accidentally. The local newspaper published a
Letter to the Editor, complaining strongly about the numerous power
failures in the area. It was written by Granny Perkins, no other, and
along with a lot of abusive comment it remarked,
Folks notice when the power goes off at night, so they get no lights and no
telly, and at dinnertime when they be cooking. But what about in the
daytime, when many don’t notice, especially in summer. What about last
Thursday, when we had no power from five till seven in the evening?
There was I, tying to do some ironing, and off it goes. We pay rates and
taxes, not to mention electric bills, and / say we’re entitled to better
service.
Yrs. etc.
H. Perkins.
An alert young policeman noticed the letter and reported it to his

superiors. A check was made with the electricity company. No doubt
about it. During the crucial time for which Arthur Grimmett had no
alibi, he could not possibly have murdered his wife, because the electric
heater would not have been working. And had the heater fallen into the
bathtub during this period, it was really beyond belief that Louise would
have continued to bathe unconcernedly with the heater floating in the
tub, until such time as the power came on again. What had happened
was a mystery, but Arthur Grimmett must be considered to be in the
clear.
“Wait a minute,” said the alert young constable, who happened to be
a cousin of Charlie Burbridge. “The Grimmetts have a generator, don’t
they? The Major could have switched on his own power to do the job.”
Chief Inspector Parkinson visited Arthur, as smooth and sympathetic
as face cream. He had heard, he said, that the Grimmetts had found a
solution to these dratted power failures which plagued the community.
A private generator for the house.
“That’s right,” said Arthur.
“I was thinking the wife and I might get one,” lied the Inspector.
“Mind if I take a look at yours?”
“With pleasure, my dear sir. For a moment I was afraid this was
another official visit in connection with my wife’s tragic death.”
Parkinson avoided a direct answer to that one and accompanied
Arthur through the garden to the little shed where the generator was
housed.
“Runs off regular petrol, does it?” Parkinson asked ingenuously.
“That’s right. This five-gallon jerrycan here. That’ll keep her going
for about five hours, which is longer than most power failures last, but of
course 1 keep a spare can, just in case.”
“Charlie Burbridge was telling me that you’re the only person allowed
to touch this machine, Major.”
“Quite true. Not that it’s very complicated, but—delicate mechanism,
you know, precise series of operations to be done in the right order—
make one mistake, and you can wreck the whole thing.”
“I quite understand.” The Inspector sounded sympathetic. “Still,
we’ve been lucky recently, haven’t we? Very few power failures. Haven’t
had to use it for a bit, eh?”
Arthur gave the matter some thought. “No,” he said. “No, I haven’t
had her going since I filled up the tank after that failure in April. It’s in
the winter months that she comes in really handy.”
“So you’ve a full tank now?”
“Naturally.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Help yourself, old man,” said Arthur complacently. It was the last
complacent remark he was to make for some time. For the jerrycan was
only about half full, mocking Arthur’s inevitable feltpen mark indicating
“5 gals. Full.” The generator had been run for at least two hours, maybe
more, since the April power failure.
Arthur grew nervous and began to bluster; maybe he had run the
generator since. He couldn’t really remember.
Inspector Parkinson remarked that the whole village knew about
Arthur’s marked bottles of whisky and the dipstick to check the level of
petrol in the car. Was it conceivable, he asked, that Arthur should not
also have marked the fuel tank of the generator in the same way, had he
really run it for an innocent purpose?
Hopelessly Arthur said, “I’ve . . . I’ve not been worrying so much
about that sort of thing recently . . . ”
“May one ask why, sir?”
“Well, my wife and I—that is, we’ve been much happier together
recently . . . It’s hard to explain . . . ”
It proved impossible to explain to the jury. The police were able to
prove, to Arthur’s utter dismay, that the current had been cut off at the
mains as.he was leaving the house, preparatory to pushing the heater into
his wife’s bath by a smart blow on the wall outside. He would have had
ample opportunity to remove the plastic plugs holding the screws earlier
in the day. The unexpected power failure had forced him to change his
plan slightly by starting up the generator before committing the murder.
He had left the machine running until he returned home from an
undoubtedly contrived visit a little over two hours later. By then the
current had been restored, and he only had to switch off the generator
before calling the police. The jury were even taken on a visit to Pear Tree
Cottage, where it was demonstrated to them how the precariously
balanced heater could have been dislodged from outside.
The Guilty verdict was a foregone conclusion, and when the jury (who
had all sworn solemnly to complete ignorance of Arthur’s past) heard
about his previous trial for the same crime, they went home with the glow
of satisfaction that comes from a job well done.
Lord Southwater’s groom was never called to give evidence—why on
earth should he have been? Sir Rupert and Lady Forster, who were
treated with kid gloves by counsel, agreed that Lord Southwater had
arrived at their home soon after six thirty—just the time that it would
take a brisk, dieting walker to make the distance from Southwater Manor
had he set out, as he said and the butler confirmed, at half-past five. He
had stayed for a drink, but refused a lift home, maintaining that another
hour’s walking in the summer gloaming would do him good. Only the
groom could have told the jury that Lord Southwater’s favorite chestnut
mare had been missing from her stable between half-past five and eight
o’clock—and since he knew that Lord Southwater was taking his walk at
that time, he could only presume that Lady Susannah had taken the mare
out for an evening ride, by no means a rare occurrence.
In fact, with the assistance of the chestnut mare, Reggie Southwater
had had plenty of time to visit Pear Tree Cottage, discover to his
annoyance that the electricity was off, start the generator (as Arthur had
been kind enough to instruct him), dislodge the heater so that it fell into
Louise’s bath, and ride on to the Forsters, tethering the mare well out of
sight of the house and arriving on foot. He knew that Louise always took
a bath at six. She had done so in the anonymous apartment, and she had
often assured him that she did the same thing at home. On his way back
to the Manor he stopped off at Pear Tree Cottage again, this time to
disconnect the generator. Then he walked the mare slowly home.
It was Charlie Burbridge who had actually removed the plastic plugs
from the screw-holes during the afternoon, in consideration of a down
payment of one thousand pounds and an excellently paid job for life on
the Southwater Estate. He had no compunction in keeping his mouth
shut. Not only was the compensation excellent, but he had never forgiven
the Major for doing him out of the little nip of Scotch or gin that he
considered a man’s right, if he was working on some job inside a house.
In the witness box in his own defense, and realizing that any mean
ingful life was over for him, Arthur forgot that he was an Officer and a
Gentleman, and told the whole sordid story of his arranged marriage and
the shameful affair between Lord Southwater and Louise—this despite
repeated objections from the prosecution. Most people—including the
judge and jury—disregarded the unlikely tale as mere spite and the effort
of a guilty man to save his own skin. Lady Cecily and Lord Benstead,
however, believed every word of it, and while nothing was ever said
outside The Family, it may be taken for granted that Reggie Southwater
served almost as unpleasant a life sentence as did Arthur Grimmett. And
after all, although Reggie never suspected it, Arthur had, in fact, mur
dered his first wife, Teresa.
Louise’s money went to her nearest relative, her widowed plumber
father. (Arthur, of course, was not allowed by law to benefit financially
from his crime.) Despite his genuine admiration for the pink bathroom,
Louise’s father was sensitive enough to sell Pear Tree Cottage. He bought
himself a nice house in Brighton, where he lived happily for the rest of his
life.
So blind Justice balances her scales, and makes fools of the would-be
cleverest of us all.

A MATTER OF SUCCESSION
hey say there’s no fool like an old fool, and while fifty-five may not
T be considered actually senile, it was not until he reached this

comparatively advanced age that George, Viscount Biddleford,
younger brother of James, fourth Earl of Camden, really lost his
head—and over a girl in her early twenties at that.
His only previous lapse from grace had been as a much younger man,
when he had helped his brother James sail the latter’s yacht across the
Atlantic to New York. There he had become involved with a pretty young
aspiring actress named Maisie Wilkins. By the time he realized that
despite her prettiness she was both vulgar and boring, things had reached
a serious stage—George and Maisie were unofficially engaged, the promise
of marriage having been Maisie’s adamant price for the surrender of her
virtue. James, however, who was something of an adept at sidestepping
awkward situations with the opposite sex, had skillfully disentangled his
brother and hurried him back to England.
The third Earl—father to James and George—had had a distinguished
career in the Royal Navy, and both his sons inherited his love of the sea.
Characteristically, James literally took to the water and became that
swashbuckling figure—the single-handed ocean sailor. Well-known for his
often scandalous love affairs, he had never married, and at fifty-seven—he
was just two years older than George—he remained wedded to his boat,
and was planning another Atlantic crossing.
George, on the other hand, preferred a quiet life ashore, and only
rarely did any actual sailing. His sea fever took the form of designing
yachts, and of course he designed and built all his brother’s boats at his
small shipyard on the south coast of England. The yard was really no
more than a hobby—it went in for excellence and had never been ex
pected to make money. After his one, disastrous trip to the States,
George married a quiet, suitable girl of good family, and they settled
down to a life of stupefying respectability in a large country house, about
halfway from the shipyard and the family seat, Camden Hall, in
Hampshire.
When George was fifty-four, his wife died, childless. Left alone, he
sold the house and moved in with James to Camden Hall. He also
A MATTER OF SUCCESSION 99
acquired a small bachelor apartment in London, and it was on one of his
visits there that he met Gloria Patterson.
It was a crony at George’s club, as a matter of fact, who had insisted
on introducing them. For some reason, George’s friend explained, Gloria
was immensely anxious to meet George. She was a photographic model,
American, blonde, and stunningly beautiful. George was amused but also
flattered. He agreed to go to a small dinner party at his friend’s house to
meet the young lady. And that did it.
Of course, Gloria deliberately set out to be fascinating. Soon George
was spending nearly all his time in London. Once he took Gloria to
Camden Hall for the weekend, but James—home from one of his voyages
—had taken an instant dislike to her. George put this down to jealousy
—James was not used to taking second place when it came to beautiful
young women. The weekend was not a success and was not repeated.
In London, however, the two became inseparable—dining, theater
going, and dancing together. Gloria was clever enough to keep George on
a string by refusing anything but the mildest of lovemaking. By the time
he realized what she was really up to, he was so infatuated that one might
describe him as actually out of his mind.
What Gloria wanted was marriage. No problem. George was a wid
ower and asked no better than to marry her tomorrow. But this was not
good enough. Finally Gloria came out with it. She not only wanted
marriage, she wanted to be the Countess of Camden. Viscountess
Biddleford would not do, under any circumstances.
George was stunned. “How can you ever be the Countess of Cam
den?” he demanded. “James is never going to marry you.”
Gloria smiled. “No, George darling. But you are next in line, aren’t
you?”
“James is only two years older than I am. He’ll probably outlive me.”
“He might,” said Gloria thoughtfully. “On the other hand, he might
not.”
They were sitting in Gloria’s penthouse apartment, drinking a pre
dinner cocktail. She stood up, took George’s glass and went to the bar to
refill it. She said, “He’s off on another lone sailing trip, isn’t he?”
“You know he is.”
“Well . . . he might have an accident at sea.”
George laughed. “James? Not he. He’s about the finest sailor in the
world.”
“So was Joshua Slocum,” Gloria remarked, “but he was lost at sea in
the end.” She poured martinis. “You designed James’s new boat, didn’t
you?”
“Of course. She’s in the yard now, having a final checkup.”
No more was said on that occasion. Gloria knew where to stop. The
seed had been sown. It sprang up into luxuriant foliage the following
weekend, when George went alone to Camden Hall and informed James
that he intended to marry Gloria. He was still sure that he could con
vince her that being a Viscountess was not the worst fate in the world.
James told him bluntly not to be a fool. Anybody could see that Gloria
was no more than a grasping little golddigger. The row between the
brothers developed rapidly, and James made his final threat.
Under the British system of inheritance, where large estates such as
Camden are concerned, the eldest son gets not only the title, but the
worldly goods that go with it. George’s high standard of living had always
depended on a regular allowance—an allowance which had been paid
without question, first by his father and then by his brother. If George
married Gloria, said James, the allowance would stop.
George stormed out of the house and back to London and Gloria.
Inevitably his thoughts went back to that enigmatic conversation in the
penthouse. The next evening, in that same apartment, George said,
nervously, “You . . . you remember what you said about. . . about being
lost at sea?”
Gloria, who was again preparing drinks, just nodded. George went
on, “I could do it, you know. I mean, James and the foreman will be
doing a final check on the boat tomorrow, but it’s my yard, after all.
There’d be nothing to stop me going along afterwards and . . . well, just
loosening something. Or weakening the rigging, where it wouldn’t show.
Something that would be okay in fine weather, like we’re having now
—but when he runs into an Atlantic gale . . . ”
“You’d really do that, George?” Gloria managed to sound shocked.
“I’d . . . I’d do anything to get that damned swine of a brother of
mine out of the way!”
He didn’t mean it, of course. George was not the stuff of which
murderers are made. Nevertheless, curiously enough, James, fourth Earl
of Camden, sailed out of Southampton Sound the following week, headed
west, and was never seen again. True, there had been a storm in the
Atlantic Ocean—but no worse than he had encountered before in his
adventurous career. The boat was reported overdue—one week, two
weeks, three weeks. No radio communication. Finally some wreckage
was found. James was declared legally dead, and George became the fifth
Earl of Camden.
Gloria, who had been in Paris on a modeling job, came back to
London when she heard the news.
“So you actually did it, George?” Gloria sounded amused. “I didn’t
think you had it in you.”
“I did nothing at all,” George replied, with some heat. “But all the
same . . . well, now I am Lord Camden. Gloria . . .” His voice trembled.
“Gloria, you will marry me now, won’t you?”
George was never to forget the look that she gave him. “Marry you?”
she said. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.”
“But—you said—”
“Apart from anything else,” Gloria added, “I am already married.”
“You’re . . . what?”
“Would you care to see the marriage certificate? Here it is.” She
extracted a paper from her handbag. It recorded the marriage of Gloria
Wilkins to Michael Patterson in New York a year ago. Just before Gloria
had come to London, in fact.
At first George was so stunned that the significance of the name was
lost on him. Then he remembered Maisie. Maisie Wilkins.
“And in any case,” added Gloria, “1 don’t really approve of incest, do
you—Daddy?”
George finally found speech. “Damn you!” he shouted. “You filthy
little—”
“As a matter of fact,” Gloria went on, “I’m not sure whether I’m your
daughter or your niece. James may well have been my father.”
“James!”
“Oh, didn’t you know?”
“All I know,” said George heavily, “is that when my position with
your mother became—well, awkward, James simply shot me home on the
next boat and told me he would cope with everything. I’ve heard no more
from that day to this.”
“Then I’ll bring you up to date,” said Gloria icily. “As soon as you
had gone, James went to Mother and told her that you had ratted on her
and gone sneaking back to England. However, he said, as far as he was
concerned that was the best thing that could have happened, as he
himself had been in love with her all along, and had only kept quiet
because of George. Now there was nothing to stop him from making her
an honorable offer of marriage. But, of course, he would have to get his
father’s consent and a lot of such rubbish. Meanwhile . . . well, you
guessed it. As soon as he had been to bed with her he upped anchor and
sailed away.
“When Mother found she was pregnant, what could she do? She
could hardly bring a paternity suit or a breach of promise case against
both of you—and dear James made sure that both liaisons were known to
people who could and would give evidence. Mother had just landed her
first decent part, but of course she had to give it up when she found I was
on the way. Between the two of you, you and your brother ruined her
life. She had to give up the stage and take housekeeping jobs so as to
look after me. Fortunately I grew up to be good-looking and made a
success of modeling. When I was offered work in England, I thought 1
would take a little revenge. On her behalf.”
“You’ve certainly succeeded,” said George bitterly.
“Oh, but I haven’t started yet.” Gloria smiled, like a cat.
“One way or the other,” said Gloria, “my mother deserves to be the
Countess of Camden. And I intend that she shall be just that.”
“Don’t be idiotic,” said George, who was beginning to recover a little.
“You can’t force me to marry Maisie.”
“Ah, but I can. You remember that conversation we had about
arranging for James’s boat to sink in a storm? 1 have it on tape.”
“But I never—”
“What you did or didn’t do hardly matters, does it?” remarked Gloria
sweetly. “Are you prepared to have me take that tape to the police?”
“You wouldn’t dare. You’d be just as much involved as I would.”
“Oh, no. I only recorded the second conversation, and I was very
careful what I said when the recorder was on. However, if you’re pre
pared to risk it—” Gloria shrugged her lovely shoulders.
George spluttered and blustered, but there was really nothing he
could do. Gloria arranged the whole thing. The London Times carried the
announcement of the forthcoming marriage of George, fifth Earl of
Camden, to Miss Maisie Wilkins of New York City.
And of course Maisie arrived at London Airport, to be met by a
beaming Gloria and a scowling George. There was little trace of her
former prettiness left. She had grown stout and blowsy, had dyed her
hair orange, and smelled of cheap perfume. The wedding took place
quietly, and Maisie, Countess of Camden, moved into Camden Hall.
Gloria remained in London.
George stood it for just six months. Then he had what was eu
phemistically described as an accident while cleaning his shotgun. With
both the childless brothers dead, a search was on for the heir to the
Camden title. He was found without too much difficulty—a personable
young man, grandson of the third Earl’s oldest sister, who had married an
American and gone to live in the United States. His name was Michael
Patterson. And if the foreman of the Biddleford shipyard ever noticed
any resemblance between the handsome, clean-shaven sixth Earl and the
slouching, bearded American hippie who had taken a casual job at the
yard the previous summer, and vanished into thin air the day that James
sailed, he never mentioned it.
So Maisie, the Dowager Countess, moved into the Dower House, and
the sixth Earl and his lovely young wife Gloria took possession of the hall
and the estates. What really endeared the new Countess to the local
people was the warm friendship between her and the Dowager, whom
they had always considered a little bit—well, she’s American, of course,
one has to make allowances, but still . . .
Soon, however, under the loving guidance of the new Countess,
Maisie slimmed down, began to dress elegantly, allowed her hair to take
on its natural silver, and made friends in the county. The Earl was fre
quently away in the United States, and the two women were constant
companions. Very touching, really, people said. Almost like mother and
daughter.

HIT AND RUN
I
t was nearly midnight when the telephone shrilled at the bedside. Dr.
Steven Hutchins, who had hoped for an early night and a sound
sleep, heaved himself up onto one elbow and reached for the receiver.
Beside him, his wife Carol stirred, muttered something, and went back to
sleep again. She was used to this sort of thing. They both were. Dr.
Hutchins was a gynecologist, and babies seemed to delight in arriving at
inconvenient hours.
“Dr. Hutchins speaking.” Steve tried to keep the tiredness out of his
voice. He wondered which of the three or four expected arrivals this was,
which anxious husband he would have to reassure with doctorly calm.
“Steve! This is Roger!” Steve sat up straight. This was no midnight
birth. This was Dr. Roger Ashburn, a colleague at the small country hos
pital where Hutchins worked. What was more, Roger sounded desper
ately upset.
“What’s up, Roger?”
“Steve—I’m sorry to ring you at this hour—I just had to talk to
somebody—”
“That’s okay, Roger. Just tell me what’s the matter.”
“I’ve just got home from the hospital.” Dr. Ashburn sounded near
tears. “You know I was on Emergency Room duty—”
“Yes, but—”
“Steve!” There was a pause, then the words came pouring out in a
torrent. “Steve, Mary’s left me! She’s left home! She’s taken her jewelry
and a few clothes, nothing else. And there’s a note—she says she can’t
stand this one-horse town any longer, and living with a failure, a man
with no guts, and—oh, what does it matter what the note says? She’s
gone, that’s all there is to it. Forgive me. I suppose I’m in a state of
shock—”
“Roger,” said Dr. Hutchins, “pour yourself a stiff drink. Carol and I
will be right over. I’ll leave your phone number with the hospital in case
I’m wanted for an emergency.”
Half an hour later Steve and Carol Hutchins were sitting in the small,
shabbily furnished living room of the Ashburn house, giving what comfort
they could.
HIT AND RUN 105
“I know it must be an awful blow, Roger dear,” Carol Hutchins was
saying, “and yet—well, it’s not entirely a surprise, is it?”
Steve shot his wife a warning look, but Carol Hutchins was known for
a bluntness that often amounted to lack of tact. She went on. “Last time
Steve and I were here to dinner—”
“She’d had too much to drink,” said Roger. “She didn’t mean what
she said.”
Steve thought, well, it’s been said now. No point in covering up. He
said, “In vino veritas, you know, Roger. She did threaten to leave you.
Carol and I both heard her.”
“Mary is such a—a vital person, Roger,” Carol said. “She’s so pretty,
and she loves the good things of life, whereas you—”
“Oh, I know.” Bitterly. “I’m a failure. Just as she said.”
“You’re not a failure at all, Roger,” said Steve firmly. “You’re a dedi
cated doctor prepared to work in a small hospital for very little money.
You’re not ambitious—”
“And Mary is, that’s her trouble,” said Carol. She put her hand over
Roger’s, but he just shook his head hopelessly. “Have you any idea where
she might have gone to?”
“Not home to mother, that’s for sure,” said Roger. “Both her parents
are dead, and she’s an only child. In any case, she wouldn’t walk out
taking practically nothing with her unless she had somewhere to go.
Don’t be an idiot, Carol. She’s gone off with some rich boy friend. It’s
probably been going on for months, and I’ve been too blind to see it.”
There was an oppressive silence. Then Steve said, “Will you get a
divorce?”
Again Roger Ashburn shook his head. “No, not me. Let her, if she
wants to. I shall just keep on hoping that—that she may come back.”
“You’d forgive her if she did?” Carol sounded incredulous.
“Of course I would. I love her so much.”
On the whole, as everyone remarked, Dr. Ashburn took it very well,
considering. In the little town of Hindlehurst, Mary Ashburn’s disap
pearance was a nine-day’s wonder, an incomparable source of gossip.
Poor Dr. Ashburn. Never did think much of her, to tell the truth . . .
stuck up, if you ask me . . . all that blonde hair and cut-glass voice and
looked at you like you’re dirt . . . and the doctor so hard-working and
kind . . . better off without her, if you ask me. The soft West Country
voices sounded almost venomous.
Roger discussed with Steve and Carol whether or not he should go to
the police. But what was the use? There was the note, in Mary’s unmis
takable handwriting. Finally, Roger did speak to the local Superinten
dent, who just sighed and said yes, Doctor, he had heard, very sad, but if
a lady was determined to leave her husband—well, that was that. Yes,
can’t be easy for you, Doctor, with everybody nattering about i t . . .
It was, as Roger confided to Steve, the malicious gossip as much as
anything else which made him decide he could not stay in Hindlehurst
any longer. He didn’t want sympathy, if it was to be accompanied by the
reviling of Mary. A month after his wife’s disappearance he applied for
a job in a large hospital as far away as possible—in Manchester, actually,
way up in the midlands. And he got it—pathologists were in demand, not
a very popular branch of medicine, unless you were the sort who assisted
in famous murder cases and got on TV and ended up with a knighthood.
Before he left, Roger said to Steve, “If she does come back and finds
me gone, she’s sure to come to you and Carol. You’ll look after her, won’t
you? And get in touch with me at once . . . If she does come back . . . ”
But somehow they all knew that she would not come back. Not Mary
Ashburn. Not if she had a rich lover and was living it up in London or
Paris, as she’d always wanted to.
So Dr. Ashburn moved to Manchester, to a small bachelor apartment
on the outskirts of the great city, and worked harder than ever. He had
few friends, but most of the hospital staff knew the story of his wife’s
infidelity, and sympathized. Especially some of the nurses, for Roger was
good-looking in a rather harassed way, with a lock of fair hair perpetually
falling over his forehead. Still, Irene, I don’t know that I’d fancy being
married to a man who cuts up dead bodies all day. What d’ye mean,
married? He’s married already, isn’t he, even if she has walked out on
him?
In any case, Roger showed no signs of interest in a girl friend. At least
once a week he telephoned his friends the Hutchins to find out if there
had been any news of Mary. Nothing. Life—and death—went on.
It was a couple of months later that it happened. Siren screaming, an
ambulance raced through the city to where a knot of people had gathered
outside a department store on a busy street. In the center, the crumpled
body of a woman. Hit and run. Saw it myself. Yes, officer, I did get ’is
number, and I ’ope you catch ’im. Poor girl just stepped off the pavement
to cross the road, and before you knew it—ah, here’s the ambulance.
Excuse me, officer. Yes, of course, identification and all that at the hos
pital, but the thing now is to get her there while there’s hope—roll her
onto the stretcher, handbag still clasped in shattered hand, face badly
lacerated but still recognizable, long blonde hair—siren on again, clear the
streets—it was all too late. Dead on arrival. Better get her straight to the
mortuary and call Dr. Ashburn.
HIT AND RUN 107
The shrouded body was laid on the slab. The doctor’s assistants,
inured to this sort of horror, are sent about their tasks as the doctor him
self pulls away the sheet, gently maneuvers the body, turns it over, combs
the hair away from the face, and then—
A moment nobody who was in that room will ever forget. A cry of
sheer anguish. “Mary! Oh, my God, Mary!”
No doubt about it. Identification papers in the handbag, the broad
gold wedding band still on the finger, with Mary and Roger and the
wedding date engraved on the inside of it.
Roger Ashburn, distraught, facing police interviews. “Of course I
identify her, Inspector. She’s my wife . . . No, anybody will tell you, she
left me several months ago . . . I had no idea she was in Manchester. My
God, I hope they catch the swine that did it.”
They caught him. A doped-up teenager in a stolen car.
Steve and Carol Hutchins came up from Hindlehurst for the funeral.
What could they say? The rich boy-friend theory clearly collapsed—Mary
Ashburn had been killed on a mean Manchester street, wearing a cheap,
mass-produced blouse and skirt under a nylon mackintosh. Maybe her
lover left her, and she was too proud to come back. Maybe she found out
I was working here, and had come to find me. You’re sure she never
called you, Steve? Never wrote? Never.
“Well, there’s one thing,” said Carol Hutchins, well-meaning and
tactless as ever. “She did have a big life-insurance policy, didn’t she? She
was telling me—”
Roger Ashburn buried his face in his hands. “As if that mattered.”
Shortly after the funeral Roger left Manchester and moved to London.
The life-insurance policy may not have mattered, but he cashed it all the
same. One hundred thousand pounds. Nice apartment in Kensington,
A certain amount of private consultancy work.
What’s more, he remarried. Another girl called Mary, funnily
enough. Nobody was invited to the wedding. Very quiet, Registry Office.
Black-haired and beautiful, was the second Mrs. Ashburn. The couple
traveled abroad quite a lot, but no Immigration Officer ever noticed—why
should they?—that the second Mrs. Mary Ashburn had been born on the
same day and in the same place as the first, was the same height and had
the same blue eyes.
Meanwhile, the Manchester police never did solve the problem of
Miss Mabel Smith, reported missing from home the day after the hit-and-
run incident. Wearing a blouse and skirt—from C. and A. wasn’t it, Dad?
—and a nylon raincoat. Just went out yesterday to do some shopping, as
far as we knew. Well, you could say she kept herself to herself, might ’ave
’ad a boy friend we didn’t know about—yes, but wouldn’t ’ave thought
she’d just run off like th a t. . .
Put her on the Missing Persons file. Then, over the months that
turned to years, forget.
There was a remark made in the hospital canteen the day the first
Mrs. Ashburn died, but nobody seemed to overhear it, and it was quickly
forgotten. One ambulance attendant to the other: “Funny thing, I could
’a sworn she wasn’t wearin’ a weddin’ ring when we picked ’er up off the
street—yeah, perhaps I ’ad better get me eyes tested—’course there was
more important things to think of—funny, though.”

THE HONEST BLACKMAILER
A
ny young man starting out in life to be a serious blackmailer
should realize that he is entering a very delicate and possibly
dangerous profession, requiring great judgment, finesse, and
knowledge of human nature. Above all, he must learn not to be greedy.
If Harry Bessemer had not been greedy, he might still be pursuing his
lucrative career in London.
Harry came to his chosen profession in a conventional, almost classic
way. His parents were blunt, North Country, lower middle-class people,
and they were proud, in a way, when Harry—after an adequate but not
brilliant school career—informed them that he intended to go to London.
Shows the lad has spunk, independence. They were even more pleased
when he wrote to tell them that he had been accepted by the Metro
politan Police as a trainee. A right good start for the boy—shows you
what he’s made of. End up Chief Inspector, I wouldn’t wonder.
In fact, Harry did not enjoy his years on the Force—for his taste, the
work was too hard, the hours too long and the pay inadequate. However,
it provided him with precious experience and training, so that when he
resigned from the police he had no difficulty in getting a job as an
investigator for a highly reputable firm of private detectives.
At the beginning there was a lot of tedious legwork on divorce cases
—British law in those days still demanded the kind of sordid evidence
that only a hired detective could produce. However, he worked doggedly
and well, and in time was promoted to more sensitive and interesting
cases, involving important and wealthy clients who for one reason or
another did not care to call in the law. What he discovered on those
cases—the vulnerability of human beings, however exalted—finally
decided him to become a blackmailer.
It was, of course, vital that he should lay hands on and keep the
tangible evidence that he was sent out to locate—letters, photographs,
and even tapes, although he never found them very satisfactory. He
would report back to his firm that he had had no success in finding the
required evidence. The client might go away happily, convinced that the
incriminating document no longer existed; on the other hand, the client
might decide to call in another firm of private detectives, and it was im
perative that they, too, should find nothing.
There remained the question of where to store these valuable docu
ments until he was ready to use them. Harry moved from the small
suburban house which he was renting to another, similar one on the other
side of London, which he rented under an assumed name. Here, in the
cellar, he installed an efficient safe, a photocopier, and basic darkroom
equipment for developing and printing photographs. When he had a
sizable collection of potentially damaging evidence in his hands, he
resigned from his job as investigator and set up privately as a professional
blackmailer.
It is a moot point whether a career blackmailer should marry or
remain single. A wife may provide a useful cloak of respectability—on the
other hand, it admits another person into that very private world. Harry
made a nice compromise. With his savings, together with the small legacy
left by his parents, he bought a small dry-cleaning establishment in yet
another London suburb, which included living accommodations over the
shop. He then married a nice, pretty but not very bright girl named
Susan. She ran the shop and did a fair amount of perfectly legitimate
business.
Susan had no knowledge of the rented house in the distant suburb,
and she genuinely believed that Harry’s fairly frequent absences from
home were connected with some vague real-estate business up North.
This, in her simple mind, accounted for the comparative affluence in
which she and her husband lived, which could hardly have been produced
by the small dry-cleaning establishment.
Harry knew very well that one of the big difficulties a blackmailer has
to overcome is the actual transfer of money from the blackmailee, without
any obvious contact between himself and his victim, and, of course,
without any written or bank records. His terms, which were reasonable,
were strictly cash; and for this, the dry-cleaning shop provided an in
genious front. He bought a van with the name—Clean-U-Quik—painted
on the side of it. He himself drove the van to make special pickups and
deliveries, exclusively to the homes of his various victims.
Posing as a mere driver, in the employment of Clean-U-Quik, he iden
tified himself by a different and assumed name to each of his prospects.
The system was simple. He made a weekly or fortnightly call, the victim’s
clothes were actually cleaned and returned, and there was always an en
velope—ostensibly with a check for the cleaning bill—left for Harry to
pick up. It contained the required sum in cash. Thus, if his clients were
THE HONEST BLACKMAILER 111
rich enough (and most of them were) to employ a domestic staff, the
latter had no suspicion of what was going on. Harry felt justifiably proud
of his scheme.
For some years all went well. Then Harry became aware of a growing
worry about the permissiveness of modern London society. He soon
realized that actors and actresses, rich though they might be, were useless
prospects. They would merely laugh in his face, having probably already
sold the scandalous story to a newspaper for a large amount of money.
Even the aristocracy had become, by Harry’s strict standards, notoriously
lax, and were only of any practical use if they were closely connected in
some way with the royal family. Income-tax dodgers were still a pos
sibility, but unfortunately the Inland Revenue Service was becoming
altogether too efficient at catching its own offenders. Homosexuality was
no longer a crime, and eminent people were jostling each other to get out
of the closet. About the only promising prospects left were politicians and
diplomats. What with all this, and inflation too, the life of an honest
blackmailer was becoming more difficult by the day.
One of Harry’s good, solid clients who never let him down was the
Right Honourable Mr.—better call him X. Mr. X was a Member of
Parliament, Under-Secretary of State for something or other, eminently
respectable, married to a rich and aristocratic wife, and known for his
implacable stand against the Provisional I.R.A. in Northern Ireland.
Harry had acquired beautiful evidence—both photographs and letters—to
show that Mr. X in fact enjoyed a homosexual relationship with a young
Irishman, whom be kept in a discreet apartment on the fringes of
Islington, in East London, well away from his stylish West London house
in Kensington. What was more, the young Irishman was strongly sus
pected of having illegal connections with Ulster terrorists. It was, from
Harry’s point of view, an ideal setup.
What was even more, a sense of confidence—you could almost call it
friendship—sprang up between Harry and Mr. X. Harry’s fortnightly
demand was a perfectly reasonable sum to pay for his discretion, and he
did not abuse it. Moreover, he made a special point of seeing that Mr.
and Mrs. X’s clothes were impeccably cleaned and pressed. The arrange
ment would have gone along very satisfactorily for a long time if Harry
had not become greedy.
The unfortunate fact was that, in a single week, Harry lost two steady
clients. One was a best-selling writer of tough, macho novels who
suddenly burst into print with details of his love affair with a private in
the Royal Marines. This doubled his sales, and rendered Harry’s com
promising photograph worthless. The other was a Member of Parliament
—a tax-evasion case which the authorities had not spotted, but Harry had
—who was blown up when he opened one of the letter bombs which Irish
terrorists had taken to sending to politicians known to oppose their views.
This double blow to Harry’s finances made him take a drastic step.
He wrote a letter to the Rt. Hon. Mr. X., addressed to the House of
Commons and purporting to come from one of Mr. X’s constituents. It
requested an urgent interview with the Member concerning rates and
taxes in the constituency. Every British voter has the right to speak to his
M.P. on such questions, and private rooms in the House are set aside for
such meetings. It was in this way that Harry had made his original
contact with Mr. X, and of course he signed the letter with the name by
which Mr. X knew him. By return of post Harry received a letter from
Mr. X ’s secretary, granting him an interview the following week.
The Right Honourable Mr. X was not a fool. He had a shrewd
suspicion of what was coming, and he was right. In the privacy of the
interview room Harry told him bluntly that the fortnightly bills for dry-
cleaning were to be trebled, starting from the next pickup day, at the end
of the week.
Mr. X smiled, as he always did. He agreed with Harry that these
were inflationary times, and that an increase was only to be expected.
Harry was momentarily taken aback, feeling that he had trodden on a
stair which was not there. He had expected at least a show of opposition.
“There’s just one snag, though,” Mr. X went on. “The banks are
closed for today, and I’m off to Belgium for that NATO conference
tomorrow morning. Would you take a check?”
“You know my terms,” said Harry, smelling a rat. “Cash only.”
“W e l l . . . ” Mr. X sighed. “I don’t see how it can be done. If you’d
wait until next month—”
“I said this week and I mean this week,” said Harry, who had finan
cial troubles of his own.
A sudden light broke upon Mr. X. “I know,” he said. “There are
banks at London Airport which will be open tomorrow before I have to
board my plane. I’ll draw the money there and send it to you.”
“Send it?”
“By post. If you’ll just give me your address—”
“Oh, no,” said Harry. “I don’t want cash like that arriving at the
shop.”
“Then perhaps you have another address—a private one?”
“You don’t catch me like that,” said Harry, “I pick the money up at
your house—in cash.”
“Oh, Harry,” said Mr. X, full of regret, “don’t you see I’m trying to
help you? After all, we trust each other, don’t we?”
“Up to a point,” said Harry cautiously.
“Ah, well now, how’s this for an idea? I’ll mail the money from
London Airport in an envelope addressed to myself, at my home. I’ll have
to disguise my handwriting, of course, but that won’t be too difficult. I’ll
mark the envelope Private and Confidential, and I’ll underline the word
Private three times. That way, you’ll be able to recognize it at once.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, while I’m away, my mail will be waiting for me on the marble
table in the hall. You know the one. When the butler goes off to collect
the clothes for cleaning, you can just pick up the envelope and slip it in
your pocket. How’s that?”
“Not bad,” said Harry, nodding slowly. “Not bad.” He smiled. “It’s
a real pleasure to do business with you, sir. You’re a real gentleman.”
That evening Mr. X said to his young Irish boy friend, “You know,
Paddy, I think it might not be a bad idea if I got one of those letter
bombs.”
“But—”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be able to identify it, and take it straight to the
police. But there are rumors going round that perhaps I’m not so unsym
pathetic to the provisionals as I appear to be—”
“Okay,” said Paddy, who was a practical young man. “What do you
want?”
“It must be posted tomorrow morning at London Airport,” said Mr.
X.
“Hey, that doesn’t give me much time—”
“You can arrange it,” said Mr. X.
“Well—yes, okay. I suppose I can.”
“I’ll address the envelope myself. Get me one not too small.”
“Yes, sir," said Paddy, with an impish grin and a mock salute. He
brought a large envelope.
Mr. X began writing, in apparently uneducated capital letters, his own
name and address. He added Private and Confidential in the top left-hand
comer and underlined the word Private three times. Then he handed the
envelope to Paddy. “Make sure the device is well-padded with newspaper
or something,” he said. “It should look as though the envelope was pretty
full. Got it? All clear?”
“Yes, sir," said Paddy again. He took the envelope. “I’ll be getting
around to the boys to get this done right away.”
“You’re a good lad,” said Mr. X.
Three days later Harry turned up in his dry-cleaning van at the
Kensington house, as usual. As usual, the butler asked him to wait in the
hall while he went to get the dirty clothes. It was a great trial to the
butler, who had been trained in a grand house, that the mews cottage at
the back had been sold for an enormous sum, so that tradesmen had to
be admitted through the front door.
As soon as the butler had gone, Harry went to the hall table. Sure
enough, there was the envelope, well-stuffed, written in a hand which,
from long experience, he could recognize was that of the Right Honour
able Mr. X, thinly disguised. He picked up the envelope and put it in his
pocket, just as the butler returned with his laundry bag.
“I’ll have these back by Tuesday,” said Harry cheerfully, as he went
out the front door. He could hardly have been more wrong. As soon as
he got into the van, he could not resist opening the envelope. He, the
van, the clothes, and part of Mr. X’s front steps were blown to
smithereens.
Harry had made another grave error, as great as his sin of greed. He
had not bothered to check that there was no conference in Belgium that
week. The Right Honourable, who had simply gone to stay for a few days
with his sister in the country, came back to London at once when he
heard the news, expressing profound shock and surprise.
The police were efficient—they were becoming accustomed to dealing
with such incidents. They found a few fragments of the envelope, and the
butler affirmed that he had noticed, after the explosion, that an envelope
marked Private and Confidential, which had been on the table awaiting Mr.
X’s return, had disappeared. He could only conclude that the dry-
cleaning man had taken it—either to steal it, but more likely in mistake
for an exactly similar one which was still there, marked Clean-U-Quik,
and containing Mr. X’s check for three pounds and thirty pence for
cleaning, as per invoice.
Since poor Harry was dead, the police decided to give him the benefit
of the doubt, and concluded that it had been an error on his part to take
the wrong envelope. They congratulated Mr. X on his fortunate escape.
The terrorists, however, took a different point of view. Paddy stood a lot
higher in the organization than Mr. X had ever realized, and he began to
be worried. If the rumors that Mr. X was playing a double game were so
prevalent that Mr. X had actually suggested an apparent letter-bomb
attack on himself, then Mr. X ceased to be an asset and became a positive
danger. The Right Honourable Mr. X, having disposed of Harry, was in
a light-hearted mood—even possibly in a state of grace—when he opened
an innocuous-looking letter in his mail at the House of Commons a
couple of weeks later, and had his head blown off. So a rough sort of
justice may be said to have been done.
Elleiy Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1982

THE SMALL TRAIN ROBBERY
here are far fewer coincidences in life than most people imagine.
T A visitor from the country, gazing at the apparently random

throngs of Londoners or New Yorkers milling around the city,
would detect no pattern whatsoever. But a native of any big city—let us
envisage him as watching the same crowded section of the metropolis
from his high window each day—would soon begin to recognize familiar
faces. Workers from the suburbs, arriving by the same train every
morning and lining up for the same bus to the same destination. Police
men on regular street patrol. Housewives shopping at the same super
market on the same day each week. The list is endless. It is the random
faces which are in the minority.
Apart from this aspect of patterned travel and movement, there is a
similarity in the general lifestyle of people in the same income bracket,
living in the same sort of houses, taking the same sort of vacations, buying
the same sort of goods. This is why there was really no great coincidence
in the case of the Sloanes and the Pettigrews, even though there appeared
to be on the surface.
The Sloanes and the Pettigrews lived in similar houses, in similar
suburbs, but on different sides of London—one family to the south and
the other to the west. These are the directions preferred by the more
affluent suburbanites. Mr. Sloane and Mr. Pettigrew both held good jobs
in London, and our mythical viewers (we would need two) would have
seen them arriving daily at the same hour, but at different railway stations
—Mr. Sloane, from the south, at Victoria; Mr. Pettigrew, from the west,
at Waterloo.
Mrs. Sloane and Mrs. Pettigrew shopped at different supermarkets,
of course, but both of the same prestigious name, noted for quality. Both
also patronized small, privately-run shops for speciality foods. Both
bought their basic clothes at the best of the big chain stores but splurged
on an occasional outfit from a local boutique or a large London shop.
Both families had two children—an elder boy and a younger girl.
Brian Sloane and Christopher Pettigrew were ten years old. Susan Sloane
was six and Amanda Pettigrew five—we must allow a certain amount of
individuality. Otherwise, the two families were so identical that there was
THE SMALL TRAIN ROBBERY 117
nothing at all strange in the fact that a week before Christmas both
couples should have been in the toy department of a famous London store
on Saturday morning choosing Christmas presents for their children. It
was not a shop that either family patronized a great deal, being far too
expensive—but Christmas is Christmas and one feels one owes it to the
kids. Besides, their school friends would probably look down on them if
they couldn’t produce the cachet of a famous London label.
+++
There is a special attraction about toy trains. Computerized games and
spaceships and flying saucers are all very well, but there is nothing quite
like the Christmastime show of engines and coaches rushing around that
enormous display table, hooting as they charge into the tunnels, being
diverted onto side tracks by electrically worked signals, pulling up at tiny
stations to be boarded by midget plastic passengers. Mrs. Sloane and
Mrs. Pettigrew—who did not meet on this occasion—were immersed in
seas of dolls and miniature cookery sets for their daughters (who says that
sex discrimination does not begin in the nursery?) but their husbands
found themselves standing side by side, utterly enthralled by the magic
of the toy-train display.
Now, there is a sort of snobbery which masquerades under the term
“trendy.” This means that to keep ahead of your inferiors and in step
with your peers you abandon any fad as soon as it becomes popular and
look for something entirely different. Both Mr. Sloane and Mr. Pettigrew
liked to think of themselves as trendy—the bright new young successful
generation. Both had noticed that when it came to toys the spaceship-
computer was reaching peak popularity, while trendy people had switched
to more old-fashioned items—replicas of Victorian china dolls and dolls’
houses, painted hobbyhorses, do-it-yourself kits for building models of
The Spirit of St. Louis, and so forth.
As they stood watching the miniature railway, Mr. Pettigrew re
marked to Mr. Sloane, “Fascinating, isn’t it? I don’t believe any man
really grows out of his love of trains.”
Mr. Sloane agreed. “I’m thinking of buying one of these for my boy,”
he said. “He’s just turned ten.”
Mr. Pettigrew was one up. “Oh, really? I always feel the electric sets
are rather ordinary—unless you can afford the whole display and have
space for it at home.” There was a pause. “My boy is ten too. I’ve de
cided to get him one of those old-fashioned steam engines over there.”
“Steam engines?” said Mr. Sloane jealously. “I haven’t seen any
steam engines.”
“Over here. Come and take a look.” Mr. Pettigrew tried not to sound
smug. “By the way,” he added, as the two men made their way to the
other side of the crowded department, “My name’s Pettigrew. Charles
Pettigrew. ”
“Harold Sloane,” replied Mr. Sloane. “Nice to meet you.” The two
shook hands briefly.
“Well,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “There she is.”
“Remarkable,” said Mr. Sloane. “Works on batteries, I suppose.”
“That’s right. She’ll run on rails, of course, but also just on the floor.
I feel sure Christopher will love it.”
Round and round on a small circular track the toy engine chugged
doggedly to nowhere. It was indeed ingenious. An interior light
simulated the roaring furnace, which was continuously being stoked by a
miniature stoker—a mannequin of real metal, like an old-fashioned toy
soldier. No plastic here.
The tender behind the engine was filled with small lumps of black-
painted metal which looked remarkably like coal, even if they were a bit
too shiny, and by a clockwork mechanism the stoker would turn every few
minutes, bury his shovel in the coal, and swing back to the fire again.
The shovel was empty, of course, but the effect was still impressive. Even
more so was the effect of puffs of smoke which emerged from time to time
from the engine’s funnel. The driver wore the uniform of the old Great
Western Railway.
A small remote-control panel, rather like those used to change
television channels from the comfort of one’s armchair, enabled the user
to speed up, slow down, or stop the engine, to blow the whistle, and to
produce the smoke puffs. This was without doubt the train for those who
were catching the trend towards the past.
Mr. Sloane said, “I hope you won’t think I’m being a copycat if I get
one for Brian too.”
Mr. Pettigrew laughed. “Of course not,” he said, conscious of his
superiority. “In any case, the boys are unlikely to meet—unless by any
chance you are taking a skiing holiday in Switzerland after Christmas.”
“Now, that really is a coincidence!” exclaimed Mr. Sloane. “As a
matter of fact, we are. January fifth to fifteenth, at Verbier.”
“How very extraordinary,” remarked Mr. Pettigrew. “We shall be at
the same place on the same dates. Which hotel?”
“La Poste.”
“Even the same hotel! Well, well—what a small place the world is, to
be sure.”
Once again the element of coincidence was smaller than might
appear. Skiing was definitely “in,” and everybody knew that France and
Austria were cheaper than Switzerland and therefore carried less prestige.
January, once the Christmas festivities are over, is less expensive than the
high season of February and March. The Hotel de la Poste at Verbier
—an excellent and charming small hotel—is not the Palace at St. Moritz.
Once again, snobbery and expediency had brought the Sloanes and the
Pettigrews to the same conclusion, this time as to type of holiday,
country, dates, resort, and hotel.
The two men purchased their identical trains, shook hands with much
more warmth than before, and looked forward to meeting each other
again.
+++
This happened at London Airport on January fifth, where the two families
waited to board the same aircraft bound for Geneva.
This time the wives were introduced, and then the children. Each
wife carried an airline bag as hand-luggage, and each bag contained,
among other essentials for the journey, an identical toy steam engine.
Both boys had refused to be parted from their favorite Christmas present
while on holiday.
Brian Sloane and Christopher Pettigrew eyed each other warily, like
young animals. However, the discovery that each owned an identical
engine began to break the ice.
“I bet mine goes faster than yours,” said Christopher.
“Bet it doesn’t,” retorted Brian.
“Let’s have a race then. Mummy, can I have my engine?”
“Yes, please, Mummy,” echoed Brian to his mother. “We want to try
them.”
“No, you may not,” said both mothers in unison. “You can play with
them at the hotel when we get there.”
As it turned out, skiing was more popular with the parents and the
small girls than it was with the boys. Susan and Amanda joined the
children’s class and learned quickly if unscientifically, as small children
almost always, do. The boys—too young for the adult classes—found it
humiliating to be outdone by their younger sisters and soon took to
cutting ski lessons in order to play with their trains. This they did mostly
in the corridors and lobbies of the hotel—looked on indulgently by a
kindly staff, for such places were mostly deserted in the daytime.
Soon the game became fiercely competitive. It turned out that a con
siderable amount of skill entered into the manipulation of the remote
controls and so a number of ingenious variations on the simple speed race
were evolved, such as halting one’s engine at an exact mark, or covering
a certain amount of floor space in a certain number of seconds—moving
slowly at a calculated speed—and so on.
The two families became extremely friendly. They shared a table in
the dining room, and talked about skiing and snow conditions. By tacit
consent, neither Mr. Sloane nor Mr. Pettigrew talked about their work.
It was understood that both were “something in the City,” and left it at
that. One day, however, Mr. Pettigrew announced that he had to go
down to Geneva on business. (“My excuse for taking this holiday, old
man, if the truth were told,” he remarked to Mr. Sloane, with a wink.)
Business in Geneva put Mr. Pettigrew in an undoubtedly one-up
position, until Mr. Sloane countered neatly by an even more dramatic day
away from the resort—a trip by express train through the Simplon Tunnel
into Italy and to Milan, where he had a colleague with whom he “wanted
to consult.” Mr. Pettigrew was reasonably sure that no such colleague
existed, but he had no way of proving it. He comforted himself with the
thought that Mr. Sloane had missed a superb day’s skiing and spent a lot
of money just to make himself look important. As if it mattered.
All too soon the holiday ended and the families returned to Geneva
to catch their plane back to London—only to find chaos at the airport.
As frequently happens in winter, while the mountain resorts bask in
sunshine under blue skies, a mer de brouillard, or sea of fog, settles in the
valleys. The airport, under the joint pressures of fog and a new snowfall,
was closed down. Would-be passengers milled and grumbled as flight
after flight was announced as indefinitely postponed. Children became
bored and tetchy. Adults tended to patronize the bars in order to pass
the time. An airport is an attractive place to pass through, but it can
become extremely tedious if one is stuck there for four or five hours.
But at last the authorities took a decision. The airport at Zurich was
open, and passengers for London would be taken there by train in order
to board a specially arranged flight to Heathrow. Anything was better
than sitting around Cointrin Airport in the fog—but the train journey to
Zurich takes some five hours and was not much fun either. As soon as
the Sloanes and the Pettigrews were installed in their compartment and
the train pulled out of the station, Brian and Christopher demanded their
toy engines. The corridor of a real train was, to them, an ideal place for
their games.
The parents sighed, but—all right, let them have them, anything to
keep them amused. It was only when other passengers complained that
the guard finally came to tell the Sloanes and the Pettigrews that it must
stop. Both boys, thoroughly tired and fretful, set up howls of protest and
the two weary fathers were sent to take the trains from them and repack
them while the mothers tried to console the boys with candy.
Everybody was delighted when Zurich was reached at last, and an
airport bus took the exhausted travellers to the airport. Oh, the relief to
be actually on board, taxiing, taking off. Another drink, a snack, and in
a few minutes just about the whole aircraft was asleep. It was, after all,
seven o’clock in the evening and most of the travelers coming from moun
tain resorts, like the Sloanes and the Pettigrews, had left their hotels
before seven that morning.
+++
At last, London Airport. The long, arm-breaking walk with heavy hand-
luggage (the flat rolling platforms out of order, as usual), the endless wait
for baggage, but it was home, sweet home.
The Pettigrews and the Sloanes, having finally claimed their luggage,
set out together for the “Nothing to Declare” Customs exit, like hundreds
of other returning holiday-makers with just the one permitted bottle of
whiskey and carton of cigarettes. At the checkout, a few bored-looking
Customs Officers sat making an occasional spot check. They were well
trained. They knew how to distinguish between the genuine returning
tourist and the professional smuggler. It was just as the two families were
passing this vital point that Brian Sloane raised his voice in a wail of
protest.
“He’s stolen my train!”
Everybody stopped and the Customs Officers looked up, jerked out
of their boredom, amused.
“I haven’t! I haven’t touched your horrid old train!” cried Chris
topher.
“He has! He has! This isn’t mine!”
Brian had been allowed to take his toy train out of the airline bag to
amuse him during the long wait for baggage. He was now waving it in the
air and shouting, “He stole it! He stole it because mine’s better!”
“Now, now, what’s all the fuss about?” asked a kind-faced lady Cus
toms Officer, coming out from behind her desk.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Mr. Pettigrew, quickly. “Our sons have
identical toy trains and they’ve been playing with them a lot on holiday.
As you may know, we’ve had a long hard day, and they’re both a little
fractious. Alice, dear,” he added to his wife, “do take Christopher’s train
out of your bag. There. Exactly the same. You see, Brian? Nobody has
stolen anybody’s train. You have one each, exactly alike, as you’ve always
had.”
Brian Sloane’s young mouth set in a hard line. “That’s my train,” he
said, pointing to the one Christopher was now clutching to his chest.
“This one isn’t mine. It’s different.”
“Brian dear,” said Mrs. Sloane, “it isn’t different. You’re just imag
ining things because you’re tired.”
“I’m not! I’m not!” Brian appealed to the nice lady Customs Officer.
“Come and look! They’re different!”
The lady smiled a conspiratorial smile at all four parents. She said,
“Come and show me then, both of you. I can’t see any difference.”
“Look at the coal!” Brian shouted. “Christopher’s has been like that
ever since his daddy went to Geneva! And now it’s on my train!”
There was a sudden silence. The lady Customs Officer examined the
coal on both trains more closely. Then she straightened up and went to
call a male colleague.
Quite suddenly, there seemed to be a lot of people around.
A man in uniform, who seemed to have some authority, said to Mr.
Pettigrew, “Just a routine question, sir—may I ask where you work?”
Another moment of silence. Then Mr. Pettigrew said, “If you must
know, I work in Hatton Garden.”
“The diamond market?”
“Yes.”
Slowly the man said, “Young Brian here has bright eyes. He is per
fectly correct in saying that the trains are different. These pieces of so-
called coal—” he indicated Brian’s train “—are in fact uncut diamonds,
painted black. It’s been cleverly done, but there’s no doubt about it.”
Mrs. Sloane had gone very pale. She said, “I assure you, I had no
idea—”
“No, madam,” said the man in authority, “I’m sure you didn’t. The
trains were switched at the last moment so that your son—or, in fact, you
—would be smuggling the diamonds into Britain, if anybody was bright
enough to notice. Once through Customs, the engines would have been
switched back to their real owners.”
Alice Pettigrew began to shout. “I don’t think it’s fair to accuse us
like that! Somebody put the boy up to it! How could he ever have
noticed?”
Brian Sloane said defiantly, “Because I’ve been taught to observe,
that’s why! ”
“And who taught you?” Mr. Pettigrew sounded casual, almost
amused.”
“My dad, of course! I told him about the difference in Christopher’s
train the day after you got back from Geneva. Didn’t you know my dad’s
a Detective Superintendent at Scotland Yard?”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “Just my luck. And the colleague in
Milan?”
“Interpol,” said Mr. Sloane shortly. “You wouldn’t have got away
with it—but I didn’t expect it to happen like this. 1 told Brian to keep his
mouth shut. I didn’t realize you’d switched the train. Did you do that
on the train to Zurich?”
“No,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “On the aircraft. You were all asleep.” He
held out his hand to Mr. Sloane. “It’s been nice knowing you,” he said.
“We are, after all, very much alike.”
“Good at our jobs,” said Mr. Sloane with a smile.
“Trendy,” said Mr. Pettigrew.

A LONELY PROFESSION
he profession of paid assassin—or “gun for hire,” as the Americans
T put it with unnecessary melodrama—is really not very difficult nor

arduous. The money is extremely good, so that a couple of jobs
a year are usually enough to maintain a high standard of living. Of
course, it’s essential to be a crack shot, and I discovered I was so gifted
during my brief spell in the Army, where I won several prizes for
marksmanship. I didn’t enjoy the Army, 1 must say, and I resigned as
soon as I could. But there remained the question of making a living, and
my only real asset seemed to be my expertise with firearms.
What makes a professional killer’s life much less dangerous than
many people believe is the fact that it is extremely difficult for the police
to trace a murderer who has absolutely no known connection with the
victim. Once you have eliminated family members, business rivals,
jealous lovers, and so on, you are left with the world’s population as
suspects. Talk about a needle in a haystack.
The paid killer’s only problem is to make contact with the employer
in such a way as to excite no suspicion of collusion. My first commission
came about quite by accident, in a London pub. I fell into conversation
with this obviously wealthy man, who started pouring out the story of
how he hated his wife and wanted to marry somebody else but dared not
sue for divorce because he was dependent on his wife financially and
would eventually inherit from her.
“I’d cheerfully kill her,” he confessed, “except that I’d be the prime
suspect and up for murder at the Old Bailey before you could say ‘knife.’
So that’s no answer.”
I suggested he come back to my place for a drink, although he’d had
more than enough by then, and 1 put a proposition to him. Suppose I
were to kill his wife? What would it be worth? He would, of course,
arrange an impeccable alibi for himself. He would also provide the gun.
Most of the money would be paid in cash, but a respectable amount—on
which I would pay tax, scrupulously—would come to me as my fee as a
freelance consultant to his firm. Or, to be exact, his wife’s firm—
inherited from her father—of which he was a director and would be owner
after her death.
A LONELY PROFESSION 125
Quite naturally, he was suspicious as to my ability to carry out such
a murder, but I was able to show him my Army trophies from Bisley and
they convinced him. We amused ourselves thinking up a suitably ridic
ulous name for me as consultant. H. de Quincy Featherstone, Manage
ment Consultant, was the claim that eventually went up on the door of
the office I rented in London. I deliberately chose a flowery and elaborate
name because my own is short and prosaic. I had a feeling that if this
first job went well H. de Quincy might get other clients. Word of mouth
is the only form of advertising practicable in this business.
I have found through my long and so far successful career that women
can be lured by greed for money—the “something for nothing” approach
—while men can be lured by lust for sex, in whatever form it appeals to
them. This first time, carefully coached by Mr. X, I telephoned Mrs. X
and put to her a proposition which was just believable, by which she
could make a lot of tax-free cash. I emphasized that we would have to
meet discreetly somewhere in the country and that her husband should
know nothing about it. She mentioned the weekend I knew he had
arranged a business trip to the Continent.
I suggested she should tell him that in his absence she would visit
friends in the country, which she duly arranged to do—at the same time
making a rendezvous with me at a deserted spot en route. I’ll always
remember the look of utter amazement on her face when I pulled out the
gun and shot her.
I then wiped the gun clean of fingerprints, to make quite sure, and
buried it in the woods some distance away. It has never been found, but
it wouldn’t matter if it was. I had driven to the rendezvous several hours
ahead of time and made sure my car was completely hidden from any
passing traffic. After the shooting, I had only to make sure that the road
was clear—it was little frequented, anyway—before I drove out again and
back to London.
Mrs. X’s friends raised the alarm some hours later when she failed to
arrive at their house. A search was mounted and the police found the
body the next day. Mr. X returned from Paris, distraught with grief. The
murder is still on the police files, of course, but remains unsolved. There
was nothing whatsoever to connect H. de Quincy Featherstone, who had
once worked for a short time as management consultant to the firm, with
Mrs. X. The two had never met. Might as well suspect the firm’s
accountant (who knew Mrs. X all too well according to some people) or
their lawyer, or the tea-lady.
As I had hoped, Mr. X—thoroughly satisfied with the outcome of the
affair—recommended other clients. Naturally, different methods were
involved in each case. I presented myself to the victims under a whole
number of various names and professions. Nevertheless, the office of H.
de Quincy Featherstone remained the place to make contact with me for
those in the know. I did not always have to come face to face with my
victim as I had in the case of Mrs. X. Once he or she could be lured to a
deserted spot, I could take aim from some suitable cover. One bullet was
all that was ever needed. As I said, you have to possess that skill.
I had no fear that any of my clients would ever betray me. 1 always
taped my first interview with each, explaining what I was doing and play
ing back enough damning evidence to convince them it existed. Actually,
I always erased the tapes afterwards, as they would also have implicated
me as well. Whether they existed or not was purely academic—the im
portant thing was that the clients believed they did.
The only drawback to a profession like mine is that it is by nature a
lonely one—and so I added a young lady to my solitary household. You
may think it was a foolish move, but Lottie suited me to the ground. She
was very beautiful, but not exactly an intellectual giant. In fact, her
vocabulary and general understanding were very limited, and she had no
idea of my real profession. I did talk to her about some of my problems,
just to get things straight in my own mind before a case, but she simply
smiled uncomprehendingly and said nothing. Her main concerns were
food, drink, and affection—and I kept her amply supplied with all of
them. In return, she put up patiently with my soliloquies and did what
ever I told her.
Things were in this satisfactory state when 1 received a telephone call
at the office one day.
“Is this H. de Quincy Featherstone?” The man’s voice was heavily
accented, although hard to place.
“Speaking,” I said.
“I wish to make an appointment. For a consultation, you under
stand.”
“Oh yes? May I ask who recommended me to you?”
He named a very rich client for whom I had neatly removed a
business rival a short while previously. An excellent reference.
I said, “As you know, I am a management consultant. May I ask the
nature of your business, sir?”
There was a small hesitation, and then he said, “I think it would be
best if we were to discuss that privately, at your office. When can you
give me an appointment?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “the office will be closed for a few days
—I’m taking a short holiday. If your business is urgent, perhaps you
could visit me at my holiday hotel.”
This was standard practice, as his informant must have told him. He
gave his name as Smith—they nearly all do—and a telephone number
where he could be reached at certain brief periods of the day. A public
call-box, undoubtedly. I promised I would ring him and give him the
name of my hotel and my room number.
I made the necessary arrangements and the following day 1 was able
to telephone Mr. Smith and inform him I would be in Suite 4 at the
Majestic Hotel, Southbourne-on-Sea, for the next three days. I suggested
he should visit me at 6 p.m. on the following day and ask for me under
the name of Arbuthnot. Featherstone, I explained, was just a business
name. I had to spell Arbuthnot twice before he got it right—his English
was pretty shaky—but I’ve always refused to shelter behind such false
names as Brown, Jones, or Robinson, as I consider them more dangerous
than anonymous.
At five minutes past six the front desk telephoned to tell me a Mr.
Smith was here to see me. I said to send him up.
Mr. Smith was a swarthy gentleman with a small black beard and I
realized at once that the accent I had been unable to place was Arabic.
Fortunately, I had some orange juice among the drinks in my suite—it
was a favorite of Lottie’s, as a matter of fact—because he naturally refused
anything alcoholic, and in fact averted his eyes and gave the impression
of muttering a prayer to Alah when I poured myself a modest Scotch and
soda. Considering the mission on which he’d come, I should have
thought that a drink or so wouldn’t have added significantly to his list of
sins on Judgment Day, but I’m not an expert on Islam and I understand
that some killings are considered religiously justified.
In any case, he came straight to the point. “Let us be blunt. Your
name is not Arbuthnot—” he got the pronunciation pretty well, I suspect
he had been practising “—nor is it Featherstone. You are prepared to kill
for money. A lot of money.”
“That’s roughly the position,” I said. “Of course, I have to be
satisfied with the details and arrangements in each case.”
He grunted. “I am empowered to offer you—” I won’t name the sum,
but it staggered even me “—to shoot the President of Bashara.”
I have, of course, invented the name of the country concerned, I need
only say that it is a Middle Eastern state, wealthy, and influential, which
was at that time governed by a virtual dictator, who styled himself
President and had distinctly right-wing leanings. He was also reported to
be harsh in his dealings with overreligious Moslems.
I say the sum mentioned by Mr. Smith set my brain reeling—I could
retire on it for the rest of my life and live with Lottie in some tropical
paradise with no extradition laws—but I had my rules and I was not going
to break them.
I shook my head. “Sorry,” I said. “No political assassinations. I
don’t touch them.”
“I think you will make an exception of this one.”
“Look here,” I said, “the thing is simply too risky, and I don’t take
risks. I’ve no idea how you propose to change the government in Bashara,
or whether or not you’ll succeed, but it’s a gold bar to a tintack that the
man who does the shooting won’t ever find out. He’ll be picked off by
the President’s bodyguard within seconds. After that he’ll either become
a national hero or a hissing and a byword but it won’t make any
difference to him, because he’ll be dead. If he’s lucky. If he’s just
captured, and your side fails in its coup, he’ll have an even worse time.
I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. No religion, no politics. Those are my rules.”
The liquid brown eyes gazed earnestly into mine. “You are gravely
mistaken, my friend. We have the entire Army with us—also the police
and even the President’s bodyguard. We cannot fail. The moment that
man is dead the country will rejoice and proclaim its new leader.”
“In any case,” I added, ignoring his last statement, “I thought that
movements like yours always had plenty of—” I was going to say
“fanatics” or “madmen,” but I thought better of it “—plenty of enthusi
astic supporters who are willing to risk death or capture. Get one of them
to shoot the President. You don’t need me.”
Mr. Smith smiled. “You are right,” he said. “We have brave men
who are willing to risk the sacrifice. Unfortunately, we feel none of them
is as likely to guarantee instant success. Let me outline our plan to you,”
he added wheedlingly.
“Oh, very well.” I poured myself another Scotch. He had barely
touched his orange juice. “But I’ve given you your answer.”
“You are very kind.” He smiled—as false a smile as I have ever seen,
and I’m something of an expert. “One of our devoted band of followers
has already undertaken to shoot the President. He will be in the crowd
when the President unveils the statue he has had erected to himself in the
main square of the capital city. You and he will be standing close
together. You will have identical guns. His fingerprints will be on both
weapons. At a signal from another of our group, you will both shoot.
“I can predict without a doubt that his shot will miss, and by a long
way. Between ourselves, he is a hopeless marksman. Yours, of course,
will not miss. In the ensuing panic, you will drop your gun to the ground.
Meanwhile, he will be proclaiming himself as the assassin. In fact—for he
is a simple soul—he will actually believe that he is. As I told you, this will
be the signal for a general uprising, and a takeover by the Army. If my
fanatical friend—” he used the word himself “—if he survives, he will be,
as you said, a national hero. If not, he will be a revered martyr. Mean
while, all interest will be centered on him. You will make your way as
quickly as possible from the scene. If we have succeeded, as I am con
vinced we shall, you will be allowed to leave with no fuss. If by any
chance we should be delayed—I will not say fail, because I do not even
entertain the thought—then you may be interrogated by the police. I am
sure you are quite capable of surviving such an interrogation. You will
have no incriminating weapon on you. Being English, you and Lottie will
be part of a group of British visitors on a cheap package tour—as you
know, Bashara is encouraging tourism. The ballistics experts may be
puzzled to find two guns, but the bullet will match—”
I interrupted him. “How do you know about Lottie?”
“We know all about you.” He took another sip of orange juice.
“That is one of the reasons why you will accept this very simple job.”
“Oh really? What are the others?”
“Just one other. You now know all about us, and our plans. Should
you refuse the commission, we would be compelled to liquidate both you
and Lottie. So, you see, you really have no choice, have you?”
“You’re bluffing,” I said. “I don’t know how you found out about
Lottie, but you don’t know my real name nor where—”
“Ah, but we do.” He mentioned my correct name and my private
address. Without even waiting to assess my reaction to this, he pulled
out a wallet from his breast pocket and began counting out ten-pound
notes onto the table. “We use no larger denominations,” he said. “They
might attract notice. You will see that all these are used notes, and they
are quite untraceable. This is just an initial down payment, which will
cover expenses and leave a considerable sum over. The remainder of the
money has already been deposited in a numbered Swiss bank account.
I myself do not know the number—nor does anybody else in our
organization. It is written inside this envelope, for your eyes alone.”
From another pocket, he brought out an envelope, printed with the name
of a reputable bank in Zurich, and sealed with sealing wax bearing the
imprint of the Bank’s insignia.
Mr. Smith went on. “You may go over to Zurich and check for your
self that the money is in the account, and that only you know the
number. The manager will confirm that he himself wrote the number on
a slip, placed it in this envelope, and sealed it. You can see that the seal
has not been broken.”
Frankly, I didn’t believe that this couldn’t have been faked, but I took
the envelope just the same. Mr. Smith smiled.
“I am glad you are being so reasonable,” he said. “We have already
made bookings for you and Lottie—under your own names, why not?—on
the Sunshine Econotour which leaves London on February fourth. You
have only to pick up the tickets. This is nearly a month away, which will
give you time to check up on the Zurich account. When you get to
Bashara, which is the last stop on the tour—”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What’s to prevent me from going to
Switzerland, drawing all the money out of the account, and simply disap
pearing?”
Fie went on smiling. “We would find you, never fear. However, what
you suggest is not possible. As the bank manager will tell you, the money
is there, but it is in the form of bonds which may not be cashed until
February tenth—the day after the unveiling of the statue.” He brushed
aside any opposition as if it were a troublesome fly. “Now, to get to
business. When you arrive at your hotel, you will be contacted by one of
our agents—”
And so on. The scheme had been thought out down to the finest
detail. When he had finished explaining it, Mr. Smith finished his orange
juice and departed. And I was left with the prospect of my first political
assassination on my hands.
+++
I took the precaution of flying to Zurich, although heaven knows I didn’t
doubt that Mr. Smith’s story would be confirmed. Whether it rep
resented the whole truth or not was a different matter. I went to the
bank, and in the manager’s office I broke the seal on the envelope and
extracted the slip of paper with the magic number written on it in ink.
The manager beamed, confirmed everything I had been told, and even
wrote the individual numbers—but in a different order—under my very
eyes, so that I could see that the writing of the figures was identical.
When I prepared to put the slip of paper into my wallet, he earnestly
advised me not to carry it in such an obvious and easily lost place.
“If you cannot memorize it,” he said in his perfect English, “I would
advise you to write it someplace where it cannot readily be identified as
an account number.”
We finally agreed that a good spot would be in my diary, which I
carried everywhere with me, on the Personal Details page. We listed it
as the registration number of my car. We then shook hands warmly, and
I returned to England.
The next day I went to Econotours and picked up the tickets for
Lottie and myself on the Winter Sunshine Tour, which ended in Bashara.
And in a couple of weeks we duly set out, a couple of English tourists
escaping the wild northern winter as cheaply as possible.
The tour was pretty grim, as you can imagine—a group of non
descript, middle-income Britons being herded around battered Roman
and Egyptian ruins and in and out of crumbling churches by a brightly
efficient and patently bored courier. However, I did my best to merge
inconspicuously into the party. Lottie, as usual, was very popular. She
is a very pretty girl.
At last we reached Bashara. We were told, as if it were a great treat,
that the evening and the following day would be “free”—that is, without
organized excursion. The courier suggested that some people might be
interested in going to the main square to watch the unveiling of the
presidential statue, but warned us to leave our valuables in the hotel safe
in case of pickpockets in what would certainly be a huge crowd.
+ + +
Shortly before dinnertime there was a knock on my door and a pageboy
handed me a note he said had just been left for me at the front desk. It
was unsigned but asked me to come “Alone, if you please” at half-past
nine that evening to a large cafe much frequented by tourists.
I hoped that no other members of my group would be there to see me
hobnobbing with suspicious local characters, but I need not have worried.
Not only were they all so exhausted that a free evening was a blessed
chance to go to bed early, but Mr. Smith—whom I recognized at once
even though he had shaved off his beard—looked impeccably respectable
and even English. He greeted me and ushered me to a booth where, amid
the din of talk and laughter, we could chat quietly without fear of being
overheard.
He ordered two drinks—beers, since we were supposed to be British.
He didn’t touch his, although I was glad of mine. When the waiter had
withdrawn, Mr. Smith produced two color photographs from his breast
pocket. The first showed a very dark young man wearing a bright-red
shirt and red-and-white-striped trousers—a highly conspicuous outfit.
“My young cousin,” said Mr. Smith blandly, “of whom we were
speaking in London. The one who is so keen on your favorite sport. He
is very proud of his new clothes and will certainly be wearing them
tomorrow in honor of the occasion.”
The second picture, I saw with some surprise, was of an obviously
European gentleman, very fair, quite young, and conventionally dressed
in a lightweight khaki suit such as are normally worn by the British in
Bashara. It took me a moment or so to realize that this man must be a
Russian.
“And here is my friend from Paris,” Smith went on. “He is planning
to attend the party with my cousin. I hope that you will see them
both—” he lowered his voice, although it wasn’t necessary “—about
twenty feet from the platform and to the right of it—from the point of
view of a person on the platform. To the left, facing the platform. You
understand?”
“Perfectly,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” Mr. Smith added, “my friend from Paris has a nasty
cold. He may have to reach into his pocket for a handkerchief. As he
brings it out—well, I mustn’t bore you any more with my snapshots. I
trust you and Lottie are enjoying your tour?”
“Lottie seems to be,” I said. “I’ve been on jollier jaunts myself.”
Mr. Smith smiled. “The next jaunt,” he said, “will be very jolly. By
the way,” he added, still smiling, “I must make it clear that it is part of
our orders that you and Lottie—you two only—should go to the
inauguration tomorrow. Don’t bring along any friends from your holiday
tour—or anybody else, for that matter.”
“I don’t see why I should take Lottie,” I objected. “I don’t like ex
posing her to danger. After all, she’s only—”
“Please do not argue,” interrupted Mr. Smith. “You will only do
harm to both of you.” He handed me a small paper bag. “Have a nice
day tomorrow.” And on that happy note, we parted.
The paper bag, as I found out when I got back to my hotel room,
contained a small but efficient gun, fully loaded.
+ + +
Lottie and I were up early next morning. The ceremony was scheduled
for eleven o’clock, but when we reached the main square at eight it was
already bustling with activity. Workmen were putting the finishing
touches to the dais where the President was to stand, flanked by high-
ranking officers and, of course, his bodyguard. The statue, which even
allowing for the plinth must have been at least twice life-size, loomed like
a Halloween ghost in the middle of the square, shrouded in white cotton.
Barricades were being erected so as to form a narrow pathway
between the statue and the platform, but I was able to see that the
President, who was no fool, had no intention of actually descending from
the platform and so virtually into the crowd. The barricades were to
prevent an overenthusiastic populace from trampling on and breaking the
cord that led from the statue’s shroud to the presidential dais. In theory
at least, a snip of the golden scissors—or whatever was going to be used
—would release the sheeting and reveal the statue. However, to do this
the President would have to take a step forward, while the other occu
pants of the platform—including, hopefully, the bodyguard—would be
standing rigidly at attention, arms raised in salute. I guessed that this
would be the moment when Mr. Smith’s friend from Paris would decide
to blow his nose. It seemed a sweet setup to me.
I hadn’t intended to hang around the square, for fear of being con
spicuous, but in fact at half past eight there was already such a crowd that
I felt it was high time to start maneuvering toward the spot indicated by
Mr. Smith. Soon it would be impossible to move in any direction at all.
So Lottie and I idled in among the throng, even though she was obviously
fed-up and beginning to complain, and I was gratified to see, just before
nine, the bright-red shirt and striped trousers making their way toward
the appointed place. The young man, whom I recognized easily from Mr.
Smith’s snapshot, was with a group of people his own age—students,
apparently—and they all seemed to be having a good time, singing
patriotic songs. The policemen and soldiers who were overseeing the
crowd regarded them indulgently, smiling at the exuberance of youth.
Mr. Smith’s friend from Paris, the presumed Russian, was nowhere to
be seen—until he suddenly materialized himself at my side. It is, as I
know, a difficult trick to move inconspicuously even in a crowd and I
made a mental note that a first-class operator had been assigned to this
job. Naturally, he gave no sign of recognition, but he made good and sure
that I had seen him. Then, without hurry or fuss, he stationed himself in
such a position that the red-shirted young man and I could both see him
clearly. And so we waited.
The waiting was enlivened by rousing military marches played
through loudspeakers, and at last a distant wailing of sirens indicated that
the presidential motorcade was on its way from what had once been the
royal palace. Amid wild cheering and waving of Basharan flags, the
parade finally arrived in the space cleared behind the dais—first, an escort
of motorcycle outriders, then huge black limousines which discharged
dignitaries, military officers, and security men who took up their places
on the platform.
At last, with more guards and escorts bringing up the rear, the
President himself stepped out of the largest white closed car I had ever
seen—almost like a tank, and certainly armored. He mounted the steps
to the platform to thunderous applause. I wondered where Mr. Smith
was and exactly what he was planning for after the shooting. However,
that was not my concern. I had a job to do, and I would do it.
It was laughably simple. Just as I had predicted, after making a few
remarks in Basharan—which I did not understand, but took to be self-
laudatory—the President stepped forward. The loudspeakers began to
blare out the national anthem and the personnel on the dais froze into
respectful immobility. The President was handed the golden scissors, and
simultaneously Mr. Smith’s Parisian friend reached in his pocket and
brought out his handkerchief.
The two shots rang out, precisely at the same moment. I don’t sup
pose that more than a tiny handful of people realized there had been
more than one. The President had just time enough to look surprised
before he fell. Ironically, the impact of his stout body broke the cord and
the statue stood unveiled as its model died.
Pandemonium broke loose at once. The boy in the red shirt was
waving his gun in the air uttering shrill cries of triumph while his com
panions sang the “Internationale.” Everybody else seemed intent on
getting away, but police and soldiers had sealed off all the narrow streets
leading to the main square. I heard afterward that many people were
trampled to death in the general stampede. A couple of the President’s
bodyguards had meanwhile recovered sufficiently to whip out their guns
—and that was the end of the self-proclaimed assassin in the red shirt.
Mr. Smith’s friend from Paris had, of course, disappeared.
It began to occur to me that Mr. Smith’s plans were not working out
as he had hoped. He had assured me that the Army, the police, and the
crowd would acclaim the killer and cheer their new leader. Instead, the
wretched young fanatic was dead, his friends arrested, and the police and
Army seemed to be in thorough control of the situation. I decided that
it was high time for Lottie and me to follow the lead of the man with the
handkerchief. I dropped my gun under the milling feet of the crowd and
we disappeared.
+ + +
Back at the hotel, things were buzzing. The news had come through the
radio and television, and the tour operators had decided to cut short the
trip and bring us all back to London immediately while our chartered
plane could still take off. It seemed inevitable that the airport would be
closed as soon as somebody in authority got around to ordering it.
The courier greeted us with a mixture of relief and exasperation. “Oh,
there you are! Where on earth have you been? We were just going to
leave without you. Onto the bus at once, please! Your bags have been
packed for you and are on board. Have you any valuables in the hotel
safe? No? That’s good. Right, driver, let’s go!”
Luckily, the hotel where we were lodged was on the same side of town
as the airport. Our charter plane must have been one of the last to leave
Bashara before all international flights were banned.
I wasn’t at all surprised to find that both my wallet and my diary were
missing. After all, hadn’t we been warned against pickpockets, even
without the added confusion of an assassination? I was glad I had taken
the elementary precaution of memorizing the number of the bank
account, destroying the original diary and buying an identical one, into
which I wrote a number quite at random, and entirely unlike the actual
account number. I also added, in a clumsy and easily breakable code, the
initials of a well known Swiss bank where the money was not deposited.
One learns to take every precaution. It could, of course, have been an
ordinary theft, but my personal view was that my documents were now
in the possession of Mr. Smith’s friend from Paris.
The news filtered through slowly and inaccurately to the outside
world.
At first it was announced that the President had merely been
wounded, but by the evening Bashara Radio was forced to admit that he
was dead. His assassin, a fanatical left-wing student, had been killed by
a quick-thinking member of the presidential bodyguard. Nevertheless, it
was believed that he was merely the tool of a large and sinister organiza
tion, whose members were being sought relentlessly by the security forces.
There was as yet no indication of who would be the next President.
Parliament—a rubber-stamp assembly—had been convened to discuss the
question. And so on.
More and more, I became convinced that Mr. Smith and his friends
had been duped by the man with the handkerchief. It was well known
that the Russians disliked the right-wing regime of the late President, but
I felt sure that they’d never had any intention of allowing a military
takeover. They would make sure that the new President should be one
of their own selected people, under orders from Moscow. As the world
knows, I was right.
This put me in a delicate position. I flew to Zurich the next day by
the earliest plane. It was the day of maturity for the bonds in which the
money had been placed, and I was waiting outside the bank when it
opened. I hoped I had fooled the man with the handkerchief, but I
couldn’t be sure. However, to my relief, the money was still there. I
withdrew it all and redeposited it in another numbered account at a dif
ferent bank in the city, keeping out enough to fly Lottie and myself to a
South American country where I felt we would be reasonably secure . . .
+ + +
Once in this country, where we now are, I opened a bank account under
my correct name and had the money transferred, bit by bit, from
Switzerland. I bought a charming villa in the country, where Lottie and
1 now live very quietly. We’ve applied for permanent residence, and since
in these parts palms can be greased—and I have no lack of grease—I think
there will be no problem.
However, I have taken the precaution of putting a stout barbed-wire
fence around the property, installing burglar alarms and perimeter search
lights, and buying several extremely fierce guard dogs. I hardly ever go
outside the grounds. I suppose you could say—yes, you well might say—
that it’s not unlike being in a very luxurious top-security prison. But
consider my position. Mr. Smith knows me. The gentleman with the
handkerchief knows me. And I know too much. I always knew that I
should never have got involved in a political assassination.
Incidentally, you may be wondering how Lottie and I were able to
disappear from the main square in Bashara with such ease and speed after
the assassination, considering that all exits were guarded by police and
soldiers. Well, there’s really no mystery. The Basharans are charming
and courteous people by nature, and who was ever going to suspect a
fragile young blonde Englishwoman, carrying a very pretty little eighteen-
month-old girl? The crowd made way for the two of us, and the guards
simply saluted, chucked Lottie under the chin as she sat perched on my
shoulder, smiled, and let us through.

FACES OF BETRAYAL
I
f you searched the length and breadth of the United States of
America, it’s doubtful if you would find a couple more suited to
represent the American Dream than Geoffrey and Arlette Browning.
They could have stepped, no questions asked, into an advertisement in
The New Yorker—or, to be more accurate, The Washingtonian, for they lived
in Washington D.C. In Georgetown, naturally—in a charming little
house with a small back garden ablaze with camellias, a paved patio with
white-painted wrought-iron furniture for summer drinks, and even a
magnolia tree. They were both in their early thirties, both extremely
good-looking (Geoffrey had dark brown hair and gray eyes, to com
plement Arlette’s ash-blonde and blue) and they had one child, a little
boy of two called Christopher.
Geoffrey and Arlette had met at college in the tempestuous Sixties
and it was inevitable that they should both have been caught up in the
left-wing student movements of the time, but both had soon outgrown the
infection and had ended their college days as right-of-center preppies.
Consequently, it was no barrier to either of them, when it came to
entering government service, that for a few mad months they had
marched and demonstrated and shouted anti-war slogans outside the
White House. Geoffrey started his career as a permanent official at the
State Department and rose rapidly. Already it was being rumored that he
would soon be knocking his head against the ceiling of non-political
promotion and might well start taking active political steps with the idea
of eventually running for Congress.
Arlette, married to Geoffrey at the age of twenty-one, had never
intended to be a career woman. She got a secretarial job at the Pentagon,
which she did so well that she also rose rapidly. Her job became more
and more interesting, not to mention lucrative, and it was for this reason
that she put off having a baby until she was thirty. However, when
Christopher arrived, she gave up her job and concentrated on being a
wife, mother, and hostess. The Pentagon hoped to woo her back when
the boy was older. Arlette had not made up her mind about that one way
or the other. However, she kept in touch with her old colleagues, and the
Brownings’ little dinner parties usually consisted of a fashionable mixture
of important people from the military and political worlds. Everybody
predicted a future for the young couple even rosier than their very satis
factory present. Of course, said everybody, they obviously had money
behind them, and that was always a help.
What everybody did not know was the source of that money, or that
there was a very different side to the picture. Geoffrey’s family name had
not always been Browning. His great-great-grandfather had fled to
America for sanctuary after the 1848 uprising of Poles against the
Prussians. His name began with the letters BR and then meandered off
into a succession of Zs and Ks which completely baffled the immigration
clerk. The latter, having already entered two infathomable names as
“Brown” that day, became a little more imaginative and dubbed this
family “Browning.”
Of course, this was ancient history, and the Brownings had apparently
become completely Americanized. Nevertheless, deep down and almost
imperceptibly, a hatred of all things German passed from generation to
generation. During the Second World War, in which Geoffrey’s father
fought with distinction, this loathing of Germany had turned into an
equally passionate admiration of Russia.
Arlette’s case was much more recent. Her young parents had escaped
from France just ahead of the advancing Nazis. They came from well-to-
do families—you had to be pretty rich in those days to get out of France
in time. Nevertheless, there was only enough in the kitty to send the
young people to America. Their parents stayed behind in Occupied
France, tried to organize an escape route for shot-down Allied airmen, but
were not very clever about it. They were caught and executed. Arlette
was born in the United States, but her anti-German prejudice was very
understandable. And in her case, too, the heroes of the war were the
Russians.
These feelings might have remained dormant had it not been for an
extremely persuasive, clever, and charming professor who was on a tem
porary assignment at the college both young people attended. He
recognized useful material when he saw it and began, with great subtlety,
to work on both Geoffrey and Arlette. It was quite a time before they
realized that he was an active Soviet agent; by then, they were both under
his spell and up to their necks in Marxist ideology.
It was this professor who advised them to resign from all left-wing
organizations and to build up a facade of such all-American conservative
decency that it could never be questioned, let alone penetrated. And so
the Russians gained two very satisfactory agents, one in the State Depart
ment and the other in the Pentagon, with access to all kinds of classified
FACES OF BETRAYAL 139
information that could be passed discreetly to the Soviet Embassy in
Washington.
Naturally, when she resigned her job to have a baby, Arlette ceased
to be of immediate use—but Christopher’s arrival completed the ideal
young family, and their contact at the Embassy (whom they knew only as
Boris) gave his blessing. Possibly, Arlette might go back to the Pentagon
in a few years. Meanwhile, the image was all-important.
The crisis came out of the blue, by one of those cruel coincidences
which occur in life. Well, perhaps not entirely a coincidence.
A West German statesman, who had been causing the Soviets a great
deal of annoyance, was visiting Washington for talks with the President.
Boris, through his usual roundabout method of communication, had told
Arlette to take Christopher along and join the small crowd of people
assembled outside Blair House to watch the German gentleman emerge
and be driven the few yards to the White House for his talks with the
Chief Executive. There would be a police cordon, but a pretty woman
with a little boy should be able to maneuver herself into a good position.
All that Boris wanted was a few photographs, taken by the tiny camera
fitted into the handle of Arlette’s handbag. Not photographs of the
statesman himself, but of his aides, his chauffeur, and his entourage.
Boris did not explain further. When assigning a job, he never gave his
executive agent one whit more information than was necessary.
What Boris himself did not know was that a group of young fanatics
—openly Communist and violently anti-establishment—had decided to
take matters into their own hands. Boris disapproved of the group, con
sidering that it put all the members of his very delicate network in
jeopardy. However, he hadn’t been able to get them disbanded and they
now acted on their own, without orders. On this occasion, they decided
to demolish the West German statesman with an ingeniously placed car-
bomb.
From their point of view, it was entirely successful. As soon as the
door of the big black limousine closed behind their victim, he and the car
were blown to smithereens. His secretary was also killed, but the chauf
feur was miraculously thrown clear and escaped with minor injuries.
Arlette and several other people at the front of the crowd of spectators
were hurled roughly off their feet by the blast and taken to the hospital.
Christopher, perched on Arlette’s shoulder ostensibly for a better view but
actually as an excuse for raising the camera to the desired height, was
killed outright.
H* + 4*
The news that his son had been killed and his wife injured reached
Geoffrey before it was broadcast on radio and TV. The early reports
spoke of several spectators injured and one small boy killed, but gave no
names. The State Department was naturally involved and got the names
ahead of the media. Deeply shocked and sympathetic colleagues sug
gested that Geoffrey leave at once and go to the hospital to be with his
wife. Geoffrey left the office, but did not go to the hospital. Instead, he
established emergency contact with Boris.
This was done by a simple device. There are many more than 365
public telephone booths in the District of Columbia, so it was quite easy
to allot one booth to each day of the year. Geoffrey carried a diary in
which each day’s emergency booth was identified by a code that only he
could understand. The accident happened on the sixth of October, the
279th day of the year. Looking under 279, Geoffrey identified the booth
as the second from the left at the intersection of N Street and Wisconsin
Avenue, not far from his home. He hurried there and dialed an unlisted
number. A female voice answered him. He requested that Boris should
call him back on the emergency number as soon as possible.
We already know that the attack on the West German was not the
doing of Boris and his organization and had taken him entirely by sur
prise. However, it was not considered good policy for a person like Boris
to be surprised, and in any case the Soviet Union was delighted at the
outcome of the unforeseen bombing. When he received Geoffrey’s mes
sage, Boris was puzzled. Like the rest of the world, he hadn’t yet heard
that Christopher and Arlette were involved.
“This bombing—” Geoffrey began when Boris phoned him.
“A very neat little operation, I thought,” said Boris in his faultless
English.
“Very neat.” Geoffrey kept his voice low, but venomous. “You know,
of course, that my son was killed? And my wife is in the hospital?”
“My dear fellow, I am desolated,” said Boris, truthfully. He hoped
that Arlette had honored the pact that, while each knew of the other’s
involvement, neither husband nor wife ever disclosed to each other the
exact details of an operation. “I presume,” he went on, “that your wife
was in the vicinity quite by chance and was naturally interested to see
such an—an eminent figure in the flesh. What has happened is a tragedy.
But this is war, Arthur”—Arthur was Geoffrey’s pseudonym as an agent
—“and you cannot fight a war without casualties. Nobody wishes to kill
innocent civilians, let alone those sympathetic to us, but if you consider,
there were only two deaths other than the one desired. You will agree?”
“Of course I agree with the figures. But my son—”
Boris cut him short. “Have you visited the hospital yet?”
“No.”
“That is good. Before you do so, we should have a talk, and not over
the telephone. Be there in half an hour. I shall be waiting.”
Geoffrey was almost as perturbed by this instruction as by the death
of his son. He had only ever met Boris once face to face, in the early days
of his recruitment, and the “no meeting” rule was fundamental. Only in
a real crisis would use be made of the so-called safe house.
The safe house was a small, expensive, and little-frequented art gallery
on P Street. It was run by a slightly eccentric and very wealthy girl, who
was, in fact, another of the clever professor’s college converts. The gallery
did a small amount of legitimate business, but most people considered
that the proprietress only kept it open as a hobby. It had a listed tele
phone number, of course, but the unlisted number which Geoffrey had
dialed belonged to a second telephone in the back room. A small collec
tion of elegantly displayed pictures and prints were hung in the gallery,
visible from the street—but many more were stored in the room at the
back.
The setup was excellent for the occasional, undesirable, but inevitable
meeting. Anybody might stroll into a P Street art gallery, and anybody
might ask to see more pictures in the back room. Nevertheless, when
Geoffrey had identified himself to the girl by a codeword and was ushered
through the door to the back of the gallery, he found Boris leafing
through a portfolio of engravings in a state of some agitation.
Geoffrey picked up a similar portfolio and stood beside Boris. Had
there been anybody there to see them, which of course there was not, they
were simply a couple of art collectors deciding on their purchases.
Rapidly and quietly, Boris said, “We have no more than five minutes.
After what happened this morning, I may have been followed, although
I do not think so. In any case, in five minutes I shall leave. You will
leave ten minutes after me, having made a purchase.”
“O.K.,” said Geoffrey.
“Now listen to me. Your son was a war casualty, no more, no less.
A better fate than growing up to die in another Vietnam, I am sure you
will agree. I must say that I am disappointed in you. You are brave
enough when there is no risk to yourself or your family, but as soon as
you find yourself in the front line, as it were, you apparently panic.”
“I—” Geoffrey began.
“Listen, don’t talk. I believe in your integrity, and when you have re
covered from the initial shock I believe you will continue to be useful.
The question is—Natalie.” Natalie was Arlette’s code name.
“What about her?”
“Women are sentimental about children. She is of very little practical
use to us at the moment, and she could become a serious danger if she
turned against us.”
“Was she there on your instructions, Boris?”
“Of course not. Do you think we are mad? Now it is entirely up to
you to convince her to remain loyal. Use the arguments I have outlined.
And remember, my friend, that the first person she would betray would
be you. I shall await your report.”
Boris pulled out an engraving, retied the tapes, and returned the port
folio to the shelf.
“Are you threatening her?” said Geoffrey.
“She is threatening all of us unless you do as I say,” said Boris, and
walked back into the gallery.
Ten minutes later, Geoffrey emerged into the street, walked several
blocks, and then hailed a cab to take him to the hospital . . .
+++
Arlette had been given a private room and the nurse informed Geoffrey
that she would have to stay at least one night. She was suffering, said the
nurse, not so much from her physical injuries, which were slight, as from
shock at her son’s death, There had been no question of breaking it to her
gently. She had actually seen it happen and had never lost consciousness.
“And she could be sure he was dead?”
The nurse hesitated, then said, “Yes, Mr. Browning. I’m afraid she
could.”
She paused, her hand on the knob of Arlette’s door. Softly, she
added, “She’s under sedation, but—well, please be very gentle with her.”
It was fortunate that Arlette was to some extent sedated; otherwise
she would probably have attacked Geoffrey physically as soon as he came
into the room. As it was, she could only mutter, but with venom, “Get
out of my sight. It’s all your fault. You got me into this.”
This was quite untrue, but Geoffrey wasn’t prepared to argue the
point.
He pulled a chair up to the bedside, sat down, and said softly,
“Darling, don’t you think I feel just as bad as you do? But Chris was a
casualty of war. That’s how you must think of it. In wars, innocent
people get killed. It’s tragic but inevitable. In Vietnam—”
Arlette rolled over onto her side to face the wall, away from her
husband. She murmured, “Go away.”
“All right, darling. I know what you’re going through—don’t think
I don’t. But by tomorrow—”
“Go away!” It was the nearest thing to a scream that Arlette could
manage. Geoffrey went.
Arlette came home the next day to a flood of condolences, to the
ordeal of the funeral, which she insisted on attending against her doctor’s
advice, and to Geoffrey. In public, she played the part of one half of an
inconsolable couple, clinging together for comfort. She did it very well—
after all, she had been playing a part for years. In private, she would not
speak to her husband, nor allow him to touch her.
It was a week after the funeral that Geoffrey said, after a dinner eaten
in icy silence, “Look here, Arlette, we’ve got to talk this thing out.”
“Very well.” They were the first words she had spoken to him in
private since his visit to the hospital. “Go ahead. Talk.”
Geoffrey said, “I told you the day it happened, but you weren’t in any
state to take it in. —Of course, I understand that.”
“Told me what?”
“That Christopher—and you—were war casualties. If you believe in
the cause you’re fighting for, you accept the fact that some people are
going to get hurt.” Arlette said nothing. Geoffrey went on, “Think of all
the other mothers who have lost their children—in Russia, in Vietnam.
They accepted it and bore it bravely because they were fighting for some
thing they cared deeply about.”
“I don’t think I’m so crazy about war now,” said Arlette, quite gently.
“Not now that I’ve seen it.”
“But evil has to be fought. The forces of Fascism—”
“Did you know,” said Arlette, “that it was Boris who sent me to Blair
House that day? To get some photographs.”
Geoffrey’s reaction was instantaneous. “I don’t believe it!”
“Why shouldn’t you believe it?”
Geoffrey hesitated. He did not want to say, “Because Boris himself
told me.” In any case, he was prohibited from mentioning the meeting at
the safe house, even to Arlette. Then he remembered Boris’s answer to
his same question.
“Do you think he’s mad?” he demanded. “He’d never have risked the
life of an important agent.”
“I can prove it,” said Arlette, still quietly.
She’s bluffing, Geoffrey thought. Aloud he said, in a conciliatory
voice, “Well, then, it must have been an administrative mixup. Boris
would never have sent you deliberately if he had known—”
“I see. So now Christopher didn’t die as a war hero but as the result
of an administrative mixup. I’m telling you, Geoff, I’ve had enough of it.
I’m no use to Boris any more, and I never intend to be. You can tell him
to remove my name from the rolls.”
In some desperation, Geoffrey said, “Look, Arlette darling, do what
you like, it’s your life, but please don’t take it out on me and on our
marriage. After all, we’re both young. We can have another child.”
Arlette stood up. She said, “I wouldn’t want to bring a child into the
sort of world that you and Boris are trying to create. Good night,
Geoffrey”
She walked out of the dining room and up to the spare bedroom
where she now slept.
It was then that Geoffrey knew for certain that she was going to
betray him. How and when? Well, it would be extremely difficult for her
to pin anything on him at the moment. She would wait for her chance,
and the next time he got an assignment from Boris. After all, she knew
the codes. She knew altogether too much. And if he, Geoffrey, were also
to become useless to Boris he had no illusions about how he would be
dealt with.
With the foreknowledge of her betrayal, Geoffrey began to hate
Arlette, to see her as a menace to himself and to the world that he was
fighting for. So a few days later Geoffrey and Boris met again, at a
different venue. A safe house, having once been used for a meeting, is not
used a second time. This was a setup much like the other, but in a
different part of town, and the front was a shop selling rare books.
Geoffrey said, “I had to see you. I’ve done everything I can, but she’s
adamant. She won’t work for us any more.”
“That’s no great loss,” remarked Boris. He was smoking a cigar and
thumbing through the pages of a rare first edition.
“It’s worse than that,” Geoffrey said. “She’s going to blow us all sky-
high as soon as she can get some definite proof. As soon as you give me
another assignment, in fact.”
There was quite a long silence. Then Boris said, “Do you care for
her?”
“Not any more. She’s become an entirely different person. A
stranger.”
“You’ve accepted your son’s death?”
“Yes, I have. And I’m ashamed of his mother. I don’t care what
happens to her.”
“Ah,” said Boris. “Very good. I believe you. You have answered
questions which I had not yet put to you.” Another pause. “Is she
planning any traveling in the near future?”
“We’re flying up to New York on Sunday, on the shuttle. It’s her
mother’s birthday and the family is expected to gather—that is, Arlette
and her two sisters and all the husbands. I don’t know how I’ll be able
to sit through it.”
“You’ll be traveling together?”
“No,” said Geoffrey. “Arlette is taking the eight o’clock plane in the
morning—you know they run every hour. She and her sisters always
prepare the birthday lunch for their mother, so she has to be there early.
I told her I was damned if I was going to get up at all hours just to hang
around that mausoleum with the gruesome old lady and my brothers-in-
law, who are both Fascist millionaires. 1 said I’d be there for lunch at
one.”
“Excellent,” said Boris. “Then you will simply wait until your wife
has left on the eight o’clock plane, then you will board the nine o’clock.
There is no need to book ahead, as you know.”
“But—”
“This will give you about three hours in New York, during which you
will make contact with a member of our United Nations delegation I am
anxious you should meet. Three anonymous hours are very useful. You
will receive your instructions.”
+ + +
Geoffrey went to bed early on Saturday night, leaving Arlette watching
television. Much as he now hated her, it wasn’t a very comfortable feeling
to sit in the same room with a person for whose imminent death he would
be indirectly responsible. Boris had said nothing definite—he never did
—but it was obvious that something was going to happen to the eight a m .
shuttle plane between Washington and New York the following morning.
Geoffrey hoped that not too many innocents would die this time. For
tunately, few people tended to use the early-morning planes over the
weekend. Only after he was in bed did he realize he had left his jacket
hanging over a chairback in the living room. He couldn’t face going down
again to get it, and actually there was nothing in it—just an innocent
wallet with credit cards and enough money for his trip. Nothing to
interest Arlette.
Next morning, still half asleep, he heard Arlette moving about the
house. His watch read just after half past six. Well, she had always been
a fiend for punctuality. It was her lookout when she got up.
The alarm clock by Geoffrey’s bed went off at half past seven. Arlette
had long since left for the airport. He made himself coffee, packed a
canvas bag with overnight gear (which included some microfilm New York
wanted to see), picked up his jacket from the living room, and started
shutting up the house.
Unlike Arlette, Geoffrey always liked to catch planes and trains with
no hurry but with no more than a few minutes to spare. National Airport
was only a few minutes’ drive. However, having had some difficulty in
parking the car, he found it was already five to nine when he arrived. He
almost had to run in order to get his ticket, but there were few people
about and the plane was far from full. The departure of his flight number
was called just as the desk clerk was stamping his ticket. He boarded
without even putting his change into his wallet.
The aircraft took off beautifully—a smooth, lazy soaring into the
sunny October sky. Geoffrey settled himself in his seat, pulled out his
wallet, and opened it to put in the change. As he did so, he noticed a
small envelope that hadn’t been there before but was of a type he recog
nized. He opened it. It contained small photographic prints of the West
German statesman and his group leaving Blair House. He remembered
that Arlette had claimed to have proof she had been sent there by Boris.
Last night, after he had gone to bed, she must have slipped this proof into
his wallet. So Boris had lied to him.
His musings were cut short by the jolly voice of the pilot, booming
through the loudspeakers. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.
Welcome aboard. We hope that you enjoy your flight to LaGuardia
Airport, New York. The time is now five minutes past eight, and we
should arrive at eight-forty-five.”
Eight? Geoffrey consulted his watch. It was five past nine. Oh, well
—people made these mistakes.
“I hope,” the pilot continued with a chuckle, “that all you folks re
membered to put your clocks back last night. Yes, winter’s on the way
but the weather bureau assures us we can expect the same beautiful fall
weather for a few—”
For a moment, Geoffrey sat there, numb. The three faces of betrayal
rose before his eyes—Arlette, Boris, and the apparently innocent face of
the watch he had trusted since his college graduation. Then he came to
life, tore open his seatbelt, and struggled to his feet.
A hostess approached. “Is something wrong, sir? Please refasten your
seatbelt. The captain hasn’t yet—”
Geoffrey shouted, “Take me to the captain! This plane has a bomb
on board! We’ve got to turn back at once!”
The hostess had been trained to be unflappable. “If you’ll just sit
down, sir, and refasten your seatbelt I’ll tell the Captain—”
Geoffrey pushed her aside. “I’ll tell the captain!” he yelled. “There’s
a bomb on board and I know who planted it! I’ll tell on the whole rotten
lot if he’ll turn back now!”
The hostess shrugged as Geoffrey ran up the aisle toward the cockpit.
“The captain will deal with him,” she told the other passengers. “Luckily
it’s only a forty-minute—”
Before Geoffrey reached the cockpit the bomb went off. There were
no survivors.
+ + *h
Arlette went straight to the authorities. Boris, whom she identified as he
was leaving the embassy, had diplomatic status and could only be ex
pelled from the United States as persona non grata. He went back to the
Soviet Union, to whatever fate his compatriots had in store for failures.
The college professor, however, turned out upon investigation to be a
Russian who had been smuggled into the States as a very young man. He
was sentenced to forty years in prison. However, he is expected to be
exchanged quite soon for an American caught spying by the Soviets. And
so it goes on.
THE FAITHFUL CAT
he fact that Hubert Withers decided one Thursday morning not
T to murder his wife after all should not be ascribed to kindness,

change of heart, nor any moral scruples, but to a mixture of
squeamishness and cowardice, plus the realization that he could get what
he wanted by other means. Hubert was a small man and had always
shrunk from violence of any kind. The thought of actually killing
Caroline made him feel quite nauseous. Also, there was the risk of being
caught. However ingenious his plan, a husband who stood to inherit his
wife’s fortune would automatically be Suspect Number One.
Nevertheless, he had to have money—and very soon. It would be
nice, of course, to have Caroline permanently out of the way and to come
into his inheritance—but he now saw that the matter might be dealt with
in a less drastic manner. If he could get her removed for even a short
while and get a Power of Attorney to act on her behalf—that is, to sign
checks and draw cash—all would be well.
It wasn’t that Hubert particularly disliked Caroline. She wasn’t a bad
old thing at all really, although of course he had married her strictly for
her money. She was the plain, shy daughter (and only child) of a
widower who had made a fortune in the construction business in
Washington, D. C., and she stood to pick up the lot when the old man
died.
During her life, Caroline Todman had made few friends. At school
—an extremely expensive private establishment where all the girls were
by definition heiresses—her only real friend had been another girl, also
plain but less shy, called Annabel: but Annabel had married the
impoverished younger son of a British nobleman and was now Lady
Fairley, living in a very grand Elizabethan manor house in southern
England—bought with Annabel’s money, naturally. Several times
Annabel had written suggesting that Caroline should visit England and
stay with her and her husband, but Caroline had felt too shy to make the
trip alone.
Despite her plainness and shyness, Caroline had had plenty of suitors,
as any girl in her position was bound to have, but old Todman, her father,
swore he could pick out a fortune hunter at a hundred yards. Even
THE FAITHFUL CAT 149
Caroline herself got to be quite good at it, and this tended to increase her
timidity and to put her off young men. Thus she had remained un
married until the age of thirty.
Hubert Withers appeared to be the only man who had ever wanted
her for herself alone. He, too, appeared to be very shy, and although he
was reasonably good-looking he disguised the fact by wearing unbecoming
steel-rimmed spectacles and a wispy moustache. He had been observing
Caroline Todman’s movements, and so cleverly contrived to meet her for
the first time in the Georgetown Public Library. They started talking
about books, and he shyly invited her out for a cup of coffee at a cheap
cafe, apparently quite unaware of who she was.
Caroline was enchanted, and even old Todman grunted his approval.
The young man appeared pleasant enough, and seemed stupefied the first
time Caroline invited him home to the family mansion, which stood in a
couple of acres of garden in super-fashionable Georgetown. Hubert had
stammered out that he’d had no idea she was the daughter of the Arnold
Todman. It was an excellent performance—Hubert should really have
been an actor.
As it was, however, he confided frankly—but shyly—to his pro
spective father-in-law that he was simply an impecunious student, several
years younger than Caroline, and without any means of visible support
except his student grant. He was working, he said, on a definitive thesis
on the impact of witchcraft on medieval European thought. As a matter
of fact, it was a subject which interested him mildly, and he knew enough
about it to talk convincingly to a millionaire who had started life as an
unskilled building laborer.
Todman gave his consent—but on one condition. The very condition
for which Hubert had been hoping. That young Withers should consign
his interest in historical research to the status of a hobby, and take a job
with The Firm.
“Start at the bottom, my boy, as I did. You’ll soon make good.”
One look at Hubert had decided Arnold Todman that for this frail
intellectual the bottom of the construction industry did not mean a job
as a builder’s laborer. Instead, Hubert was allotted a place in the more
comfortable and less strenuous side of the bottom of the business—a
glorified office boy, who happened to be married to the daughter of the
boss.
This might have worked out very well, except for one fact. It became
painfully obvious within a few months that Hubert was simply no good.
It was probably just as well that Arnold Todman dropped dead of a heart
attack before any of his senior staff had plucked up the courage to tell
him that Hubert was, and always would be, hopeless. Arnold died happy,
knowing that Caroline was married and that his son-in-law would soon
make his way in The Firm. He left everything he had—including his
controlling share in the business—to Caroline.
Caroline herself knew very little about The Firm, except that it
provided a handsome income. She took the advice of the senior ex
ecutives of the company and soon began to get a sound grasp of the
business. She suggested tactfully to Hubert that since they no longer
needed the extra money he should quit his so-called job and go back to
the research on which he had always been so keen. Hubert agreed, with
relief. His satisfaction with the situation was tempered only by the fact
that Caroline, although as plain and shy as ever, kept a tight hold on the
family purse-strings.
In the Todman mansion, where they now lived, the magnificent
library had been handed over to Hubert for his research work, and space
cleared on the shelves for his books of reference. Caroline organized the
house, dealt with all finances, and kept in touch with The Firm. Hubert
spent lonely and frustrated hours in the library. He was regarded with
great deference by the household staff.
“The Master is working on his book,” the butler would say with great
severity to a giggling maid or a clumsy kitchen boy. “Don’t you know
that he needs complete quiet?”
+ + +
So Hubert got complete quiet, and it nearly drove him mad. In fact, what
saved his sanity was that he began to fill in his Saharan hours by
gambling on horses.
Naturally, as the husband of Caroline (nee Todman), his credit with
book-makers was excellent. Nevertheless, the fact remained that all he
had was the pin-money doled out in cash by his wife—“After all, darling,
you can charge everything, can’t you?”—and matters had now reached a
point where his creditors were demanding payment, and that without
delay. He had stalled them for a while by quietly selling a valuable
picture from the Blue Morning Room—a place Caroline seldom visited
—but that was only a sop to the wolves. Soon the crunch must come.
As Hubert saw it, he had two alternatives. He could confess the
whole thing to Caroline, who would undoubtedly pay his debts for the
sake of family honor: but thenceforth his life would be untenable. Or he
could kill her.
The fact that he had a third choice came to him, as has been
remarked, on a Thursday morning in spring. Caroline, who had been
complaining of internal pains, had been taken to the hospital for tests and
observation on the Wednesday, and on Thursday Hubert was telephoned
by Dr. Edwards—an old family friend as well as the Todman medical
adviser.
“I’m afraid,” the doctor said, “that Mrs. Withers must be operated on
immediately.”
“What is it?” asked Hubert, hoping he sounded suitably worried, for
his heart had given an upward leap.
He was quickly disillusioned. “Oh, nothing dangerous, now that
we’ve discovered it in time,” the doctor reassured him. “She has a large
but happily not malignant growth on her womb. This is undoubtedly
why she hasn’t had any children. I would like to think it can be removed
without a complete hysterectomy, but—”
“A complete what?” said Hubert, who knew little of medical matters.
“Removal of the womb and ovaries,” explained Dr. Edwards. “Not a
dangerous operation—but I’m very much afraid, old man, that you’ll have
to face the fact that Caroline will never be able to have a baby.”
This suited Hubert fine, but he made appropriate noises of regret. It
was then that Dr. Edwards produced his life-saving bombshell.
“I must impress on you, Mr. Withers,” he said, “that although
relatively simple medically, this operation can have quite serious mental
after-effects on a woman. The surgeon, you see, is doing in half an hour
what nature does gradually over a period of many years. The result is
that some women suffer severe post-operative depression. I don’t want
to frighten you, but sometimes they may have delusions and even become
slightly unbalanced for a while. So I want you to be especially kind and
considerate to your wife when she comes home from the hospital.”
“Of course,” said Hubert.
“The best thing,” the doctor went on, “is for the woman to get a pet
of some sort—a surrogate child, if you like. She may well transfer to it
the pent-up affection for the child she now knows she can never have.”
“Caroline has a pet already,” said Hubert. “A Siamese cat.” He tried
to keep the dislike out of his voice. He had always hated the creature,
with its steady blue eyes and supercilious manner.
“And she’s fond of it?” pursued Dr. Edwards.
“She dotes on it,” said Hubert. “She’s even found a Siamese name for
it—Pakdee, which means the faithful cat.”
“Then it’s splendid,” said the doctor. “The cat will probably be able
to do more for her than either you or I can.”
A plan was forming in Hubert’s mind. He said, “I was just think
ing—when she’s strong enough, it might be a good thing for her to take
a vacation.”
“Excellent. Excellent.”
“I won’t be able to get away myself,” said Hubert, “but Caroline has
an old school-friend who is married and lives in England. Lady Annabel
Fairley. Annabel has been begging her to go and visit.”
“A most satisfactory scheme, if Caroline agrees,” said the doctor. “I
wouldn’t have liked her to go to some hotel on her own, but a visit to a
friend and a complete change of scene—yes, by all means.”
+ + +
So, in a couple of weeks, Caroline was back from the hospital and
recovering rapidly. She appeared to suffer from none of the ill effects the
doctor had predicted, but this didn’t prevent Hubert’s fertile imagination
from inventing them.
Each time the doctor called—for even today doctors will pay house
calls on people like Caroline—Hubert managed to have a word with him
alone before he left.
“Our patient seems to be making excellent progress,” the doctor
would say.
“Well—yes and no, Doctor.”
“Of course you wouldn’t notice it, just visiting, but you did warn me,
and I think you ought to know that the thing is becoming an obsession.”
“Thing? What thing, Mr. Withers?”
“This business of the Siamese cat. She won’t let him out of her
sight.” Indeed, Pakdee had been snuggled up with Caroline on the
daybed where she was resting when the doctor arrived. Hubert went on,
“She even has a crazy idea that somebody is out to harm the cat. I can’t
help feeling it’s not healthy for somebody to be so wrapped up in a mere
animal.”
“I told you, Mr. Withers, it’s quite natural.” Dr. Edwards was
reassuring. “It will pass.”
A few days later, while Benson, the butler, was serving cocktails,
Hubert suggested to Caroline that she might visit the Fairleys in England.
Caroline was enthusiastic. Since her marriage and her involvement with
the business, she had become much more self-reliant. “What a good idea,
Hubert. I’ll call her tomorrow. You’ll come too, won’t you?”
“I wish I could, darling,” said Hubert, “but I’ve had a word with
Bentinck”—Bentinck was The Firm’s managing director—“and he doesn’t
feel we should both be out of the country at the same time. Besides, I’ve
never even met Annabel. You’ll have much more fun on your own.”
“Yes, perhaps I will,” said Caroline cheerfully. “I wish I could take
Dee-Dee, but one can’t, with the silly British quarantine regulations.
Still, you’ll look after him for me, won’t you, Hubert?”
Dee-Dee was Caroline’s pet-name for Pakdee. It revolted Hubert
almost as much as the cat’s parlor trick, which he would perform for
nobody but Caroline. Every time Caroline returned home after an outing,
she would stand in the hallway and call “Dee-Dee!” in a particular tone
of voice. Wherever the cat might be, he would come hurtling at the
sound and with one leap would be in Caroline’s arms, his dark-brown
front legs embracing her and his face buried in the hollow of her neck.
The whole thing made Hubert feel slightly sick.
Now, however, all that he said was, “Of course I will, darling, you
know that.” Soon he was able to report to Dr. Edwards that Caroline
seemed much better and had agreed to go and visit her friend in England.
It was on the morning of the doctor’s final checkup visit, while Caroline
was sitting on the sofa with Pakdee on her lap, that Hubert said, “So it’s
all fixed? You go to England on the twentieth?”
“That’s right,” said Caroline. “The agency has made me a first-class
booking on the lunchtime flight.”
In the same pleasant even tone, Hubert said, “I may as well tell you
now that as soon as you have gone, I intend to get rid of that cat.”
“It should be—” Caroline did a double-take. “You intend to what?”
“Get rid of Pakdee,” said Hubert. “I shall have him destroyed. Make
no mistake about that, my dear.” He left the room.
+ + +
Dr. Edwards found his patient in near-hysterical tears. As far as he could
make out, her husband had threatened to have the cat destroyed as soon
as she left for England. She absolutely refused to go. Nothing would
make her. Hubert must have gone mad. When the doctor suggested that
she might have misunderstood her husband, Caroline clasped the cat even
more firmly to her heart and sobbed that the doctor was as bad as Hubert
and probably in league with him. Dr. Edwards persuaded her to take a
sedative and went in search of Hubert.
Hubert sighed deeply. “Oh dear,” he said. “So it’s started all over
again. How very distressing. I suppose it’s the idea of going abroad that’s
upset her. She’s seemed so much more rational lately.”
Edwards cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose, Mr. Withers, that you
might inadvertently have made any remark that might have led her to
think—”
“Of course not!” Hubert was suitably indignant. “Why, only the
other day I assured her I would do everything to care for the cat while she
was away. I believe Benson was there, serving drinks. He must have
heard me. I’ll ring for him now.”
The doctor was deeply embarrassed. “My dear Mr. Withers, there’s
no need. Of course, I believe what you say.”
Hubert, however, was adamant. “No, no, I insist.” His finger was
already on the bell. “This is all so worrying in its implications that I
think you should feel convinced about poor Caroline’s delusions.”
Benson appeared, and dutifully confirmed what Hubert had said. Of
course, he added, in answer to the doctor’s questions, the cat was
Madam’s, and Madam had a special affection for him. On the other
hand, he had never known the Master to be other than most kind and
considerate to the animal. When he saw him, that was. Madam and the
cat spent most of their time together.
The cat was not allowed in the kitchen, but Madam always fed him
herself in the butler’s pantry. While Madam was away, he, Benson,
would be happy to undertake this duty personally. Benson was an
English butler of the old school, inherited with the house from Arnold
Todman, and he had known and been fond of Caroline since her
childhood. In listing Caroline’s scant number of friends, Benson should
have been included.
“Well,” said Dr. Edwards when Benson had withdrawn, “this is, as
you say, a sad setback. I feel it more important than ever that she should
get away for a vacation. On the other hand, since she can’t take the cat
with her, we must somehow convince her that she simply imagined your
threat. Shall we talk to her together?”
They talked to Caroline together, and they talked to her separately.
Hubert protested over and over again that he would cherish Pakdee.
Benson promised to hand-feed him and to let Caroline know at once by
telephone if anything seemed to be the matter with him.
Finally, Caroline was convinced. In fact, she was more than con
vinced, she was very frightened—for she now truly believed she had been
suffering from delusions. It’s always a little scary to feel that one may be
going slightly mad.
Dr. Edwards, speaking privately to Hubert, said that he had high
hopes that Caroline’s vacation in England would put an end to any
further symptoms, especially when she returned to find her cat in good
health. However, he added, changing to a more somber vocal gear, if
delusions still persisted on her return, it might be necessary for her to
take a cure in a quiet nursing home for a few weeks.
+ + +
Hubert saw Caroline off at Dulles Airport, making all the right gestures
and saying all the right things. Just as the doors were closing on the
mobile lounge which was to take London-bound passengers to their
waiting jumbo jet, he said, softly and pleasantly, “1 shall have Pakdee
destroyed this evening. Goodbye, darling. Have a wonderful time.”
Caroline cried all the way to London, despite—or perhaps because
of—the excellent champagne with which the air hostess plied her, hoping
to cheer her up. As soon as she arrived at Fairley Hall which was after
midnight by British time, she insisted on telephoning home and speaking
to Benson. He assured her that Pakdee was hale and hearty and enjoying
his supper—it was seven o’clock in the evening, Washington time.
“I’m delighted you had a smooth journey, Madam,” said Benson. “I’ll
fetch the Master to speak to you right away.”
“No . . . No, don’t do that, Benson,” said Caroline. “Don’t tell him
I called.” She rang off.
+ + +
Early next morning Hubert said to Benson, “I’ve been looking up
Pakdee’s health card. He’s due for his yearly shots very soon.”
“Yes, sir,” said Benson. “Madam was remarking the same thing only
the other day.”
“Well, no time like the present. Call the Animal Hospital, will you,
and make an appointment for this morning? Then find me the cat basket
and I’ll take him along.”
So a couple of hours later Hubert drove to the Animal Hospital with
a surly, silent Pakdee glaring from his wicker basket on the passenger seat
of the Jaguar. The cat was duly given his inoculations and the details
entered on his health card. On the way home, however, Hubert took a
side street, doubled back, and drove to an entirely different address. It
was that of a veterinarian he had never met but had picked from the
Yellow Pages on account of the fact that he lived in an outlying suburb to
the south of the city, in Virginia. His name was Michaelson, and
Hubert—identifying himself as Mr. Robinson—had made an appointment
with him from a public phone booth before leaving Dulles Airport the
previous day.
Dr. Michaelson was a tall thin man with a long, slightly vague face
and long-fingered, sensitive hands. Pakdee calmed down as soon as he
got into the surgery, and allowed himself to be lifted out of the basket.
“Well,” said Michaelson, admiringly, “you sure have a beautiful and
valuable cat here, Mr. Robinson. He seems in fine fettle. Is anything
wrong, or does he just need shots?”
“He needs more than shots,” said Hubert. “He’s to be destroyed.”
“You can’t mean that, Mr. Robinson.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to do with me,” said Hubert crossly. “It’s my wife.
She bought him as a toy, and now she’s tired of him. He’s got to go.”
“And there’s nothing the matter with him?”
“Not that I know of.”
The vet looked thoughtful. He said, “I never like to destroy a young,
healthy animal. Especially such a fine specimen. Are you sure you
wouldn’t like me to find a good home for him?”
“I want to see that cat killed,” said Hubert with unattractive firmness.
“I’m paying you to do it. The cat is mine, and I can do as I like with him.
Come on, get it over with.”
“You’re absolutely adamant, Mr. Robinson?”
“Absolutely. And I want to see it done.”
Michaelson sighed. “Very well,” he said. He went to a cupboard and
began to prepare a syringe. “Do you want to take the body away with
you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Some people,” said Michaelson, gently ironic, “care enough about
their pets to bury them in their gardens. However, if you wish me to
dispose of him—”
“Yes, I do. Do what you like—just get rid of him.”
“Very well.” Michaelson stroked Pakdee gently. “Come on then, old
fellow. This won’t hurt.”
Hubert tried not to look as the needle went in, but somehow he
couldn’t keep his eyes off the cat. Pakdee turned his head with his last
strength, and gave Hubert such a look of concentrated hatred from his
deep blue eyes that Hubert took an instinctive step backwards. Then
Pakdee keeled over and lay still.
Hubert pulled himself together. Averting his eyes from the body, he
said, “Well, that’s that. Thank you. What do I owe you?”
Michaelson said, “Nothing, Mr. Robinson. I never make a charge for
destroying animals—whether it’s to put them out of their misery or
whether they’re in perfect health.” The tone of his voice exactly matched
Pakdee’s dying stare.
Hubert picked up the basket and made his escape. As he passed
through the waiting room, he felt acutely conscious of the empty basket
he was carrying. The only occupant waiting to see the doctor was a
severe-faced middle-aged lady who also held a cat basket, which was
occupied by a nondescript tabby.
“I’m sorry to see you’ve had to leave your cat with the doctor,” she
remarked. “Is it something serious, or is he just boarding?”
Hubert muttered something about just boarding, and hurried out to
the car. He didn’t for the moment feel up to anything more than finding
a bar and having a stiff drink. Everywhere he looked, he seemed to see
Pakdee’s eyes. It was unfortunate that in the course of his so-called
research he had just been reading a book on the connection between cats
and witchcraft. Perhaps Caroline was a witch and Pakdee had been her
familiar spirit. He ordered another drink, and told himself not to be a
fool. After all, his plan was only half complete. Pakdee had gone forever,
but there was the question of his successor.
After an hour or so, Hubert felt strong enough to resume his journey,
with the empty cat basket as passenger. This time he drove around the
Beltway and off into the northernmost Maryland suburbs, to another
address he’d found in the Yellow Pages. This was a private humane
society, which he’d picked as being as far as possible distant from the
Michaelson surgery. The society, which announced in its advertisement
that it never destroyed a healthy animal, acted as a lost-and-found agency
and a sort of adoption society for cats. Hubert had also telephoned them
from Dulles, giving his name as Mr. Green. His wife, he said, had set her
heart on having a seal-point Siamese cat, having just lost her elderly but
much-loved one. Did they have any for adoption?
“We don’t have any kittens at the moment.” Hubert had been
surprised to hear a masculine voice on the line. He had always supposed
that these places were run by cranky old ladies.
“Oh, we don’t want a kitten,” said Hubert quickly. “An adult cat.
About two years old.”
“Ah, then I think we can help you. Adult animals are always more
difficult to place. Seal-point Siamese, you said? Yes, we have no less
than three.”
“I’ll be along after lunch tomorrow,” Hubert had said.
He lunched in a small Maryland restaurant where he knew he
wouldn’t be recognized, and then drove to the Society’s address, which
turned out to be a small suburban house with half an acre of garden.
The whole place seemed to Hubert to be swarming with cats of all
ages, sizes and colors—some in spacious wire runs, some roaming freely.
A covey of them were gently shooed away by the benign elderly
gentleman who opened the front door, introducing himself as Mr.
O’Donnell.
“Ah, Mr. Green,” he beamed. “So nice to see you. Please come in.
I’ll take you to the drawing-room—that’s the one place cats are not
allowed.” He ushered Hubert into a small, shabbily furnished room. “I
daresay you find this a rather strange establishment, but it’s very worth
while work. Makes a contribution, you know.”
Hubert felt sure that he, too, would be expected to make a con
tribution. He had the money with him.
Mr. O’Donnell was still talking. “A seal-point Siamese, I think you
said. About two years old.”
“That’s right,” said Hubert. “A neutered male.”
”A neutered male? You didn’t mention that. That cuts down the
choice a little, but—yes, we do have two. I’ll fetch them, and you can
choose."
Left alone, Hubert ran over his plan in his mind. It seemed to him a
good one. All Siamese cats, in his view, looked very much alike—except
perhaps to the eye of love. Certainly none of the domestic staff—not
even Benson—knew Pakdee well enough to be able to identify him
positively. Dr. Edwards had only seen the cat on a couple of fleeting
occasions. Only Caroline would accept no substitutes—especially in view
of the fact that the new cat would certainly not respond to her call with
Pakdee’s parlor-trick. He knew—because he’d been listening in—about
Caroline’s call to Benson the previous evening, and guessed that a similar
call would be made daily. Benson would be uniformly reassuring. So,
when Caroline returned and claimed that the cat in the house was not her
cat—well, Dr. Edwards would certainly prescribe the quiet nursing home,
which would enable Hubert to get the Power of Attorney he needed.
Even a couple of weeks would be long enough . . . .
He was aroused from his reverie by the return of Mr. O’Donnell,
carrying a cat under each arm.
“There we are,” he said, putting the animals down on the floor,
“Delightful creatures, both of them. Take your choice.”
There was never any doubt. One of the cats was noticeably larger
than Pakdee, and his “points” were a much lighter shade of brown. The
other, however, was perfectly possible. True, his whole coat was paler
than Pakdee’s, fluffier and less sleek, and his eyes were not only lighter
blue, but mild and amiable. However, he was just about the right size,
and Hubert felt sure he would fool everybody except Caroline.
“There’s no charge for the cat, of course,” Mr. O’Donnell assured him,
“but any little donation you feel inclined to make . . . ”
Hubert made his donation and popped the counterfeit Pakdee into
the basket, where he sat purring, his gentle eyes half shut. In fact, by the
time Hubert had reiterated to Mr. O’Donnell that they had owned a
Siamese before, and therefore did not require the leaflets on care and
feeding the Society provided, the cat had curled up in Pakdee’s basket
and was sound asleep.
+ + +
Benson met Hubert at the front door and took the basket from him. “I
hope the little fellow is quite all right, sir,” he said. “We were a mite
worried when you didn’t return for luncheon.”
“Sorry about that, Benson,” said Hubert. “Matter of business I had
to attend to, which involved lunching out.” He hesitated. “Pakdee seems
a little lethargic,” he added. “Probably the effect of the shots. But the
doctor says he’s in excellent health. Just give him a light meal tonight.”
“As you say, sir.”
Hubert had been right. Caroline telephoned again that evening and
spoke to Benson. When she heard that Pakdee had been taken to the
hospital for shots, she panicked again—to the consternation of her friend
Annabel. Only after she had phoned her veterinarian at his home and
learned from him that Mr. Withers had, indeed, brought Pakdee in that
morning for his inoculations did Caroline calm down. Annabel had a
word with her husband, and together they decided to write to Hubert and
tell him that they were worried about Caroline’s nerves and her apparent
obsession about her cat.
The letter arrived the day before Caroline’s return, and was even more
than Hubert could have hoped for. He called Dr. Edwards at once—he
had intended to do so, anyway, but this gave him a God-sent opportunity.
He suggested that the doctor should arrange to be at the house to
welcome Caroline home and see her reunion with her beloved cat. The
doctor agreed.
During Caroline’s absence, Hubert had barely set eyes on the
Siamese, who had been entirely in Benson’s care. He had taken pains,
however, to inquire frequently about the cat’s well being, and had been
assured by Benson that the little fellow was fine, eating well and quite his
old self. Very satisfactory.
+ + +
On the day Caroline was due back, Hubert entertained the doctor to
lunch and left him to his post-prandial coffee as he went off to Dulles to
meet his wife.
Caroline was looking remarkably well. She inquired at once about
Pakdee, and Hubert assured her that he was in good form.
“He missed you, of course, darling,” he said, “but Benson and I tried
to make it up to him. He’ll be thrilled to see you.”
On the drive back down the lovely George Washington Parkway,
Caroline chattered happily about England and her friends. Hubert was
silent. He was bracing himself, with a mixture of emotions, for the scene
that would shortly follow. It was bound to be unpleasant, and he disliked
unpleasantness. There would be hysterics, and he disliked hysterics.
Nevertheless, his plan would work. It could not fail. And Dr. Edwards
himself would be there to see it.
Benson heard the car in the drive, and had the front door open before
Caroline had reached the top step.
“Welcome home, Madam!”
“Oh, Benson, it’s nice to be back.” Caroline came into the big
hallway as the doctor came out of the drawing-room. “Why, Dr.
Edwards, I didn’t know you’d be here! How very kind of you! Yes, I feel
splendid. I had a marvelous vacation!”
She put down her handbag and, as Hubert came in through the front
door, she called, “Dee-Dee! I’m home, Dee-Dee!”
The cat must have been waiting on the stairs, on the landing where
there was a window overlooking the front door. He came down the last
flight like a flying bomb and leapt into Caroline’s arms, purring his
delight. And, as Caroline caressed him, he looked at Hubert over her
shoulder. The old, hard blue eyes now gleaming with triumph. The old
sleek coat. Pakdee.
“My Dee-Dee,” Caroline was murmuring. “My Pakdee! My faithful
cat.”
+ + +
It was Hubert who spent the next few weeks in the quiet nursing home.
Soon after his release from it, he and Caroline were divorced. When last
heard of, Hubert was in California, looking for another heiress. He was
somehow managing to live on the meager allowance Caroline’s lawyers
sent him every month. The allowance would have been much larger—for
Caroline was a generous soul—had Hubert not, in his frenzy, declared
that she was a witch and that he had seen Pakdee die with his own eyes.
Dr. Edwards tried to put in a good word for Hubert. “He was
mentally deranged, Mrs. Withers. How could he possibly have seen the
cat die when it was obviously alive and well? I think you must make
allowances.”
“He had the intention,” said Caroline. “That is what matters.”
+ + H*
Funnily enough, it was only a few days after Caroline’s return that Dr.
Michaelson visited the private humane society in Maryland, bringing with
him half a dozen delightful kittens for adoption.
“By the way,” he said, “I suppose you had no difficulty in finding a
home for that beautiful Siamese?”
“Which one?” asked Mr. O’Donnell.
“Oh,” said Mrs. O’Donnell, her severe face softening into a very sweet
smile. “John means the one I picked up from his surgery. Some
miserable man had brought him in to be destroyed, because he said his
wife was tired of him—the cat, I mean.”
“I suppose 1 should have destroyed him,” said John Michaelson, “but
he was an absolute beauty, and in perfect health. I took no money and
got Robinson’s permission to dispose of the cat as I wished. By that time,
I’d given him a pre-operation anesthetic shot, and the man went away
convinced he was dead. I knew Grace was in the waiting room and could
bring him back here right away.”
“That’s right,” said Grace O’Donnell. “I gave him a bath and blow-
dry—he emerged several shades lighter, I can tell you—and some eye
drops I thought he needed. Then I went out shopping and, believe it or
not, by the time I came back Patrick had found a home for him with a—a
Mr. Green, wasn’t it, Patrick?”
“Yes, my dear. A nice guy, he seemed. Had had Siamese before.
Wanted this one as a present for his wife, who’d just lost hers.”
“Mr. Green seems to have a much nicer wife than Mr. Robinson,”
said Grace O’Donnell. “I’m sure the poor creature is in a very happy
home now.”
He is, Mrs. O’Donnell. He is.

FLOWERS OF THE DEAD
I
t was Mrs. Evans, the village postmistress, who first put it into words.
In the course of a leisurely chat with her friend Miss Sykes, who ran
the Cosy Tea Shoppe next door, Mrs. Evans said, “There’s something
fishy going on up there, Lucy, you mark my words. You did say three
12p. stamps, dear? 36p., if you please. Yes, something fishy. I mean,
where is she?”
“Not set eyes on her, not since the day they arrived.” Little Miss
Sykes was flushed with the scent of scandal. “Not a soul seen her. It’s
not natural.”
“It’s worse than that,” said Mrs. Evans, with quiet triumph.
“Worse, Harriet?”
“A lot worse, Lucy. Somebody has seen her.”
“Then that must mean—”
“Perce,” said Mrs. Evans serenely, referring to her trusty postman,
“was up delivering a letter. Not that they get many. And he says as how
she came to the window and looked out. He saw her as plain as the nose
on your face.”
“Then she’s all right,” said Miss Sykes, a little tartly, for she was
aware that her nose was not a thing of beauty and she felt that Mrs.
Evans might have chosen a happier phrase.
“Ah,” went on Mrs. Evans, “but then Perce says he came up behind
her and pulled her away from the window. And that was a week ago, and
no sight nor sound of her since.”
“I think we should tell the vicar,” said Miss Sykes. “A vicar can
always pay a call. His duty, in fact.”
“I told the vicar this morning,” said Mrs. Evans, smugly one-up.
The subjects of their discussion were the new tenants of The Cedars,
a large comfortable house which stood in two acres of garden just outside
the village of Medhurst, in southern England. A Mr. and Mrs. Bristow.
At least, presumably the lady was Mrs. Bristow. In a village the size of
Medhurst, everybody minds everybody else’s business, and it was
common knowledge that Mr. Bristow was an author—quite a celebrity—
who had rented The Cedars furnished for two months while Mrs.
FLOWERS OF THE DEAD 163
Winchester visited her daughter in the United States. He wanted, so it
was said, to finish a book in seclusion.
The entire village, peeping from behind lace curtains, had seen the
good-looking, middle-aged couple driving up the village street in their red
Porsche to take possession of their temporary home. Since then, Mr.
Bristow had been into the village on several occasions—buying groceries
and stamps, dropping in at the pub for a pint of bitter, filling up the car
at the one petrol pump. But nobody had seen Mrs. Bristow—except for
the slightly sinister glimpse Percy had caught through a window of The
Cedars. As Miss Sykes said, it wasn’t natural.
Mr. Bristow had managed in a short time to get himself a local
reputation for—well, oddness. Gruffness. Not a friendly man at all. To
shopkeepers and barmen who tried in all neighborliness to engage him in
conversation, he was polite but brief. Yes, he was a writer. Yes, he ex
pected to be in Medhurst for two months. No, he was not in the least
interested in gardening. No, he had not visited the nearby Roman ruins,
and did not intend to. And the five-pound note would be placed firmly
on the counter to indicate that the conversation was over.
On one occasion, Mrs. Evans—greatly daring—had remarked that she
hoped Mrs. Bristow was not ill. Upon which Mr. Bristow turned on his
heel and strode out of the Post Office without replying.
So, in the end, with the whole village whispering, Mrs. Evans had
spoken to the vicar. And the vicar had agreed to call at The Cedars and
see what he could discover about the invisible Mrs. Bristow.
The vicar, a gentle man by the name of Harland, had little success.
On the contrary, he received something of a shock. He rang the doorbell
of The Cedars with just the right amount of hesitation which went with
his clerical collar. For quite a while, it looked as though there would be
no response—and yet Mr. Harland had seen the Porsche through the
open door of the garage as he came up the driveway. At last, heavy
footsteps approached, there was a sound of bolts being drawn and keys
turned, and the big door opened just enough to let Mr. Harland see Mr.
Bristow.
“Who are you?” Godfrey Bristow demanded. “What do you want?”
Mr. Harland smiled diffidently. “Forgive me, Mr. Bristow. It is
Bristow, isn’t it? . . . My name is Harland. I’m your local vicar, and I
thought it only courteous to call and welcome my new parishioners
’’You’d better come in,” said Bristow, without enthusiasm. He led the
way through the hall and into the pleasant drawing-room.
Following him, Mr. Harland said, “1 trust that Mrs. Bristow is en
joying her new home.”
Bristow stopped abruptly and turned to face the vicar.
“I don’t understand you, Mr. Harland. I am not married.”
Harland blushed. “I am so sorry. I was referring to the lady who is
living here with you.”
“There is nobody living here with me,” said Bristow sharply. “1 have
come here to finish a book and get a little peace. If I can.” The last
words were barbed.
Harland was flustered. “But people said . . . people saw . . .”
“People,” said Godfrey Bristow, “probably saw my sister, who drove
down with me to help me settle in. She went back to London by train the
following day.”
“1 see,” said Harland, unhappily. There was an uneasy silence. Then,
gazing out of the window, the vicar tried again. “The garden is looking
beautiful, as always. Mrs. Winchester is a most enthusiastic gardener. I
see you share her interest.”
“You do? How?”
Harland gestured towards the garden. “Well . . . all that fresh digging
Bristow smiled, a curious smile. “You are right,” he said. “It struck
me that that patch was wasted. I intend to plant chrysanthemums there.
The flowers of the dead, as the French call them.”
The vicar looked at Bristow very thoughtfully. He said, “You cer
tainly must be a dedicated gardener, to put in all that work to plant
flowers you will not be here to see. I am sure Mrs. Winchester will be
delighted with them when she returns from America.”
“I trust so,” said Godfrey Bristow.
Later in the day, Mr. Harland spoke privately to Mrs. Evans in the
latter’s small office at the back of the Post Office.
“I really don’t know what I should do, Mrs. Evans. If Percy really saw
the lady quite a few days after Bristow arrived, then his story of her going
back to London just can’t be true.”
“Oh, Perce saw her all right, Mr. Harland. And he saw him pulling
her away from the window, like I told you.”
“Then there is the matter of the garden,” added the vicar. “I hap
pened to be in The Bunch of Grapes when he definitely told Harry that
he had no interest in gardening. I don’t like it, Mrs. Evans.”
“No more do I, Vicar. As I see it, it’s a matter for the police.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Evans.” Harland suddenly became decisive. “I’ll
have a word with Sergeant Wilkes right away.”
+ + +
The police sergeant assured the vicar that he would make inquiries. He
started at the railway station. This was really no more than a halt,
presided over by Mr. Biggs, who knew everybody and when and why they
traveled.
There were only two trains to London each day—one in the morning
and one in the afternoon. Mr. Biggs was absolutely positive that no
strange lady had traveled on either train on the day in question. Or on
any day since, for that matter.
Sergeant Wilkes pondered, and then telephoned the C.I.D. Inspector
in Porchester, the nearest town. The latter made inquiries at the Records
Office in London. These revealed that a Godfrey Bristow had married a
Miss Janice Purkiss in London ten years previously. There was no record
of a divorce or of Mrs. Bristow’s death.
The Inspector went to see the Chief Constable of the county.
“I’d like to get a team down from the Yard, sir,” he told the Chief
Constable.
“Before you do any investigations yourself, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir. The way I look at it, if we go round there it’ll only alarm
him and put him on his guard. I’d like to bring up the big guns before he
knows we’re onto anything at all.”
“Very well, Inspector. If that’s what you really want, I’ll call the
Assistant Commissioner.”
And so it was that Godfrey Bristow found himself confronted in the
drawing-room of The Cedars by a group of very high-powered detectives,
asking him to explain the disappearance of his wife.
“It’s perfectly simple, Chief Superintendent,” said Bristow. “She’s left
me and gone abroad. I think she’s in America at the moment, but I’m not
sure.”
“You told Mr. Harland you weren’t married, Mr. Bristow.”
“Well—functionally, as the Americans say, I’m not. I told you, Janice
has left me. I wasn’t going to start telling my life story to a total
stranger.”
“And you said that your sister—”
“The same reason applies, Chief Superintendent. That was—a lady
of whom I am very fond. Not my sister. I don’t have a sister. The lady
drove down here with me and stayed a few days. Then she went back to
London, leaving me to get on with my book.”
“You told Mr. Harland, sir, that the lady left by train. According to
the local station master, that’s not true.”
“A slip of the tongue,” said Bristow, blandly. “I really don’t know
how she left. I just assumed it was by train. You see, I had been urging
her to stay longer, but she knew that I should be getting down to my
writing. So, when I came back from the village one day, 1 found that she
had gone, leaving me a note.”
“A note? May we see it, sir?’”
“If I haven’t thrown it away. I’ll go and look.”
A few minutes later, Bristow was back in the drawing-room with
crumpled piece of paper in his hand.
“Found it in the wastepaper basket,” he explained.
He smoothed it out. In large handwriting, it read, “Darling, you must
get on with your book, and I know I’m a distraction, so I’m just creeping
quietly away. Call me when the last chapter has been written. S.”
The Chief Superintendent grunted. “The fact remains, sir, that this
lady apparently did not leave Medhurst.”
“Not by train, according to you,” said Bristow, “but she could have
taken a bus to Porchester, and gone by train from there. There’s a much
more frequent and faster service to town than there is from here, I’m told.
Isn’t that so?” Bristow turned to the Porchester Detective-Inspector, who
was forced to admit that there was.
As to Percy’s story, Bristow said that the incident had happened the
day before his friend left. He had not, he said, pulled her away from the
window. He had merely taken her arm to lead her over to his desk, where
he wanted her to read a chapter which he had just completed.
The Chief Superintendent then questioned Bristow about the in
consistency of his saying that he had no interest in gardening, as against
his apparent keenness on it in practice. Bristow replied that he had
simply not wanted to be drawn into conversation in the pub.
Finally, the Scotland Yard detective told Bristow that, nevertheless,
he intended to search the house and garden. Bristow objected that this
seemed an unwarranted imposition on a law-abiding citizen. The Chief
Superintendent pointed that it was, in fact, warranted—he had the
warrant in his hand—but that if Bristow had nothing to hide, it would be
to his advantage to scotch any ugly rumors. Bristow thereupon agreed
quite cheerfully.
The search squad made a thorough job of it. The house was thor
oughly combed, and so was the garden—including the newly dug chrysan
themum bed. Nothing was found. Not only was there no body, there was
no evidence that a woman had ever occupied the house.
By now, the Detective-Inspector from Porchester was becoming, as
the saying goes, acutely conscious of his position. At his insistence, im
portant officers had been brought down from London to investigate what
was evidently no crime at all. However, the London men remained polite,
if cool. They apologized to Mr. Bristow for any inconvenience caused,
and withdrew.
In private, they told their colleague from Porchester exactly what they
thought of him, and suggested that he should not only stop wasting their
time but should make it clear to village busybodies that no more mali
cious stories should be spread about innocent strangers. And there the
matter rested.
+ + +
The truth was very far from the villagers’ suspicions, but it was also a
world away from the version that Godfrey Bristow told the police.
One hears of many husband-and-wife teams—ice skaters, tennis
players, fashion designers, and so forth. Godfrey and Janice Bristow were
such a team, but in an unusual field. They were jewel thieves. So expert
were they, so meticulous was Godfrey’s planning of each operation, so
perfect was Janice’s disguise, and so professional Godfrey’s craftsmanship
that so far their names were quite unknown to the police. Every
operation had been a complete success. Nevertheless, the same careful
precautions were always taken.
The actual stealing was done by Janice. She possessed a most
valuable asset—a face, which while pleasant and not unattractive, was
utterly nonmemorable. She owned a large wardrobe of wigs and colored
contact-lenses and was an expert in makeup, so that while the people she
robbed remembered the obvious things like the clothes she wore and the
color of her hair and even of her eyes, nobody could actually recall her
features. Sometimes she stole from expensive jewelry shops in the guise
of a blonde sable-coated millionairess. Sometimes she stole from private
houses, having taken a humble job as a mousy extra washer-up after a big
party. Her variety was infinite, and her expertise was complemented by
Godfrey’s.
Godfrey’s contribution lay in the fact that he was an adept goldsmith
and jeweler, trained in one of Amsterdam’s great houses. He could have
made a good living by using his skills honestly, but he found it less
arduous and, to be frank, more fun to live dishonestly.
His cover was that of an author of light romances, and he actually
wrote and even sold some of them. They were very bad and never made
him any money. However, the general public has very little idea about
how much authors earn and tend to have exaggerated ideas about it.
Consequently, nobody found it strange that Godfrey, boosting a small
bookshelf of volumes bearing his name, should appear affluent. Nobody
knew that they had been published at his own expense.
His pose as an author also made credible the fact that he was in the
habit of taking short-term leases on furnished houses in the country
—always, needless to say, in a different part of the country. He was there
either to finish a book or to glean local color.
From these anonymous bases, the actual robbery would be launched.
Janice did the dirty work, and brought the loot back to the rented house,
where Godfrey had established his workshop in the cellar. There, the
jewels were removed from their settings, and recut and reset by Godfrey,
who then sold them to unsuspecting dealers in various country towns. By
then, they bore no resemblance to the stolen gems whose descriptions had
been circulated to merchants by the police. It was a very smooth little
racket.
The “house in the country” ploy did more than provide cover. It fur
nished perfect alibis, should they ever be needed. The procedure was
always the same. Godfrey would negotiate the renting of the house,
driving down in the conspicuous Porsche. A few days later—or rather,
nights, for this was an after-dark operation—he and Janice would both
drive to the house, he in the Porsche and she in her small black saloon,
which would be carefully hidden. Godfrey always picked houses with
ample garage space, or preferably a barn. The pair then returned to their
London base.
The next day, both Bristows would drive down in the Porsche, making
sure people noticed them. They would show themselves in the village and
chat with the locals. For the actual operation, Janice would drive off after
dark in her own car and return the same way. Meanwhile, Godfrey would
remark in the pub that his wife had a slight cold and was staying in bed
for a day or so. Nobody ever doubted this statement, so in the event of
the police becoming suspicious—which had never happened, but Godfrey
took no chances—both Bristows could provide honest witnesses to the
fact that they had never left home.
So it had gone on for many successful years, until Godfrey decided
that, with one more big haul, they could afford to retire and go to live in
a house he’d bought in the south of France. Their selected victim for
their last enterprise was an immensely rich widow, who lived in very
grand style in London and had a huge collection of valuable jewelry.
Janice managed to get herself engaged as a parlor maid.
In view of the size and delicacy of the job, it was decided that Janice
should take her time and actually work as a maid for a couple of weeks in
order to case the house and its routines, and lay her plans. And so the
regular procedure was modified a little.
Janice, Godfrey said, should be seen by the villagers of Medhurst to

arrive at The Cedars. However, once there she would stay indoors and
not show herself, while he, Godfrey, circulated in the village and gave out
the story that his wife was seriously ill and had been ordered by the
doctor to have two months of complete rest, not leaving her bed. This
way, she could stay in London for as long as she needed to ensure that the
robbery went without a hitch. Her alibi would be intact.
Paradoxically, Janice would have been extremely surprised had she
realized Godfrey was double-crossing her. She always imagined him to be
completely honest—in his dealings with her, that is. However, the fact
was that Godfrey, in the course of one of his visits to France to negotiate
for the house, had met and fallen in love with a young French girl named
Suzanne. Suzanne had no idea that Godfrey was married, and looked
forward eagerly to the day when he would be able to leave his business in
England and come to join her permanently, as he had promised. On this
basis, Godfrey laid his plans.
+ + +
A couple of days after the Bristows’ arrival at The Cedars, Godfrey had
waited until he saw the postman cycling up to the house and had then
drawn Janice’s attention to something in the garden. Naturally, she had
walked to the window, whereupon Godfrey pulled her away, saying that
the postman should not see that she was up and about when she was
supposed to be ill in bed. Janice found nothing suspicious in this.
On the morning after Janice had left for London in her little black car,
Godfrey carefully packed up all her possessions and also his jewel-maker’s
instruments into two suitcases, put them in the trunk of the Porsche, and
deposited them in the Left Luggage office at Porchester railway station.
Then he sat back and waited for the seeds which he had so carefully
sown to bear fruit. It was hard work digging up the unused corner of the
garden after dark, but well worth it. He reckoned that such a trail of
suspicion would be irresistible to local gossip.
But even he was surprised and gratified at the response. Scotland
Yard, no less! And they had made a complete investigation and gone
away satisfied that everything was innocent, annoyed that their time had
been wasted. The note signed “S ” Godfrey had, of course, written
himself.
When the police had gone, Godfrey drove to Porchester and collected
the suitcase containing his tools. The other, he left where it was. After
all, Janice would never need the contents again. When she arrived back
from London at two o’clock one morning, he strangled her as soon as she
had handed him the proceeds of the robbery.
Janice was never missed. She had long since lost touch with her
family, and the Bristows’ few friends knew that they were leaving England
to live in France. Janice now lies buried under a flourishing bed of chry
santhemums, of which Mrs. Winchester is very proud.
Suzanne and Godfrey live happily outside Cannes. The small black
saloon was sold to a used-car merchant in Porchester, but Godfrey had
the Porsche shipped to France. She handles superbly on the comiches.

THE EXTRA MILE
here were several reasons why Robert Fosdyke and Sidney White
T were so successful in defrauding the firm for which they worked.

The first and most obvious was that the scheme required two
employees—one the head of a department and the other a senior
accountant. These positions were held by Fosdyke and White re
spectively in the K. W. Andrews Company—a large but not mammoth
concern producing toiletries, cosmetics, soaps, and perfumes, with a
factory in the Midlands and offices in London.
Concomitant to this was the fact that the two men, although ac
quaintances, had never been regarded as friends, let alone accomplices:
they were such different people. Fosdyke was a commuterland sophis
ticate, with a smooth manner, a flashy car, and an enameled wife. White
was an excitable eccentric, living in a shabby suburb, with a passion for
mathematics, an old station wagon, and a nondescript family. They took
care to preserve and even emphasize these differences.
Third, and most importantly, they were not greedy. This was no
multi-million fraud. Just a few thousands a month, unremarkable and un
remarked in the budget of the company, and accounted for impeccably on
paper. There was no reason why it shouldn’t have gone on forever.
+ + +
It had all started when the two met entirely by accident in a London pub
not far from the firm’s head office. Each had chosen this bar expressly
because it wasn’t frequently used by his colleagues, for each was deeply
depressed and in need of money. This much was established over the first
two drinks.
Their reasons for wanting extra cash were as diverse as the two men
themselves. Robert Fosdyke wanted to buy a new car. His beautiful and
demanding wife had actually threatened to leave him for one of her
wealthier admirers if he couldn’t come up with the Mercedes of her choice
—and on his salary he could not. Sidney White’s position was quite
different. His love of figures had translated itself into a conviction that
he could beat the system by gambling on horses. Unfortunately, his
mathematical expertise did little to compensate for his complete igno
rance of racing form, and he was currently being pursued by a posse of
angry bookmakers. His wife, though nondescript by Fosdyke standards,
was nevertheless a formidable lady, and she had no idea of his precarious
situation. Sidney didn’t wish to think about what would happen if she
found out.
Consequently, the two men found themselves at the bar, com
miserating with each other on the miserly policies of the K. W. Andrews
Company, which—in the form of Ralph Andrews, the managing director
—had refused to raise their salaries or grant them loans.
“It’s not as though the company would miss a few paltry thousand a
month,” said Robert Fosdyke, almost stamping his beautifully shod foot
against the bar. “It’s just the Old Man’s meanness. Always lecturing us
about going the extra mile for the firm, but he won’t budge a few inches
to help us. After all, we’re both in senior positions. I mean, I’m in charge
of Bath Toiletries, and you’re—”
“Senior accountant in charge of Accounts Payable.” White ran his
fingers through his hair so that it stood up in spikes, and called for
another drink. “When I think of the expenditures I okay every day on
the firm’s behalf. I believe you put one in just last week, didn’t you?
Office equipment for two thousand, six hundred quid or thereabouts?”
Robert was suddenly interested. “You mean you okay the ex
penditure requests for my department?”
“That’s right. I have discretion up to four thousand pounds.”
“I have discretion up to four thousand pounds,” said Robert.
+ + +
Within ten minutes, the scheme was born.
It was very simple. At discreet intervals, Fosdyke would submit a
request for new office equipment, quoting a very reasonable price from a
firm named F & W Office Supplies. This request would be okayed by
Senior Accountant White and fed into the computer, which in due course
would spew out a check for several thousand pounds to the credit of F Sc
W. This would be signed by Sidney and countersigned—a rubber-stamp
operation—by a more senior official. A receipt would be duly received
from F Sc W Office Supplies and filed away.
Meanwhile, Fosdyke had opened a bank account in the name of F Sc
W Office Supplies, giving an accommodation address. Incoming checks
were endorsed by the company’s stamp and paid into the account.
Outgoing checks were authorized to be signed only by F Sc W’s mythical
managing director, Harold French—otherwise Robert Fosdyke. The
outgoing checks went to many different payees—automobile dealers,
bookmakers, restaurants, and so on. Of course, this system required that
White should trust Fosdyke not to take more than his fair share from the
THE EXTRA MILE 173
account—but, as Fosdyke often remarked, the basis of good business is
trust.
As for the K. W. Andrews Company, everything was in order—except
for the trifling fact that no office supplies were ever delivered. Ralph
Andrews, the great-grandson of the company’s founder, was middle-aged
and lazy, as well as hiding his meanness under an affable manner. He was
certainly not going to take the elevator down to Bath Toiletries to check
on whether the new typists’ chairs had actually arrived. It was a sweet
little setup.
+ + +
And then one Sunday evening, an extraordinary thing happened. Robert
Fosdyke’s telephone rang, and was answered by his wife.
“Yes? He’s here. Who wants him? What? Just a moment—” She
put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Robert, who was sipping
a Scotch and trying to finish the Sunday Times crossword. “Darling,
there’s some sort of madman on the line. Says his name is White and
that he must speak to you.”
“White?” Fosdyke stood up. “I don’t know anybody called White.
Oh, there’s a chap at the office—can’t think what he wants.” He walked
over and took the telephone. “Fosdyke,” he said crisply.
“Fosdyke!” White, always excitable, sounded near to hysteria.
“Fosdyke, the most wonderful thing has happened!”
“Let me guess,” said Robert. “You finally backed a winner.”
“No, no, something much more wonderful than that!”
“The football pools?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Fosdyke. I’ve finished with all that sort of
thing. I’ve seen the light! I’m saved!”
Fosdyke frowned. He didn’t like the sound of it. “Saved from what?”
“From the devil! From the world! From my sins! I’m born again!”
“Good God,” said Fosdyke.
“Yes! You’re absolutely right! God is good!”
“How did this happen?” Fosdyke inquired.
“You’ve heard of Jimmy Grant?”
“The crazy American hot-gospeler?”
“The great preacher!” amended White sternly. “He’s on a tour of
Britain. He held a meeting here in the Borough Hall this afternoon and
my wife wanted to go. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t. I went along
reluctantly, little dreaming that—”
“You mean he fooled you?”
“He opened my eyes, Fosdyke! He opened my heart! He changed my
life.” There was a little pause. “What I really wanted to tell you is that
I’m going to the Old Man tomorrow morning to confess all about F & W.
I’m going to drop the burden of my sin—praise the Lord!”
Fosdyke was flabbergasted. “Have you gone completely out of your
mind?”
“Just the opposite. I’ve come to my senses before it’s too late!”
“Look here, we’ve got to have a serious talk about this.” Fosdyke
glanced nervously at his wife, who was showing signs of being intrigued
by the conversation. “How soon can you get to Waterloo Station?”
“About half an hour, I suppose.”
“I’ll meet you in the buffet in an hour’s time,” said Fosdyke, and rang
off.
“What on earth was all that about, Robert?” asked Mrs. Fosdyke,
raising her exquisitely groomed eyebrows.
“Oh, this lunatic from the office has some sort of harebrained scheme
that would involve my department.” Fosdyke tried to sound offhand.
“I’ve got to go and talk him out of it before the meeting tomorrow. I’ll be
back for dinner.”
+++
The buffet at Waterloo Station is a good place for an unobtrusive
meeting. Fosdyke and White chose a remote table. Fosdyke ordered a
double Scotch and White a cup of coffee. “No more booze for me, old
man.”
“Now,” said Fosdyke briskly, “what’s all this nonsense?”
“I’ve told you. Tomorrow I’m going to tell Mr. Andrews—”
“And what d’you think will happen? At best you’ll be sacked. At
worst you’ll go to jail.”
“I shall offer up my sin to the Lord. He will deal with me as He
decides.”
“And what about my sin?” Fosdyke demanded angrily. “I don’t
intend to offer it up to anybody, least of all the Old Man. I suppose it
hasn’t occurred to you that you’ll be rolling me in the dirt? It’s all very
well for you—you can always say you thought F &. W was genuine. But
the bank manager has seen me as Harold French.”
White turned a shining face to his partner in crime. “If only you’d
been at that meeting, Fosdyke, you’d understand. You’d come with me
tomorrow, and we could purge our souls together! ”
An idea began to form in Fosdyke’s mind. He said, “Well, of course
it’s true that I’ve never heard Jimmy Grant preach. If I did, I suppose it’s
possible that I might be converted, too. Is there a meeting next Sunday?”
“Clapton Town Hall at three p.m.,” breathed White reverently. “You
mean you’ll come along?”
THE EXTRA MILE 175
“I’ll come along. Then, if I feel the same way as you do afterward
we’ll go together and confess on Monday week.”
“Praise the Lord!”
“But meantime,” added Fosdyke sternly, “you’re to promise to keep
your mouth shut. Carry your burden for a little longer.”
White looked doubtful, but finally he said, “If it’s to save a soul—I
suppose— Very well, I promise.” He held out his hand.
Fosdyke shook it—with great distaste—and went to catch his train
home. He had contrived a week’s reprieve. Would that be long enough,
he wondered, to carry out his plan?
+ + *F
Next day at the office, Fosdyke started the rumors. “Have you heard?
White in Accounts Payable has got religion. Yes, I heard it from some
body in his office. Positively fanatical, they say.”
As a matter of fact, Sidney White hadn’t mentioned his conversion
to anybody at work. But when taxed with it, he didn’t attempt to deny
it. Soon, the K. W. Andrews Company was buzzing with it.
In the afternoon, Fosdyke found an opportunity to speak to Old Man
Andrews himself.
“You’ve heard about White in Accounts, sir?”
“Oh, I believe my secretary mentioned something. Become a hot-
gospeler, has he?”
“That’s right, sir. Quite fanatical, I’m told.”
“Well, no harm done, so long as it doesn’t affect his work.” Andrews
spoke with his usual vague amiability.
“Exactly, sir,” agreed Fosdyke with a smile.
On Tuesday, Fosdyke took things a step further. He set some papers
on Andrews’ desk, glanced round as if to make sure the secretary wasn’t
listening, and said, “I suppose you know the latest about White, sir?”
Andrews looked up, blinking. “Latest? No, I haven’t heard
anything.”
“Well.” Fosdyke leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It seems he’s
now trying to convert other people, sir. Holding revival meetings in the
canteen, and so on.”
“Not on the firm’s time, I hope.” Andrews chuckled, to give the im
pression that this was a pleasantry, which it was not.
“I’m afraid so, sir. People are getting rather upset.”
By Wednesday it was Andrews who brought up the subject. He had
taken it for granted that Fosdyke would be his source of information as
to White’s goings-on.
“I hope these revival meetings have stopped, Fosdyke. Really can’t
have that sort of thing.”
Fosdyke looked grave. “It’s not so much the meetings, sir. Nobody
goes to them, anyway. No, what we’re worried about now is that White
may not be altogether—that is, that he may be suffering from delusions.”
“Delusions? What sort of delusions?”
“Guilt complex, sir. He keeps calling himself a miserable sinner, and
trying to get people to listen to his confessions.”
“Hm." Andrews scratched his chin. “Doesn’t sound too good,
Fosdyke. Maybe he needs a holiday.”
By Friday Fosdyke was ready to put the finishing touches to his plan.
He congratulated himself that he had thought of everything. Earlier in
the week, he had dipped into his ill-gotten gains to buy two portable
word-processors, which cost him quite a bit more than the amount shown
on F Sc W’s latest receipt. He arrived early at the office and stowed them
away in a cupboard. Late in the afternoon, he requested an interview
with Mr. Andrews.
“Well, Fosdyke, what can I do for you? It’s nothing about poor
White, I trust?”
“I’m afraid it is, sir. Things have taken a really serious turn.”
“Well, sir, he’s threatening to come to you on Monday and confess to
having defrauded the firm of thousands of pounds.”
“And has he?” Andrews was pardonably interested.
Fosdyke laughed. “Of course not, sir. Or if he has, certainly not in
the way he describes. He’s apparently picked on a small firm of office
suppliers with whom I’ve been dealing a certain amount lately. As far as
I can make out, he’s convinced himself that the firm is purely fictitious,
that none of the goods ordered have ever been delivered, and that he’s
been pocketing the money paid out.”
“You know this firm personally, do you, Fosdyke?” asked Andrews.
“Yes, sir, I do. F <Sc W Office Supplies is its name. The Managing
Director is a chap called Harold French. I was at school with him. Every
thing is perfectly in order. But White—”
“Oh, well,” Andrews sighed, “best wait till Monday. Maybe he’ll have
forgotten about it by then. If not—thanks for warning me, Fosdyke.”
On Sunday afternoon, Fosdyke and White went together to Clapton
Hall to hear Jimmy Grant give one of his hypnotic, if hysterical, sermons.
In the atmosphere of sweat and fervor, Robert Fosdyke found it quite easy
to simulate the same enthusiasm that was sweeping Sidney White off his
feet. When it was over, he pronounced himself convinced, converted,
THE EXTRA MILE 177
saved, and born again. He would certainly, he said, go with White to
Andrews’ office in the morning and confess all.
+ 4* +
The two men burst into the Managing Director’s office at ten o’clock,
unannounced—sweeping aside the protesting secretary. White went first,
followed by Fosdyke. Andrews looked up in alarm.
“Mr. Andrews,” cried White, “we’ve come to confess! We’ve been
cheating you for years! F & W doesn’t exist! It’s Fosdyke and myself!
But now we’ve seen the light—praise the Lord!”
Apologetically, Fosdyke said, “I tried to stop him, sir. I did warn you
this might happen. Of course, I never thought he was going to drag me
into it—”
Andrews stood up. “Mr. White,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re not at
all well. Now just sit down quietly and we’ll make sure you’re looked
after. Miss Pratt, please telephone for an ambulance at once.”
White was gazing at Fosdyke with bulging eyes. “Judas!” he yelled.
“Beelzebub! Instrument of the devil!” He tried to get up from his chair,
but Fosdyke and Andrews restrained him.
The ambulance arrived within minutes, and White—still shouting
imprecations—was removed by a crew of burly paramedics.
Andrews mopped his brow. “My goodness, Fosdyke, it was even
worse than I’d feared. Poor fellow. We’ll see that he’s well cared for, of
course. The firm stands by its people.”
It was then that Robert Fosdyke took the extra, unnecessary step.
After all, those word processors had cost him a pretty penny. He said,
“Just to satisfy yourself, sir, perhaps you’d like to come down to my
department and check on the latest delivery from F Sc W. I’ve got all the
paperwork as well as the goods for you to see.”
“Well, no harm, I suppose.” Andrews smiled. “Don’t want to find
there’s something fishy after all.”
“Quite so, sir.”
4* + +
Andrews inspected the word processors and pronounced them excellent.
Then he examined the documentation, and gave a low whistle at the sight
of the figure on the invoice. “Certainly a bargain, Fosdyke. I congratulate
you. I admire a man who’s as careful with the firm’s money as with his
own.”
“Thank you, sir.”
It was as he was leaving Fosdyke’s office that Andrews remarked, “I
think we should do more business with F Sc W, Fosdyke. The Managing
Director—French, I think you said his name was? Get hold of him, will
you, and arrange for me to lunch with him later in the week. And tell
him that I’d like to visit his warehouse and have copies of his full
catalogue. I daresay he’ll cut you in on a commission, too. You won’t
regret, Fosdyke, going that extra mile.”

THE MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING
E
very year, around Christmas time, certain very expensive stores
publish gift catalogues aimed at the Man Who Has Everything.
They include such useful items as vicuna underpants, solid gold
paperclips and platinum-and-diamond cocktail shakers. However, Harvey
Barrington was not in the least interested in any of these baubles: and he
was truly a man who had everything. Well, almost everything.
For a start, of course, he was immensely rich, and he had come
honestly by every penny of his fortune. While still in his early twenties,
he had inherited a modest family firm which made inexpensive furniture.
By sheer hard work and a business flair amounting to near-genius, he had
expanded Barrington and Company into an empire. By the time he was
thirty, the company had gone public and diversified into textiles, carpets
and household appliances: its furniture had also become very expensive.
At fifty-three, Harvey had sold out to a mammoth international concern,
pocketed his millions and announced his retirement. He wished, he said,
to have some leisure while he was still young enough to enjoy it.
And he had plenty to enjoy. He owned a duplex penthouse apart
ment on the river in Chelsea, and a very pretty Elizabethan farmhouse in
Sussex. He had a chalet in a Swiss ski resort, and a 20-acre property—
complete with eighteenth-century plantation house—on a small Carib
bean island. He skippered his own 50-foot sailing yacht and flew his own
helicopter. All seemed set fair for a thoroughly enjoyable retirement.
Even before he had inherited the business, Harvey had married a
pretty but otherwise unremarkable girl called Jenny. He had met her at
the tennis club in the unfashionable London suburb where he then lived
with his parents. Harvey and Jenny had won the Mixed Doubles, and
decided to make the partnership permanent. They had three children, all
girls, who at the time of Harvey’s retirement were all married with
families of their own—two of them in the United States and one in
Australia. Meanwhile, Jenny had put on a bit of weight, and her face had
rounded out from youthful prettiness to mature amiability.
Jenny Barrington, through all the years of Harvey’s rise to affluence,
had remained a pleasant, unambitious woman. She spent most of her
time at the Sussex farmhouse, where she had a circle of bridge-playing
friends. She was not stupid, and she realized that a man like Harvey, not
at all bad-looking and surrounded by the fascinating aura of money and
success, was going to indulge in romantic adventures. She had no
illusions about what frequently went on during his many trips abroad, or
the times that he spent without her in London and Switzerland.
However, Jenny was not depressed. She knew that she could not
hope to compete with Harvey’s youthful beauties on their terms, so she
took care never to become aware of any details about them. Instead, she
concentrated on being nice to come home to. She knew that Harvey
appreciated her attitude, and that he would always come home. Since
Jenny disliked sailing, did not ski and was terrified of the helicopter,
Harvey—what with his sporting activities and his hectic working life—
spent a lot of time away from his wife: but always at the back of his mind
was the comforting thought that she was there—reassuring, undemanding,
restful. Home.
After his retirement, of course, things changed. The Barringtons were
together a great deal more. Instead of odd days or weekends snatched on
the ski slopes or the boat, Harvey found that he could take long holidays
and go on extended cruises. He persuaded Jenny to go with him, but she
decided that she was too old to learn to ski, she got seasick on the water,
and she missed her bridge parties. By the time he was fifty-five, Harvey
Barrington, the man who had everything, was forced to admit to himself
that he was deathly bored. It was at this dangerous point in his life that
he met Samantha Polegate-White.
Samantha was twenty-three, and a refugee from an impecunious
upper-middle-class family. For as long as she could remember, her
parents had been struggling to do something or other. First it had been
the struggle to maintain the family house—an ugly Victorian edifice in
East Anglia, which was far too large for a family of three. Then they had
struggled to send Samantha to a very snobbish and costly boarding-
school, where, not being academically inclined, she learnt virtually
nothing. They would certainly have struggled to send her to University,
had she been able to pass the entrance examinations. Instead, they
struggled to get her into a fashionable secretarial college in London, where
they hoped she would meet “the right people,” become a Sloane Ranger
and make a brilliant marriage: for there was no argument about the fact
that Samantha was sensationally beautiful. Not surprisingly on her
twenty-first birthday, Samantha had rebelled.
She ran away from the secretarial college and the nice little studio flat
in Kensington (her parents, naturally, were struggling to pay the rent).
She first joined a very curious commune squatting in an empty house in
THE MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING 181
Hackney, but the poverty and discomfort soon disgusted her, and she
decided to capitalize on her looks and become a model. She quickly
found out that it took more than a pretty face to become one of the
highly-paid girls who appear in the glossy magazines and on the cat-walks
of couturiers. The only jobs she could get were poorly-paid and back
breaking, modeling cheap clothes in the showrooms of wholesale
manufacturers in London’s garment district.
Samantha hated the work, hated the life and hated the bed-sitter in
Lewisham which was the only accommodation she could afford.
However, she was in something of a fix. She was determined not to go
back to her family and admit that she had been wrong—and yet she was
quite unqualified for any other, more agreeable work. It was at this stage
that she ran into an old schoolfriend while shopping in Oxford Street.
The Polegate-Whites’ struggle to send their daughter to an expensive
school paid off at last.
Over coffee, the old schoolfriend professed herself devastated at
Samantha’s plight, and promised to find her something to do in Daddy’s
business. Daddy’s business turned out to be a Mayfair brokerage firm
which dealt in luxury yachts. Samantha was installed, on a purely deco
rative basis, as a receptionist. And so it was that she met Harvey Barring
ton, who dropped in to open negotiations in the matter of selling his boat
and buying a larger one. That was how it all began.
It is not unusual for a man of Harvey’s age to fall in love with a much
younger girl. In this case, however, it was more than a passing fancy; it
was a desperate infatuation. It might have cooled down, or even disap
peared altogether, if Samantha had agreed to go to bed with Harvey. But
she had had enough of dreary hard work and unpleasant living con
ditions, and her two years of independence had taught her a number of
lessons—among them that very rich and good-looking men are accus
tomed to easily-bought sexual favors, and, for all their promises, have no
compunction about dropping the girl when they tire of her. From the
beginning, she decided that it was to be marriage or nothing. In vain
Harvey offered luxury apartments, money, jewelry, clothes.
“Come back to me,” said Samantha heartlessly, “with your Decree
Nisi tucked nearly into your briefcase, and we’ll talk about it then.”
Harvey was not used to this sort of reception, and it drove him crazy.
Finally, in desperation, he asked Jenny for a divorce.
Jenny was amused. “Don’t be silly, Harvey. Of course not. You’d
regret it in a few months. You’d want to come home—you know that
perfectly well. But by then it would be too late.”
It was not long after this that Harvey Barrington came to the
conclusion that he would have to kill his wife.
He went round one evening to see Samantha in the Hampstead
studio apartment where she now lived (Daddy, at his daughter’s insis
tence, was paying Samantha far more than she was worth).
“I’ve spoken to Jenny,” he said. “She won’t hear of a divorce.”
“Well then, there’s nothing to be done, is there?” Samantha sounded
practical, but she realized that she was taking a big risk. She had no
intention of losing Harvey.
“Oh yes there is,” said Harvey. “Now, listen to me. I’m going to take
Jenny to the Caribbean house for a holiday. It’s just possible she might
have some sort of an accident. I won’t say any more. Meanwhile, I want
all my letters back, and we mustn’t see each other at all for the time
being. You can tell your boss’s daughter that we’ve had a row. There
must be no connection whatsoever between us. OK?”
“OK, Harvey,” said Samantha. She went over to her dressing-table,
took a bundle of letters out of the drawer and handed it to him. “They’re
all there.”
Harvey took the letters, glanced through them and nodded. Then he
said, “Whatever happens, don’t try to contact me at any time.”
Samantha smiled. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
“Exactly.”
The next day, Harvey told Jenny that he had come to his senses and
got over his ridiculous infatuation. He suggested that they should take
a Caribbean holiday to celebrate—just the two of them. They flew out
the following week.
The fact that the island was still a British Crown Colony had many
advantages: the only minus point was that under British law there is no
such thing as a private beach. Harvey could stop outsiders from walking
through his property to reach the sea, but he could not prevent sailors
from anchoring off his white coral sands and coming ashore for a swim.
However, he did not think that this would interfere with his plan. It was
summertime and so out of season, and his beach was very secluded. He
felt sure that it would be quite easy to arrange for Jenny to drown.
The first few days passed peacefully enough. The sun shone, the Bar
ringtons swam and sunbathed and watched magnificent sunsets as they
sipped rum punches on their terrace. Jenny was delighted to be without
the usual crowd of acquaintances—he had always been too busy to
acquire real friends—that Harvey was accustomed to invite to the island.
Each morning at half past ten, the Barringtons went down to the
beach for a swim. It was a charming little bay, with big grey boulders that
scattered the sand and then strode out into the water, breaking the
smooth blue line of the horizon.
It was a favorite sport of the local youngsters to climb up on to the
top of the biggest rock, and jump from it into the water. Harvey remem
bered an occasion a few years back when a boy had made an awkward
leap, struck his head on the boulder on the way down, fallen unconscious
into the water and drowned. What had happened once, he reckoned,
could happen again. In fact, it was going to happen the following day, a
Wednesday.
On Wednesday, however, the sky was cloudy, with threatening rain,
and Jenny announced that she wouldn’t come to the beach.
“You go, Harvey,” she said. “I’ll stay here and read my book.”
Harvey shrugged, and went off to swim alone. He was quite glad to
do so, as a matter of fact, because it gave him an opportunity to scout out
the terrain in peace, and to find a suitable piece of rock with which to
knock Jenny out before dumping her in the water. He also practiced
climbing to the top of the big boulder, and was pleased to find that it was
quite easy,
On Thursday, Jenny came to the beach. After a short dip, Harvey
said, “Look, I want to show you something.” He scrambled up the rock,
gave Jenny a cheerful wave, and jumped into the sea. He surfaced splut
tering and laughing.
“It’s great fun. Why don’t you try it, darling?”
Sitting on the sand, Jenny smiled and shook her head. “Not for me,
thanks. I’m too old for that sort of thing.”
“You’re always saying you’re too old. First it was skiing, and now
this. At least come and see. The climb up isn’t at all difficult.”
“Oh, very well.” Jenny got up and began to walk towards the rocks.
This was important, because Harvey needed her footprints in the sand,
approaching the big boulder. And, at that moment, a white sailing ketch
rounded the point, came up into the wind and dropped anchor just off
the beach. Her crew jumped into the dinghy and rowed ashore, chat
tering and laughing.
“Hi, there!” called a tall, fair young man, in an unmistakable New
York accent. “Lovely morning!”
Harvey managed an uneasy grin, and returned the greeting. At the
same time, he stashed away the piece of rock which he had left hidden
among the boulders, and which he had intended to use for knocking out
his wife. Once more, the deed would have to be postponed.
Then it occurred to him that perhaps it was a good thing that these
young Americans had shown up. They would make useful corroborative
witnesses.
“We’re having some good sport here,” he called out. “Come and have
a go!”
He shinned up the boulder again, and jumped into the sea. The
Americans—there were four of them, two men and two girls—applauded
and ran along the beach to try for themselves. Soon they were all taking
turns to scramble up and jump or dive down, and so infectious was their
young enthusiasm that even Jenny was persuaded to try it.
“That was marvelous!” She struck out for the shore and another
jump. “Perhaps I’ll even learn to ski!”
Friday morning. Another beautiful day. Harvey and Jenny walked
down to the deserted beach.
“Coming for another rock jump?” Harvey asked.
“In a minute. You go first.”
Harvey walked over to the foot of the huge boulder. His rock was
where he had left it, satisfactorily camouflaged among the other grey
stones. He felt a strong surge of excitement. This was it. He would make
his jump, come quickly ashore and catch up with Jenny as she started to
climb. It would all be over in a matter of seconds. His heart thumping,
Harvey climbed the boulder. His adrenalin was pumping and his face was
damp with sweat, which ran down into his eyes. That was probably the
reason why his foot slipped as he reached the summit of the rock. He
grabbed vainly at the air, trying to save himself, but it was no use. He
fell, clumsily. His head struck granite, and he knew no more.
When he recovered consciousness, Harvey was in his bed in the plan
tation house, with the local doctor bending over him.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Barrington,” said the
doctor cheerily. He was an elderly Englishman who had retired to the
island, but had been persuaded to continue his profession for the benefit
of its inhabitants. “That was a very narrow shave you had, sir. If it
hadn’t been for your wife, you’d be a dead man now.”
Harvey struggled to sit up. “What happened? I can’t remember—”
“You were playing a silly, dangerous game,” said the doctor severely.
“Climbing up that big boulder and jumping into the sea. Mrs. Barrington
says that you lost your footing at the top and fell off, hitting your head
on the way down to the water. Exactly what happened to that poor boy
two years ago. Thank God Mrs. Barrington was there. She managed to
drag you out of the water and gave you artificial respiration. When she
was sure you were breathing again, she ran up to the house and tele
phoned me. You’re a lucky man in more ways than one, Mr. Barrington.
Lucky to be alive, and lucky to have a brave and resourceful wife. You
should be very thankful.”
“I am,” said Harvey, and suddenly realized that it was true. Of
course, Jenny had been perfectly right all along. Samantha now seemed
no more than any of the other pretty faces he had encountered in the
course of his life. Jenny was the only person who meant anything to him.
He had come home.
There was no question, of course, of Harvey going to the beach or
anywhere else for several days. The doctor insisted on complete rest and
quiet. So it was that, two days later, Jenny Barrington went to the beach
alone.
She felt wonderful, young and strong again. Harvey really loved her.
She would learn to ski. She would go out on the boat, take pills against
seasickness and learn to sail. So full was she of these thoughts and plans
that she never noticed how far out the current was taking her. In a panic
she turned for the shore, but she never made it. Her body was washed up
a day later, some way dt>wn the coast.
Of course, it rated a small mention in all the London newspapers.
“Millionaire’s Wife Drowns in Caribbean Paradise.” Samantha saw it,
and was much impressed. A few days later, after the inquest and the
funeral in the island’s small church, there were pictures of Harvey flying
back to Heathrow. “Heart-Broken Millionaire Barrington Returns Home
Alone.” Samantha smiled to herself.
She stopped smiling, however, when the weeks went by and she still
heard nothing from Harvey. Discretion was all very well, but this was
going too far. After all, hadn’t it been proved beyond all doubt that this
was Death by Misadventure? Harvey, it was reported, had been nowhere
near the beach at the time—in fact, he was at home, laid up in bed after
a nasty accident. The Coroner had made some pointed remarks about the
foolhardiness of going swimming alone. This being so, Samantha could
not imagine why Harvey had not contacted her. Finally, she could bear
it no longer. One evening she telephoned his London number.
“Harvey, it’s me. Samantha. 1 was desolated to hear about Jenny.
Why don’t you come round to my place for a drink?”
“No,” said Harvey, and rang off.
Samantha bit her lip. This was ridiculous. Well, at least she knew he
was at the Chelsea apartment. She took a cab and went there.
Harvey opened the door himself. Samantha knew that he only em
ployed a daily cleaning woman for the apartment, presumably so that he
could use it as an occasional love-nest when Jenny was in Sussex.
He said roughly, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Samantha stepped past him into the hall. “What do you think I’m
doing, darling? I came to see you, of course.” She held out her arms for
an embrace, but Harvey backed away from her. He said, “Please go,
Samantha. Everything has changed.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“There’s really no reason why I should explain to you, but I will.
Jenny saved my life, down on the island. And then she drowned by
accident, when I wasn’t there to help her. I only realized then what she
meant to me. I could never—”
“You are a fool, Harvey.” Samantha masked her dismay and fury
under a thin coat of mockery. “When shall we announce our engage
ment?”
“Never.”
“Really? Then I shall go to the police and tell them how you were
planning to kill Jenny.”
“You can’t do that. You’ve absolutely no proof of anything. My
letters—”
“Oh, I gave you back your letters, all right. But surely you must have
realized that I’d made photocopies of them, just in case. They’re depos
ited at my bank. And whenever you visited me, I had my tape-recorder
going. Including the last time.” Samantha put her beautiful head on one
side and considered. “I wonder which would be more amusing? To go to
the police, or to go to the tabloid press. The press, I think. Imagine what
they’d pay me.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I certainly would. I’m not going to let that fat old bitch get the
better of me.”
It was then that Harvey Barrington strangled Samantha Polegate-
White. Then he sat down at his desk and wrote a full confession, before
telephoning the police anonymously to report an accident at his address.
Long before the police arrived, he had walked out of the riverside
apartment building and into the dark waters of the Thames. His letter of
confession did not actually mention suicide. But it ended, “By the time
you read this, I shall be home.”
A Suit of Diamonds, 1990
FAMILY CHRISTMAS
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On thefeast of Stephen . . .
he young voices were ragged and precariously off-key, but all the
T same Mrs. Runfold found them touching. She laid down her
needlepoint embroidery and said, “Poor little things. They must
be perishing with cold out there at this hour of night. 1 shall ring for
Parker and tell him to give them five pounds and some hot soup.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” replied her husband. He rustled his news
paper angrily. “They’re nothing but a confounded nuisance, and it’s not
even Christmas Eve yet.” He got up from his chair by the fire and pressed
a bell. This produced, before the end of the carol, an extremely correct
and unhurried butler.
“You rang, sir?”
“Yes, Parker, I did. Give those damned children fifty pence, and tell
them to go away and not dare come back.”
“Very good, sir.”
Parker bowed slightly and withdrew. The voices straggled into silence
as the big front door closed. Mary Runfold sighed and resumed her
embroidery. She had learned, after thirty years of marriage, not to argue
with her husband. Besides, Dr. Carlton had warned Robert against
getting upset or angry, because of his heart condition. Mrs. Runfold
changed the subject.
“How nice,” she said, as her needle flicked deftly in and out of the
canvas, “to think that all the family will be home for Christmas.”
“You think so?”
“Well, of course, dear. It will be lovely to see the girls and their
husbands.”
Robert Runfold snorted. “I suppose you realize, Mary, that either one
of those young men would cheerfully kill me if he thought he could get
away with it?”
The needle stopped in midair. “Robert! What a terrible thing to say!
How can you even think such a—?”
“Don’t be silly, Mary. You know I’m right.”
Timidly, Mrs. Runfold said, “Well, dear, perhaps if you were to ad
vance them just a little money . .
“You know perfectly well that on principle I don’t believe in giving
young people money. Let them stand on their own feet.”
“Yes, dear.” The needle resumed its activity.
Defensively, Robert Runfold said, “They’ve both had expensive train
ing and should be able to support themselves and their wives. All right,
so Derek wants to buy his own pharmacy and have Anne give up her job
and start a family. Let him, by all means. It’s no concern of mine.”
“But—”
“And as for Philip, it’s absolutely disgraceful the way he’s allowed
himself to get into debt. Veterinary surgeons are very well paid these
days.”
“He’s been giving free treatment to pets of people who can’t afford his
regular fees, Robert.”
“More fool he. Alison should have stopped him. Shown a little com
mon sense.”
In the silence that followed, the grandfather clock in the big drawing
room struck nine, and a glowing log tumbled slowly down into the fire
basket.
Runfold went on. “Which reminds me, Mary. I’ve been meaning to
say this. I want you personally to supervise everything I eat and drink
over Christmas.”
“Well, naturally, dear, I discuss all the menus with Mrs. Benson—”
“That’s not what I mean. Derek and Philip both have access to pro
hibited drugs. They both know about my shaky heart. It would be per
fectly easy for either of them to slip something into my food—or my
glass.”
Mary Runfold gave a little nervous laugh. “Oh, come now, Robert.
You don’t seriously believe that either of them would do such a thing.”
“I’m taking no chances.”
Gently, Mrs. Runfold said. “If you’re really so suspicious, why did
you invite them for Christmas?”
Runfold grunted. “I wanted to see the girls. And I knew you’d enjoy
a family Christmas.”
“Thank you, dear.” There was no irony in his wife’s voice. “That was
very thoughtful.”
“In any case,” Robert went on, “I am asking you to serve personally
anything that I eat or drink. And tell Mrs. Benson that nobody but you
may go into the kitchen over Christmas—particularly the four young
people.”
FAMILY CHRISTMAS 189
“Of course I’ll do that, if it’s what you want, Robert.”
“Thank you, Mary.” Robert Runfold smiled at his wife over his
newspaper—that warm, sweet smile which transformed his face, and
which had won her heart so many years ago. She gave a little sigh,
knowing that she would always love, honor, and obey him, even though
he might not be perfect. Charm is every bit as potent in a man as in a
woman. She just wished that he would smile more often.
Then, of course, he had to go and spoil it. He said, “I’ve been worried
lately, Mary. About you.”
“Me?”
“Well, I know how soft-hearted you are. Either of those two young
rascals could persuade you to part with my money once I’m dead and
you’ve inherited.”
“My dear, I assure you—”
“So I may as well tell you, I’ve changed my will. You will get a hand
some income for life, so you needn’t worry. But the capital is well and
truly tied up until the youngest girl is forty.” Runfold sat back in his
chair with a little grunt of satisfaction. “Yes, they’ll have to wait until
they’re forty, or until we’re both dead. That’s why I can have so much
confidence in you, Mary.”
“Couldn’t you have trusted me anyway, Robert?”
Robert laughed. “Oh, I know you wouldn’t try to kill me. It wouldn’t
be in your interest. But the thought of you being in control of all that
money, without me around to advise you . . . ”
“I’m sure you did the right thing, my dear,” said Mary Runfold.
Two days later, on Christmas Eve, the daughters and their husbands
arrived, and preparations went ahead for a jolly family Christmas. Ev
erybody took turns at stirring the pudding—Robert could hardly object
to this, since the mixture had been made months ago by Mrs. Benson, but
he kept an extremely sharp eye on his sons-in-law all the same. Mary put
in the little silver charms carefully wrapped in grease-proof paper—the
spinster’s thimble, the bachelor’s button, the lucky wishbone, the Christ
mas bell, and the threepenny bit and the sixpence—two silver coins saved
from Christmases long past.
That afternoon, Anne Walters (nee Runfold) managed to corner her
father on his own in the library, where he had taken refuge to escape
helping with the holly and paper streamers which were being festooned
over the drawing room.
Anne, a gravely dark beauty of twenty-eight, turned on all her charm.
“You see, Daddy, Derek could make a whole lot of money with a phar
macy of his own. As it is, he’s working for a rotten salary, and I can’t
possibly give up my job, and . . . you do want grandchildren, don’t you?”
Anne smiled and put a persuasive arm around her father’s shoulders.
Robert shook it off. “Whether or not you have babies is nothing to
do with me, Anne. You and Derek are grown-up people. You must make
your own decisions.”
“But decisions often depend on money, Daddy.”
“Not on mine.” Robert shut the book he was reading with a snap. “If
you want to talk about babies, go and have a word with your mother.”
Anne looked at him reflectively. “Maybe I will,” she said.
A little later, Alison Watts (nee Runfold) came into the library. She
was twenty-four, with her mother’s dark-golden hair and a pert, pretty
face which was currently marred by the fact that she was crying.
“What on earth is the matter, Ally?” In Robert’s view, people had no
right to spoil Christmas by displays of emotion.
“Oh, Daddy, it’s about Philip. I’m so terribly unhappy.”
“Then leave him,” said Runfold bluntly.
“No, Daddy, you don’t understand . . . I love Philip and I’ll stand by
him through anything—absolutely anything. But things are much worse
than you know. If he can’t pay his debts he’ll have to go bankrupt, and
his career will be finished! It’s really not his fault—he’s been too
generous . . . ”
“Which is a mistake I’m not about to make,” remarked her father.
“It’s no good coming in here and weeping all over the place. You and
Philip have got yourselves into this mess, and you can get out of it.”
“But how?”
“Bankruptcy isn’t the end of the world. Plenty of people have
climbed out of it and made a success of their lives. In fact, it might be the
making of that shiftless husband of yours.”
Still in tears, Alison ran out of the room and went in search of her
mother. She found her in the drawing room with Anne. Derek and
Philip had been packed off on a long country walk to keep them out of
the way.
One look at her sister’s face was enough for Anne. “No luck?” she
said.
Alison shook her head mutely. Mary Runfold said,.“I’m so sorry,
darling. I did think your father might help when it actually came to
bankruptcy—but you know what he’s like.”
Alison blew her nose, stopped crying, and said, “I wish he was dead.
I honestly do.”
“You mustn’t say such things, Ally. He’s been a wonderful father to
you.”
“He’s been no such thing!” Anne was vehement. “Ally’s right. If
he’d only drop dead, you’d have his money, and we know you’d help us!”
Mrs. Runfold shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid he’s thought of that.
You know his heart is weak—he can’t live forever. So he’s made a new
will, giving me an income for life and putting all the capital in trust for
you two girls—until Ally is forty.”
“Forty!” Anne was outraged. “That means I’ll be forty-four! It’s
wicked. Can’t you break the trust, Mummy?”
“I very much doubt it. You know how thorough your father is. Any
way, please don’t talk as though he were dead already. He may live for
many years yet, please God.”
“Well, we’re in for a really merry Christmas, aren’t we?” Alison was
bitter. “When he actually invited us, we thought that he’d changed his
mind.”
“He never changes his mind,” said Mary Runfold quietly. “That’s one
of the reasons why he’s so rich.”
Later that evening, Anne went to the kitchen. She and the cook were
old friends.
“Hello, Bensy,” she said.
“Why, good evening, Miss Anne! Merry Christmas! How well and
pretty you’re looking! And no wonder, with that handsome husband to
look after you.” Mrs. Benson, stout and good-humored, went on rolling
pastry.
“Thank you, Bensy. Yes, I’m very happy.” A little pause. “What’s
that you’re making?”
“Pastry for this evening’s apple pie, dear. Your father’s favorite.”
“Can I help?”
“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Benson looked up, red-faced and flustered.
“Why, I’d quite forgotten! The mistress said none of you young people
were to come in the kitchen. You’d better go, or I’ll be in trouble.”
“Not come into the kitchen?” Anne was puzzled. “Why ever not?”
“Don’t ask me, Miss Anne. I expect your mother wants everything to
be a surprise for you. Anyhow, off you go. And tell Miss Ally, will you?
And your young men—husbands, I should say. I somehow can’t get used
to the idea of you two being married ladies. It seems no time at all since
. . .” Mrs. Benson wiped away a furtive tear on the edge of her apron.
“Well, run along now, dear.”
Anne left, far from pleased.
Dinner that evening was a glum meal, although Robert Runfold gave
no sign of noticing anything untoward. He tucked with relish into the
apple pie and regaled his family with stories about his early struggles in
the business world, and how he had pulled himself up by his own boot
straps with no help from anybody. This information was received in
bleak silence, broken only by Mary Runfold’s urging of second helpings
on everybody. After dinner, there was another visit from carol singers,
which put Robert into a thoroughly bad temper. Parker was sent to get
rid of them, and soon afterward the family went gloomily to bed.
Gloomily, that is, apart from Robert, who remarked cheerfully to his
wife, “Well, I think they got the message, eh, Mary? Nothing like being
firm and making oneself clearly understood.” The look on Mary’s face
must have caught his attention, because he patted her hand and gave her
his charmer’s smile. “Now, stop worrying, dear. They’re young and
they’ll pull out of these little difficulties. It’ll do them good. You’ll see.”
On Christmas morning, the whole family went to Matins in the vil
lage church. The vicar, the local doctor, and other worthies thought how
pleasant it was to see a really united family praying together, in these
days.
The vicar preached a short, hearty sermon on the meaning of Christ
mas, emphasizing how the festival united families and spread goodwill.
Then the congregation streamed out into the crisp winter air. A fine
sprinkling of snow was beginning to fall, and the phrase “A white
Christmas after all!” was repeated on all sides. Then everybody scurried
for their cars, and home to the turkeys and plum puddings which had
been cooking all the morning.
Christmas lunch at the Runfolds went as well as could be expected.
Mrs. Benson had excelled herself. The turkey was succulent, the bread
sauce creamy and with just the right hint of onion and nutmeg, the
cranberries-and-chestnut stuffing made delicious contrasts of taste.
However, the main course was not so heavy as to leave appetites blunted
when the Christmas pudding was carried in by Parker, aflame with
brandy and accompanied by a positively alcoholic hard sauce.
Mrs. Runfold served the pudding herself, making sure that everybody
got one of the wrapped favors. Derek got the sixpenny piece and Philip
the three-penny, which caused Robert to remark that it was a lucky omen
for their future finances. Alison drew the lucky silver wishbone and Anne
the Christmas bell, and there was laughter when Mary and Robert found,
respectively, the spinster’s thimble and the bachelor’s button in their
portions.
The meal over, everybody agreed that a short siesta would put them
into good shape to tackle Mrs. Benson’s royally iced Christmas cake.
Only Mary Runfold decided to go first to the kitchen to confer with Mrs.
Benson about the cold supper which was to be served before the young
people departed for home.
Consequently, it was not until about half past three that she went
upstairs, to find her husband slumped across their big double bed, not
sleeping but dead.
Dr. Carlton arrived within a few minutes of Mrs. Runfold’s anguished
telephone call. He was not particularly surprised at what had happened.
He knew only too well of Runfold’s potentially dangerous heart condition.
“But why? Why, Dr. Carlton? Why should he die now? What hap
pened?” Mary was obviously not far from the breaking point.
The doctor, who was engaged in writing out the death certificate,
looked up. “Who can tell, Mrs. Runfold? Perhaps you know better than
I do?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just that heart failure, in his condition, can be brought on by hyper
tension. Has he been worked up or overexcited lately? Has he been
eating too much rich food?”
“I suppose he has,” Mary admitted. “What with Christmas—and
then, we have the girls and their husbands here, and . . . well, yes, he has
been worried. Family matters, you understand.”
“Of course. Please accept all my sympathy, Mrs. Runfold.” Dr. Carl
ton signed the certificate and handed her a copy. “There. This will
enable the undertakers to arrange everything without any bother.” He
cleared his throat. “I’m very glad, Mrs. Runfold, that you have your
family with you. They will be a greater comfort to you than anybody
else.”
Hesitantly, Mary said, “You don’t think . . . I mean, could he have
been given something . . . something in his food or drink that could have
brought on the attack?”
The doctor smiled sadly. “What a bizarre idea, Mrs. Runfold. In
theory, of course—yes. Somebody could have administered something.
But there was nobody here but the family, was there?”
“What sort of thing?”
“Oh, there are several substances—an overdose of digitalis, for in
stance.”
Mary Runfold had gone very pale. “Digitalis? I thought that was a
cure for heart disease.”
“Given in very careful doses—yes, it can be helpful. But an overdose,
coupled with high blood pressure—however, don’t even think about it.
Your husband died from natural causes—heart failure, which had been
threatening for some time. You must put anything else out of your mind.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Derek, the pharmacist, took control of the situation with easy exper
tise. The undertakers arrived, muted and unruffled, and removed
Robert’s body to their chapel of rest. By common consent, Mary’s
daughters and their husbands agreed to stay on until after the funeral.
Derek was on a week’s holiday, and Philip had left his veterinary practice
in the hands of a young locum, who was blithely unaware of the fact that
he would probably never be paid.
The next morning, Mary Runfold assembled her family in the drawing
room. She was very calm.
She said, “There is something I have to ask all four of you, and I want
truthful answers.”
They looked at her, silent and surprised. She went on, “Did any of
you tamper in any way with Robert’s food or drink yesterday?”
There was a chorus of indignant denials. Mary rang the bell, and
when Parker appeared, said, “Ah, Parker. Please ask Mrs. Benson to come
here.”
Parker’s eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch, but all he said was,
“Yes, madam.”
As soon as the door had closed behind him, a babble of voices broke
out.
“What on earth is all this, Mother?” This from Anne.
“I do assure you, Mother-in-law—”
“Just because I said yesterday . . . of course I didn’t mean it . . .”
“What sort of fools do you think we are?” Philip sounded very grim.
“You think Ally and I would poison her father just to . . . ?”
The voices fell abruptly silent as Mrs. Benson came in. She was red
eyed but composed.
“You wanted to see me, madam?”
“Yes, Mrs. Benson. You remember that I gave orders that nobody but
myself was to go into the kitchen?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Well, did anybody go in? Or try to go in?”
Mrs. Benson flushed deeply. “I don’t really like—”
“What you like or not is immaterial, Mrs. Benson. Please answer my
question.”
“Well, madam, Miss Anne . . . beg pardon, Mrs. Walters . . . she did
come in to wish me a merry Christmas, while I was making the pastry for
the apple pie. But I told her to go away, because of what you said,
madam.”
“Did she say anything else, except ‘Merry Christmas’?”
Mrs. Benson went an even deeper red and snuffled.
“She asked me if she could help with the apple pie. Miss Anne’s
always been so—”
“But you didn’t let her?”
“Oh, no, madam.”
“Anybody else?”
“No, madam.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Benson. You may go now.”
Before the door had closed behind the cook, Anne burst out, “Are you
accusing me of . . . ?”
“I’m not accusing anybody,” said Mary evenly. “How can I? Even
though I’m convinced that Robert’s death wasn’t natural.”
“Excuse me, Mother-in-law,” said Derek. “You’re accusing all of us,
most explicitly. And it’s ridiculous. As you told us yourself, under the
new will we wouldn’t get any money.”
Mary Runfold looked at him steadily. “You didn’t know that when
you arrived here, did you?”
“Well—no. But—”
“There’s no point in talking about it.” Mary’s voice was suddenly
very weary. “Mrs. Benson seems to have cleared you all.” She sighed. “I
think I shall go and lie down now. I’m really very tired.”
When her mother had gone, Alison said. “I honestly believe she
suspects one of us.”
“Or all of us,” said Philip.
Anne said, “It’s almost as though—oh, I don’t know—as though she
wanted one of us to be guilty.”
“That’s crazy,” remarked her husband.
“It may be crazy, but I think it’s true,” said Anne stubbornly.
It was when Mrs. Runfold did not appear for lunch that Alison went
up to her room to wake her. She found her mother in a coma, with an
empty bottle of sleeping pills beside her and a note propped up on the
dressing table. The note read, “Forgive me. I couldn’t face life without
Robert, so I am going to join him.”
Mrs. Runfold was rushed to hospital, but it was too late. She died
that afternoon, without regaining consciousness. The inquest was brief,
the coroner very sympathetic. The verdict: Suicide while the balance of
her mind was disturbed.
When Alison and Philip arrived home after the double funeral, Alison
was surprised and shocked to see a letter on the mat, addressed to her in
Mary’s unmistakable handwriting. While Philip carried in the suitcases,
she slipped it unopened into her handbag. It was only the next day, after
her husband had gone to work, that she read the letter.
It was postmarked on the day of her mother’s death.
Dearest Ally,
I am giving this to Parker to post. It isforyour eyes only. I am sure
I can trust you to keep it secret. I feel I must tell somebody the truth.
I hardly know how to say this. You see, Robert was convinced that
either Philip or Derek would tty to poison him over Christmas—that is
to say, give him some substance which would not be lethal to a healthy
person, but would cause a heart attack to someone in Robert’s condition.
I am ashamed to say that, although I pooh-poohed the idea, I secretly
agreed with him.
I knew that digitalis was a heart stimulant, and I had a foolish
notion that if I managed to give him some, it would help him to withstand
whatever drug he might befed. In any case, I reckoned it couldn’t do him
any harm. You’ll understand that I couldn’t ask Dr. Carlton for advice
without voicing my suspicions to him. And digitalis was something that
I could get hold of.
I made my concoction late in the evening beforeyou arrived, after
Robert and Mrs. Benson had gone to bed. Then I soaked the paper
wrapping of the bachelor’s button in it, so that it would seep into the
surrounding pudding—and of course I made sure that Robert would get
it.
It was only after his death that the doctor told me that the wrong dose
could have killed him.
I confess I hoped against hope that one ofyou might have tried to
poison him, which is why I questionedyou all so closely just now; but I
can no longer escape thefact that I killed Robert myself.
At least, you and Anne will now getyour father’s money. There is
nothing else I can doforyou.
Whether or notyou decide to sell the house, please destroy the clump
offoxgloves near the gate. And tell Mrs. Benson to throw away the small
copper saucepan.
With all my love,
Mother.
Christmas Stalkings, 1991

THE HOLLY WREATH
W
ednesday, December fifteenth. A frosty night, with a bitter
wind which cut through the streets of London and set
swinging the gaudy artificial stars and Christmas trees that
hung suspended over Regent Street. Margaret Cannington, coming out
of the warm theater into the chill of Shaftesbury Avenue, was glad of the
warmth of her black Persian-lamb coat and she hugged it even more
closely round her as she paid off the cab which had brought her home to
No. 16 Wilberforce Square.
Wilberforce Square is one of those rare and beautiful corners which
still exist on the western fringes of Kensington. Its central garden is
stocked with blossoming fruit trees, chestnuts and evergreens and is firmly
fenced and locked against the unauthorized. The little Georgian houses,
each with a small front garden, were built as modest middle-class
residences and are now worth a fortune apiece.
No. 16 belonged, of course, to Stephen, and Margaret was finding it
hard to face the fact that she would soon have to leave it—as soon as the
divorce came through, in fact—unless Stephen proved unexpectedly
generous or her lawyers uncommonly astute. She put the thought out of
her mind and walked up the paved path, fumbling in her bag for her
latch-key. Behind the drawn curtains, she could see lights burning in the
drawing-room, giving the house a welcoming air. Tomorrow, thought
Margaret, I must buy the holly wreath for the front door. Emma has been
going on and on about it. And then she thought, a wreath is just about
right. A holly wreath for a dead marriage.
Inside, everything was quiet. Margaret reflected how lucky she had
been to find the Students’ Baby-Sitting Bureau. Such pleasant, serious-
minded young people they were—no question of rowdy parties breaking
out as soon as one’s back was turned. She had left this evening’s sitter—
an attractive, black-haired girl—in the drawing-room, settling down to
devour a pile of books on French medieval history along with coffee and
sandwiches. Probably she was still at it. Upstairs, the lights were out, and
no sound came from the nursery. Fortunately, Emma was a placid child
who slept well and had no fear of strangers.
“I’m back!” Margaret called, slipping off her coat and throwing it onto
a chair in the hall. Her voice seemed absorbed into the silence. From the
dining-room, the little French clock struck eleven precise, silver notes.
Margaret went quickly into the drawing-room. There was nobody there.
The sofa cushions were dented where someone had been sitting. The log
fire had burnt itself out into a pile of ashes.
Annoyed but not alarmed, Margaret looked into the dark kitchen and
the cloakroom. They, too, were empty. So the wretched girl had gone
home—and she had promised to stay until half past eleven, if necessary.
Lucky Emma isn’t a neurotic child, thought Margaret. Even so, if
she’d woken and started to cry . . . She’s only four, after all. She went
upstairs.
At first, Margaret could not take in the simple, self-evident fact that
the nursery was empty. Everything was just as she had left it—the old
teddy bear and the Dutch doll perched at the foot of the small bed, the
elaborate new moon-rocket (a present from Stephen Emma had contrived
to break within ten minutes) lying in pieces on the mantelpiece, the
dogeared copy of Winnie-the-Pooh from which she had been reading to
Emma still open at the drawing of Kanga and Baby Roo. Everything was
the same except for one detail. The bed was empty.
No, not empty. Not quite. On the pillow, where Emma’s straight
brown hair should have been spread out, tousled in sleep, there was a
piece of paper.
Margaret switched on the light and went over to the bed. She could
not bring herself to touch the paper. She leaned over to read it, standing
as far away as she could. It was a very ordinary piece of white paper torn
from a scribbling pad and the words on it had been cut out individually
from the newspapers and pasted onto it—a task which must have taken
some time and trouble.
The little girl is safe, and will come to no harm if you are sensible.
If you attempt to contact the police or to disobey orders, she will suffer.
Your telephone is tapped andyour movements are under observation SO
D O N’T TRY ANY TRICKS. You will be given instructions later.
Margaret left the paper where it was and walked slowly downstairs.
For several minutes she stood beside the telephone in the drawing-room,
fighting against the numbness that seemed to have robbed her of all
power of action. Your telephone is tapped. The telephone had suddenly
become an enemy, a squat black traitor, a spy. Slowly Margaret pulled
THE HOLLY WREATH 199
it toward her and began to dial the number of the luxury service-
apartment in Mayfair where Stephen was now living.
“Cannington,” said Stephen in his brisk, telephone voice. He was one
of the people who obeyed the Postmaster General’s instructions to the
letter. He did not say “Hello,” he announced his identity. Margaret had
always found it disconcerting.
“Oh, Stephen—is that you? It’s me.”
“Margaret!” Stephen did not sound pleased. “What on earth do you
want at this hour of night?”
“Stephen, I—I must see you.”
“Are you out of your mind? You know very well that the lawyer said
we shouldn’t meet before the case comes up. I thought you understood
that.”
“But I must see you—right away, now.”
“My dear Margaret,” said Stephen, “I have just explained.”
“This is serious, Stephen. Something has happened . . .” Margaret
found herself groping for words, as though she were trying to speak a
foreign language.
“Well? What has happened?”
“It’s—it’s Emma.”
“Emma?” Stephen was worried now. “Is she ill?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I—she—she isn’t here, you see.”
“Not there? Then where is she?”
“I don’t know. Oh, Stephen, I must see you!”
“You mean the child’s lost?”
“I can’t explain on the telephone. Please come here, Stephen. At
once.”
“Very well.” Abruptly, Stephen rang off. One of the secrets of his
success in business was his capacity for making quick, clean decisions.
Margaret stood beside the telephone and wished she could weep.
After six years of marriage, she could recognize every inflection of
Stephen’s voice and she knew he was very angry—and when he heard the
whole story he would be angrier still. Not that it mattered. The impor
tant thing was that he would know what to do. He would find Emma and
bring her home. Afterward, of course, Margaret knew that she would
have to bear the whole brunt of his fury. He would certainly try to take
Emma away from her—on grounds that she had proved incompetent to
look after the child—but at the moment, even that seemed unimportant.
The only thing that mattered was to find Emma.
+ + +
The sound of Stephen’s car drawing up outside the house brought
Margaret to her senses. Only then did she realize that she must have
been standing perfectly still beside the telephone for at least ten minutes.
She tried to remember what she had read about the effects of shock.
Then the car door banged and Margaret heard Stephen’s footsteps
coming up the paved path. She hurried to the front door. It seemed to
her to be tremendously important to get it open before Stephen had to
ring the bell, like a stranger.
He looked very tall, standing on the threshold outlined by the light
of a street lamp. Beyond him was the darkness—and the unseen watcher.
Surely they couldn’t object to her contacting Stephen—they must know
she had no money of her own. If there was to be a ransom Stephen
would have to pay it.
“It was kind of you to come,” she said.
“Now, what is all this, Margaret?” He walked straight past her and
into the drawing-room. She followed him.
“Emma has been kidnapped,” she said.
Stephen’s blue eyes, so like Emma’s, grew hard as diamonds.
“How could you have allowed such a thing to happen?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“To think that I left my child in your care!”
“She’s my child, too.”
“You’d better tell me about it.”
Margaret sat down in a small armchair. Stephen remained standing,
his back to the dead fire: between them, dividing them, the sofa with the
dented cushions and the empty tray mocked them, dumbly insolent.
Margaret said, “Well, you see, I went out tonight. Because it’s Wed
nesday.”
“You go out every Wednesday evening, do you?”
“Yes, I have to. Because of this job I’m doing.”
“Job?” Stephen was angry. “You had no business to take a job and
neglect Emma. If you needed more money, you should have asked my
lawyers.”
He spoke, Margaret thought, exactly as though she were an employee
in one of his factories. She longed to run to him, to bury her head in his
shoulder, to be comforted—as she would have done a year ago—but it was
no use. The old Stephen had gone for good and this stranger had taken
his place.
“It has nothing to do with money,” she said. “You’ve been very
generous.”
“Then why—”
“1 have a perfect right to take a job if I want to.”
“All right. Get on with it, for heaven’s sake.”
“Well, after—after you left, 1 got rather depressed. 1 didn’t seem able
to shake myself out of it.” She hesitated. Stephen made a small, im
patient movement. She went on quickly. “Then about a month ago I met
up with Freddy Barnstable. I don’t think you ever knew him, but he used
to be the editor of Newslines when I was their theater critic, before we were
married. He’s with Incorporated Newspapers now and he offered me a
job in my old department. It’s nothing very big—just a weekly column
syndicated through a group of provincial papers. I go to one play a week
and write it up. The plays don’t have to be brand new because this is for
out-of-town readers, not first-nighters. More a sort of guide to what to
book for when the Mothers’ Union hires a coach and—”
“Could we get back to Emma?”
“I’m sorry. Well, 1 arranged to go to the theater every Wednesday.
It meant finding a baby-sitter for Emma and I fixed that through the
Students’ Baby-Sitting Bureau.”
“I suppose you realize that you’ve been criminally stupid,” said
Stephen. “I’ve been paying you a great deal of money to look after
Emma.”
Margaret was stung into anger. “It’s a pity,” she said, “that you
didn’t simply engage a nursemaid.”
Stephen suddenly smiled, became reasonable. “I’m not blaming you
for wanting to take the job,” he said, “but surely it wasn’t necessary to go
out on the same evening every week, was it? Once you establish a routine
like that, you’re practically hanging out a Welcome sign to criminals. I’m
very surprised you haven’t been burgled before now. After all, I left a lot
of valuable stuff in this house. However, let’s get on. What is this
Students’ Bureau, and how did you hear of it?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Margaret, “it was Freddy’s idea. He said
it had been recommended by friends of his. It’s just a small concern—a
one-room office in Kensington run by a rather nice young man. Shabby,
intellectual type—shirts frayed but always clean, leather patches on
elbows of well cut suit—”
“Name?” asked Stephen.
“I’ve no idea. I never asked. He told me he had a rota of students
who liked to make extra money by combining an evening of study with
baby-sitting. I must say, they’ve all been charming young people.”
“How many times have you employed these charming young people?”
“This evening was the fourth Wednesday.”
“Each time a different student?”
“No. The first time it was an Irish blonde called Paddy—a medical
student. The second and third time, a girl called Sheila Durrant—
exceptionally pretty, with marvelous red hair. Emma adored her. She’s
a drama student and has a most beautiful voice, wonderful for bedtime
stories. She was to have come again this evening, but at the last moment
the Bureau telephoned to say that her mother was ill and she’d had to go
down to the country. The young man said he’d send somebody else
instead.
“I was very disappointed, as you can imagine—but when the new girl
arrived I was very taken with her. She couldn’t have been less like Sheila
—she was petite, with long black hair and one of those spiky, intelligent
faces, not at all beautiful but very attractive. She was wearing a pale-blue
sweater and blue jeans and had a pile of history books with her.”
“What was her name’?”
“Grace Bridge—at least, that’s what she said. She told me she was
studying history at London University, and then we discovered she had
a brother in the Foreign Service who had known my brother Dick in
Nigeria. It all seemed too good to be true—”
“It certainly was,” said Stephen drily. “Well, go on.”
“I took her up to meet Emma, who was in bed and almost asleep,
then I went to the theater. I got home just before eleven to find this
room empty and the fire out. At first I thought the girl had simply got
home early, but when I went upstairs . . .” Margaret stood up. “You’d
better come and see for yourself. I didn’t touch anything.” They went up
to the nursery in silence.
•F *F *1*
Stephen read the note with a deepening frown. Then he said, “All that
nonsense about tapping the telephone you call safely ignore. They’re only
trying to frighten you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because private individuals can’t tap telephones,” replied Stephen,
calmly omniscient. “So you found this note and you rang me. Have you
been on to the police?”
“No.”
He looked at her in exasperation. “Why on earth not?”
Silently, Margaret indicated the note. Stephen said nothing, but
walked quickly out of the room. Margaret ran downstairs after him.
When she reached the drawing-room, he had already picked up the tele
phone. She cried, “No! Stephen, don’t! Don’t!”
He paused, the receiver in his hand. “For heaven’s sake, stop being
hysterical.”
“I’m not hysterical, I’m only thinking of Emma! Stephen, pleasel”
He replaced the telephone on its stand and said, “Margaret dear, do
be rational. I’m thinking of Emma, too. If we don’t—”
The ringing of the telephone cut him short in midsentence. They
both looked at it as it shrilled in the silence. “You’d better answer it,”
Stephen said.
Reluctantly, Margaret picked up the receiver.
“Mrs. Cannington?” It was impossible to tell whether it was a man
or a woman speaking. The voice was light and nasal and disguised with
a marked but unconvincing American accent.
“Yes,” breathed Margaret.
“I don’t need to tell you who this is. First of all, go and pull back the
curtains. I want you and Mr. Cannington both to stand in the lighted
window where we can see you.”
Silently, Margaret obeyed, gesturing to Stephen to stand with her in
the uncurtained bay window. As she picked up the phone again, the
voice continued, “Good. That’s very nice. You’ve done well up to now.
It is fortunate for the little girl that you didn’t try to contact anybody
besides your husband.”
“Where’s Emma?” Margaret whispered.
“She’s fine. Just fine. Still sleeping. We had to give her a little some
thing to soothe her, you see. Now, there’s no time to waste. Here are
your instructions. You will go to the theater again tomorrow night.
Alone. To the Majestic.”
“But that’s the new American musical—I’ll never get a seat.”
At this apparent irrelevance, Stephen took a step toward her. At
once, the voice said, “Tell Mr. Cannington to keep still, please.” Stephen
was by then close enough to hear the voice from the telephone and
stopped dead in his tracks. The speaker went on. “Thank you, Mr.
Cannington. Now, where were we? Oh, yes—Mrs. Cannington. You’ll
get a ticket all right. Yourfriend Mr. Barnstable will manage that for you
if you ask him nicely.” The voice laughed unpleasantly. “You will wear
your Persian-lamb coat, but you’d better put on a warm dress under it
because you won’t be bringing the coat home. You will sew ten thousand
pounds in used ten-pound notes between the fur and the lining and hand
the coat in to the cloakroom at the theater. In the first interval, you will
slip the cloakroom ticket behind the picture of Sir Henry Irving in the
Stalls Bar. You will then leave the theater and go home. If you set any
spies, police or otherwise, on the cloakroom the coat will not be claimed
and it will be too bad for Emma. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear.”
“Good. Leave the curtains open, please, and put the telephone down
in the window where we can see it. You won’t be making any more calls
tonight.”
There was a sharp click as the caller rang off. Margaret and Stephen
looked at each other. She said, “You heard that?”
“Most of it. Quite an ingenious device. There won’t be an empty
seat in the house and the cloakroom will be pandemonium at the end of
the performance. Nevertheless, we will inform the police.”
“Stephen, we daren’t. I’m not being hysterical, but we daren’t. If we
telephone now, they’ll see us.”
“My dear Margaret,” said Stephen, “please use what intelligence you
possess. If the telephone was really tapped, why should our anonymous
friend have taken the trouble to tell you to leave the curtains undrawn?
I agree that it would be foolish to ring the police from here, but as soon
as I get home, I’ll—”
The telephone rang again: it was as if it resented being left out of the
conversation. Margaret picked it up.
“Mrs. Cannington? Sorry to bother you again. I forgot to point out
that Mr. Cannington is to spend the night in your house. He is to go
straight from there to his bank in the morning, to draw out the money.
Just tell him that if he disobeys, he’ll never see Emma again. Goodnight,
Mrs. Cannington.”
Margaret, put down the receiver. “You heard that?”
Stephen looked as if he were about to explode. Dispassionately,
Margaret found herself noticing that his fair-skinned, handsome face was
showing a tendency to get florid when he was angry. He would soon have
to start watching his weight.
“I can’t possibly stay here,” he said.
“It looks as though you’ll have to,” said Margaret. “I’ll make up the
bed in the spare room.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. My car is outside the door—everybody
will know. I told you what the lawyer said—”
“The car is a bit conspicuous,” Margaret said thoughtfully. Through
the uncurtained windows, she could see the huge silver Rolls Royce. She
could even make out the number plate—SC 1. There was an SC2 as well
—a dark-green Bentley. Before Stephen’s departure, she herself had
driven SC3, a pale-blue Alfa Romeo. She had insisted on Stephen taking
it with him.
“In any case,” Stephen was saying, “what about Juliette? She’s—well,
she’s a sensitive girl, and somebody would be sure to tell her.”
It’s odd, thought Margaret quite calmly, Stephen goes red when he’s
angry. I go white. She could feel the color draining from her face.
“This is hardly the moment,” she said, “to expect me to worry about
your girl friend’s feelings. Surprisingly enough, I’m thinking about
Emma.”
Stephen knew at once he had made a mistake. He sat down and
smiled up at Margaret. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’d better make that bed
up.”
“I will,” she said. She was determined not to be taken in by any
sudden display of Cannington charm.
“Take a couple of aspirin and try to get some sleep,” he said. “In the
morning we’ll make plans. Remember—they won’t harm Emma as long
as we are sensible and careful. Try not to worry too much.”
+ + +
Ten minutes later, Margaret came downstairs and into the drawing-room
again. “Your bed is—” she began, and then stopped. The room was
empty. She ran out into the hall and saw that the front door was
standing slightly ajar. In a sort of panic, she pulled it open and stumbled
out into the freezing darkness of the little garden, crying, “Stephen!
Where are you?”
“It’s all right.” His voice came reassuringly from the road. A moment
later, he came back through the gate. He said, “I was just taking a look
for this mysterious Big Brother who claims to be watching us.”
“Was that wise?”
“I think so. He’s probably gone off duty by now. He knows very well
we wouldn’t risk harming Emma by disobeying him.” He paused. “What
interests me is: where is his vantage point?”
“It could be anywhere out there, I suppose.” Margaret gestured
toward the dark gardens.
“I don’t think so,” said Stephen. “The gardens are locked, and the
fence is six feet high and has barbed wire on top of it.”
“Then he must be in the street.”
“I doubt it. Wilberforce Square has always been a great place for bur
glaries and the police keep a close eye on it. I wouldn’t care to hang
about here after dark unless I could give a very good account of myself.
Besides, there’s another thing.”
Margaret shivered. “Let’s go in,” she said. “It’s terribly cold.”
“Very well.”
As he shut the front door behind them, Stephen said, “Don’t you
want to hear the rest of my theory?”
“Yes, of course I do. It’s just that—I find it hard to concentrate.”
“Well, try, because it’s important. Think about the telephone con
versation with—let’s be conventional and call him X.”
“Or her.”
“X will do for either. Now, there’s no doubt that X, while on the
telephone, could see in directly through this window. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless X was calling from a room with two telephones on separate
lines, the second line connecting him with somebody who could see us.
Either way, it means that the kidnappers have access to a telephone from
which they can see the front of this house.”
“Of course,” said Margaret. “How idiotic of me not to think of that.”
“X counted on his mumbo-jumbo of tapped telephones and so forth,
together with your naturally confused and upset state of mind, to create
the impression of a sort of superhuman surveillance of us and our move
ments. In fact, he could only watch us when we pulled back the curtains
and stood in the window. If we eliminate the street and the gardens, that
leaves—”
Incredulously, Margaret said, “One of the houses in the square?”
“Exactly. Not one directly opposite—the trees block the view. Not
one on either side of us—you can’t see the window from them, I’ve just
checked. In fact, there are only four possible houses.” Stephen took a
pen from his pocket and made a rough sketch on the corner of a
magazine. “This house, No. 16, is the center of five houses on the south
side of the square. The four possible houses are Nos. 1 and 2—the
nearest houses on the west side—and Nos. 12 and 13, which are the
corresponding houses on the east side. From any of those four you can
see diagonally across the corner and into our window.”
“Then you think Emma may still be in Wilberforce Square?”
“No, of course not. X isn’t as foolish as that. The worst thing we
could do at the moment would be to show too much interest in those
houses. Do you know who lives in them?”
Margaret considered. “No. 1 is old Lady Percival,” she said. “Surely
you remember her? Crippled with arthritis, ninety if she’s a day—she’s
lived in Wilberforce Square all her life. She has a sort of lady-nursemaid-
companion called Miss Taylor—one of those sad, dim creatures. I can’t
imagine any criminal activity there.”
“And No. 2? Isn’t that the young couple with the Aberdeen terrier?”
Margaret shook her head. “You’re out of date, Stephen,” she said.
“They moved out weeks ago. As far as I know, the house is still empty.”
“Is it, indeed? Should be worth investigating.”
“But if the house is empty, the telephone is surely cut off.”
“We’ll have to see,” said Stephen. “Now—No. 12?”
“That’s the Bassetts,” said Margaret. “Major-General retired, plus
lady wife and two poodles. I don’t think . . . Oh, Stephen, I’ve just
remembered!”
“What?”
“I met Mrs. Bassett out shopping the other day and she was telling
me what a frightful noise they made.”
“The poodles?”
“No, no. The people next door in No. 13. Mrs. Bassett said she was
going to complain to the police. Radios playing at all hours, and so forth.
Of course, the Bassetts have been spoilt. For years they had dear little
Mr. Andrews living next door and he never made a sound. All the same
“Margaret,” said Stephen, “can’t you ever keep to the point?”

“I’m sorry. You see, a few weeks ago Mr. Andrews moved from No.
13 and the house was taken over.”
“By whom?”
“That’s just the point, Stephen. By a Students’ Hostel!”
+ + +
Margaret accepted the warm milk and aspirins upon which Stephen
insisted and went to her room, dry-eyed and despairing, to face a long and
sleepless night. In fact, as soon as she was alone and there was no longer
any need to keep up a facade for Stephen’s benefit, she was overcome by
a fit of uncontrollable weeping. This proved extremely exhausting, as
nature had wisely intended, so that quite soon she was deeply asleep.
Opening her eyes a couple of minutes later (as she thought), she saw the
pale December sunlight creeping round the edge of the curtains. She
leapt guiltily out of bed.
Stephen was already up, making tea in the kitchen. He looked
strained and drawn, and Margaret was sure he had not slept. He looked
up and smiled as she came in.
“I was about to bring you a cup of tea.”
“There’s no need to bother.” Margaret was aware that she sounded
ungracious, but she found it hard to forgive Stephen for being so kind, so
tired, so patently one-up. She knew—or thought she knew—the value of
that particular smile. She had seen it switched on for the benefit of
business rivals just before a particularly outrageous coup, and she had
watched their well founded suspicions dissolving in its deceptive warmth.
She wondered what he was plotting now.
He poured a cup of tea and handed it to her. “I’ve been mapping out
a plan of campaign,” he said.
“Look, Stephen,” said Margaret, “don’t you think we ought to give
these people a chance?”
“Give them a chance? What on earth do you mean?”
“A chance to keep their word, and return Emma. After all, ten
thousand pounds is a pretty reasonable sum for somebody like you.”
“Exactly.” There was no trace of a smile now. “Far too reasonable.
If they’d asked for fifty thousand, I might have believed they intended to
give the child back. As it is—”
“But what else can we do?”
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” Stephen poured himself a fresh cup of
tea and they sat one on each side of the kitchen table. Margaret
remembered with a sharp pang all the other mornings when they had sat
just like this, breakfasting in the kitchen, in the days before Stephen’s
business had burgeoned into an empire and their marriage had crumbled
into a mockery.
Stephen said, “It’s true that you’ll have to take the money to the
theater tonight. I want them to think we’re playing along with them. But
meanwhile I intend to move over to the offensive.”
“How can you? They’re watching every move we make.”
“Nonsense,” said Stephen. “The important thing is not to be intim
idated by these people. For a start, I very much doubt if there are more
than two of them. One is obviously your baby-sitter—Grace Bridge, or
whatever her real name is—and she’ll be occupied looking after Emma.
That leaves just one accomplice, probably a man, to watch this house and
shadow us.”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” said Margaret.
“Just this. We will go together to my bank this morning, and I think
we can be pretty certain that only one person will be trailing us. So if we
separate—”
“He’ll follow me,” said Margaret promptly.
“I think not,” said Stephen. “We’ll go into the bank together. X
won’t dare follow us in. He’ll wait in the street outside—in Piccadilly.
What most people don’t know is that the bank has a back door leading
into Jermyn Street—you get to it through the manager’s office. You will
walk straight through the building and out the other side. There you will
get into a taxi. I think we can assume that you won’t be followed.”
“And where am I supposed to go in this taxi?” Margaret asked. “To
the police?”
“1 think not. Not at this stage. Listen.”
+++
At nine o’clock, Margaret telephoned Freddy Barnstable. For some time,
the bell rang unanswered. Then a sleepy voice said, “’Lo?”
“Freddy?”
“Urn. Who’s this?”
“It’s Maggie.”
“Oh. Maggie . . . ”
“Yes. Are you awake yet, or shall I call back?”
“No, no. Wide awake. What’s the trouble, love?”
“No trouble, Freddy. I just want you to pull a few strings for me.”
“Strings?” Freddy yawned. “Sorry. I didn’t get to bed till three.
What strings?”
“Can you get me a seat for Small Green Apples tonight?”
“Small Green—you mean the new musical at the Majestic? You don’t
want much, do you? It’s booked solid until July.”
“I know it is, Freddy. That’s why I rang you. I thought you might
have a winning way with house seats. It’s terribly important.”
“Well, I can try. I know the box-office manager. I’ll see what 1 can
do.”
“Freddy, you’re an angel. Will you call me back to confirm it?”
“O.K. Just a moment, let me write it down. Maggie Cannington, the
Majestic, two seats . . . ”
“One seat, Freddy.”
“One? You mean you’re going alone?”
“I often go to the theater alone.”
“How very peculiar,” said Freddy.
+ + +
Half an hour later Barnstable’s secretary telephoned to say that a house
seat at the Majestic had been set aside for her and that Margaret should
pick up her ticket at the box office before the performance.
“Good,” said Stephen. “Now we can go to the bank.”
Outside it was cold and sunny. In the gardens of Wilberforce Square,
the trees raised their bare arms against the pale-blue of the sky. As
Margaret stepped out of the gateway of No. 16, her eyes went instinc
tively toward the unrevealing facade of No. 13, the Students’ Hostel. A
girl wearing black stockings, a leather skirt, and a long striped scarf was
coming out of the front door carrying an armful of books. Stephen raised
his eyebrows inquiringly, but Margaret shook her head. The girl was a
stranger.
Behind Margaret, a rich, crisp, aristocratic voice said, “Good morning,
Mrs. Cannington.”
Margaret turned around. “Good morning, Lady Percival.”
Lady Percival surveyed the Rolls Royce from her wickerwork wheel
chair with regal approval. She had always been a dominating woman, and
in her old age she contrived to invest her invalid carriage with the dignity
of a palanquin drawn by Nubian slaves. In fact, there was only one slave
—the wafer-thin Miss Taylor, who now began to propel her employer
along the pavement.
“Stop, Taylor! I have not yet said good morning to Mr. Canning-
ton.
“Good morning,” said Stephen brusquely.
“It is so very nice to see you back home,” pursued Lady Percival
relentlessly. “We quite thought we had lost you altogether from our little
community. It must have been an unusually protracted business trip to
keep you away for so long.” Stephen opened his mouth to speak, then
thought better of it. “I trust,” went on the old lady, “that now you are
back it will be for good. Your little girl has been missing you, I am sure.
It is very bad for a child to be brought up without the constant influence
of its father. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Cannington?”
“Oh, yes—yes, of course,” Margaret heard herself mumbling like an
idiot.
“Well, I won’t detain you any longer—but when you have the time,
Mrs. Cannington, I would like a word with you about the Parish Jumble
Sale. We’re relying on your help, you know, and time is getting short.
Very well, Taylor, I am ready to go on now. Good morning to you, Mrs.
Cannington.”
The wheelchair moved off with majestic slowness, and Stephen and
Margaret got into the Rolls. “The old bitch,” Stephen said, slamming the
door. “She knows very well we’ve separated.”
“She may not,” said Margaret. “We haven’t exactly announced it in
The Times. ”
“Everybody knows,” said Stephen. He started the car and drove off,
racing the engine unnecessarily. “And now everybody knows that I came
back and spent the night here. If you’d told me last night what the story
was, I’d have come in a cab. Now heaven knows what the lawyers will
say, let alone Juliette. It’ll be all round London by lunchtime. I’d better
ring her from the bank and explain before she hears it from somebody,
else.”
Margaret said nothing. She was considering Stephen and wondering

how anybody could have changed so completely in such a short time.
When they’d married six years before he’d been poor and insecure and
kind and funny and very sincere. He’d always been a tremendously hard
worker and his fanatical determination to succeed in life had been, in
Margaret’s view, a defiant gesture in the face of his essential gentleness
and lack of self-confidence. But now he had succeeded, and in the pro
cess Margaret had watched him turn into a different man—charming,
smooth, suspicious, calculating, and ruthless. On occasion it seemed to
her that he even assumed his former life of gauche diffidence as a
deliberate strategy. It seldom failed to disarm strangers.
Juliette Dean was very much a part of the new Stephen Cannington.
She was ten years younger than he was, strikingly beautiful, and an
accomplished and successful actress. Margaret had met Juliette several
times in the brief period before Stephen’s relationship with her had
blazed into the love affair that administered the coup de grace to a dying
marriage.
Trying to be fair, Margaret had to admit that Juliette had an attrac
tive personality. Her greed and ambition were made acceptable and even
endearing by the sheer zest and enthusiasm for life that went with them.
It was true that she appeared to make use of other people for just as long
as they happened to serve her purposes, but the people so used had
nobody but themselves to blame. Juliette was not a hypocrite. When she
and Stephen were photographed together—as they frequently were these
days—they looked to Margaret as handsome, as brilliant, and as hard as
a couple of solitaire diamonds, staring at her from the pages of some
glossy magazine. And yet life with Juliette would certainly not be boring
—and perhaps in Stephen Juliette had met her match at last. With
sudden, painful insight, Margaret acknowledged that probably somebody
like Juliette was better for Stephen at this moment than she was.
Aloud, she said, “I think you and Juliette will be very happy.”
“There’s no need to be bitchy,” said Stephen, his eyes on the road.
“I wasn’t being.”
“Then you were giving a very good imitation. Now, concentrate for
a moment. A small black Ford has been following us since just after we
left the square. Take a good look out of the rear window and see if you
can get its number, and if you know the driver.”
Margaret swung round in her seat. Immediately behind the Rolls a
large moving van effectively blocked the rear view. As Stephen slowed at
a traffic light, the nose of a small black car came creeping round the
ample posterior of the van. There was a stream of traffic coming in the
opposite direction, however, and the black nose pulled in again almost at
once. Margaret had only time to register that the first two letters of the
registration number were AJ. Shortly afterward the van turned off to the
left, leaving an uninterrupted view of the following traffic, but the black
Ford had disappeared. In the miscellany of private cars, delivery vans,
and taxis behind the Rolls, there was no way of telling which, if any,
belonged to their personal bloodhound. Probably X had parked his car
and was riding a cab.
Stephen found a parking meter at the Hyde Park Corner end of
Piccadilly and he and Margaret walked together along the northern edge
of Green Park in the watery sunshine. At the door of the bank, Stephen
gave her arm an encouraging squeeze and said, “Now you know what to
do. I’ll see you at Wilberforce Square at lunchtime. Good luck.”
The bank was cool, shadowy, and hushed, as became a temple of
wealth. Stephen was instantly recognized and treated with deference. He
had a quiet word with a cashier, and at once Margaret was ushered down
the length of the polished counter with its shiny brass grilles, through the
manager’s officer, and out of a small door at the back. A moment later,
she was hailing a taxi in Jermyn Street.
+++
The Students’ Baby-Sitting Bureau shared a small, down-at-heel house in
Kensington with several other enterprises. According to the plaque beside
the front door, the ground floor housed Sally and Jane Handmade
Lampshades and the Society for the Protection of Urban Wildlife. The
Baby-Sitting Bureau was on the First floor, together with Happy Holiday
Tours, while the top flat was occupied by D. Fisher. As Margaret paid the
taxi, it occurred to her that it had been near to this street that she had
lost sight of the small black Ford. And sure enough, there it was. At least
there was an identical car parked some fifty yards up the road on the
opposite side and its registration number was AJX 5067. Of course, it
might be just coincidence, but then again it might not. Margaret went
into the house and climbed the stairs to the first floor.
The shabby young intellectual was sitting at an untidy desk, talking
on the telephone. “Yes . . . Yes . . . Just let me write that down.
Twenty-eight Penbury Gardens—Friday eighth. No, not next week, I’m
afraid . . . Christmas holidays . . . ” He looked up, flashed a quick smile
at Margaret, put his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, and said,
“Do sit down, Mrs. Cannington. I won’t be a moment.” Then, to the
telephone, “Yes, I’ve booked that for you. Thank you so much, Lady
Marston . . . Yes, yes, absolutely reliable . . . Goodbye, then.” He rang
off, brushed back his unruly black hair with a very white hand, and said,
“Phew! Talk about busy! We never seem to stop. Now, Mrs. Canning-
ton, what can 1 do for you?”
“I came about the girl you sent me last night,” said Margaret.
At once the young man’s face grew grave. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I’m
afraid I was rather expecting that. I hoped against hope that she might
have behaved herself. Will you have a cigarette, Mrs. Cannington?”
“No, thank you,” said Margaret. “I only wanted—”
“It’s not often,” said the young man, lighting a cigarette himself, “that
I pick a dud. In fact, I can honestly say that this Bridge girl is the first
sitter who has ever let me down. I need hardly say that I’ve taken her off
my books.” He blew out an aromatic cloud of Turkish tobacco smoke,
which lingered round his head in a rich blue haze.
“Just what has she been doing?” Margaret asked.
“Skipping off duty early,” said the young man. “Raiding the whiskey
decanter. In fact, the client has even accused her of stealing a brooch, but
there’s no proof of that. The woman doesn’t seem to know when or
where she lost the thing, so she may just be picking on this girl because
she left early. All the same, it makes one think. I do hope you haven’t
suffered anything.”
“Not at all,” said Margaret, trying to sound bland. “Quite the reverse,
in fact. I was delighted with her.”
The young man looked surprised. “You were? Well, that’s good
news. 1 do think, though, Mrs. Cannington, that it might be as well if
you checked that nothing is missing from your house.”
Margaret looked at him steadily. “Nothing is missing,” she said.
“You’re sure? I’m extremely glad to hear it. If only this other woman
had telephoned me right away,” he went on, aggrieved, “I’d never have
sent Bridge to you last night. But she only got in touch this morning to
complain about what happened on Monday evening.”
“And you’d had no complaints about her before, Mr.—er?”
“Fisher’s my name. Donald Fisher. No, as a matter of fact, Monday
was her first job for me. She put her name down only last week. I
accepted her in all good faith because she was a great friend of Sheila
Durrant. You remember Sheila. One of my best girls. I hope her mother
gets better soon.”
“So do I,” said Margaret. “I was going to ask you if you could give me
her address in the country. I’d like to write to her.”
“Of course,” said Fisher. “A pleasure. I know Sheila will appreciate
it.”
“And I also wanted Grace Bridge’s address,” said Margaret.
“Whatever for?” Fisher sounded astonished.
“She left something behind last night,” said Margaret. “I want to
return it to her.”
“Well, now.” Fisher scratched his head. “Ordinarily I’d tell you to
bring it here and we’d see she gets it back, but since I’ve just sent off a
very strong letter to the girl, telling her I want no more to do with her,
perhaps it would be less—less awkward—if you sent whatever it is to her
yourself. I’ll just—”
He got up and went over to a dilapidated filing cabinet, ruffled
through some papers, and came up with a card. “Here we are. Sheila
Durrant, Red Acre Farm, Hampton Parva, Dorset. It seems to suit her,
doesn’t it? Dear Sheila. Heaven knows when she’ll be back. Which
reminds me, Mrs. Cannington—we’re closed next week for Christmas, as
you know, but I promise I’ll find somebody really good for you the
following Wednesday. I’ve a girl named—”
“As a matter of fact,” Margaret said, “my plans have changed. I won’t
be needing a sitter every Wednesday in the future. Just odd days here
and there. I’ll let you know.”
Donald Fisher turned and looked at her ruefully. “Oh, dear,” he said.
“I can see that Grace Bridge has undermined your faith in the Bureau.”
He smiled. “It seemed to me that if I was quite frank to you about her,
and pointed out how fast I get rid of anybody unsatisfactory, you might
“You’re quite wrong,” said Margaret quickly. “I assure you I’ll be in

touch with you the next time I need a sitter. Now, if you’ll just give me
Grace Bridge’s address . . . ”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Fisher returned to the filing cabinet. “Balfour,
Bratt, Bredon, Bridge . . . ” He extracted a card and studied it. “That is
interesting. Now I see why she was so keen to come to you.”
“Was she?” Margaret asked.
“Oh, yes, indeed. She told me she’d heard all about you from Sheila,
and so on. That was why I sent her to you when Sheila couldn’t manage
it. And now I see why.”
“Why?”
“Because she lives only just across the road from you. In the new
Students’ Hostel at No. 13, Wilberforce Square.”
+ + +
It takes a thousand ten-pound notes to make up ten thousand pounds,
and it takes a great deal of time and trouble to sew them, in bundles of
twenty, into the interlining of a fur coat. Margaret sat in the drawing
room of the house in Wilberforce Square stitching doggedly while
Stephen went to pursue enquires at No. 13.
He had arrived back soon after twelve, carrying the money in a
suitcase, and far from good-tempered. Juliette, it seemed, had already
been informed by dear friends of his apparent defection and had slammed
down the telephone at the sound of his voice. He appeared to blame
Margaret entirely for this. He had then called his office, where—as far as
Margaret could gather—unspecified people had made a ham-fisted hash
of some delicate business negotiation.
Stephen had been unimpressed by Margaret’s detective efforts, had
dismissed the black Ford as unimportant, and had finally indulged in an
explosion of bad temper over the amount and quality of the tinned meat
and salad which was all the larder could provide for lunch. Margaret,
who was not in the least hungry, remarked that she couldn’t understand
how Stephen could think of his stomach when Emma was probably being
murdered. He retorted that some people had snored happily all night
while others had sat up doing constructive planning. He failed to see, he
added, how his starving to death would help Emma. He then walked out
of the house, slamming the front door behind him, and leaving Margaret
to face the bundles of bank notes with her needle and thread.
It was twenty minutes later that the front doorbell rang—a loud,
imperious summons. Margaret went to the window and looked out.
Stephen had taken the Rolls back to the garage after his trip to the bank,
but now, in its place outside the front door, stood a car even more
familiar to Margaret, and just as distinctive. It was the pale-blue Alfa
Romeo SC3—the car which had been hers. And on the doorstep, looking
dangerous, was Juliette Dean. With no enthusiasm, Margaret went to
open the front door.
Juliette looked magnificent, as usual. Her dark, shining hair was
swept up into a Grecian chignon, her green eyes were darkly outlined in
black, and her honey-colored complexion was so smoothly natural it must
have taken a good hour to apply. She wore a dark-brown suit from Paris
under a blond beaver coat. Margaret was bitterly aware of her own
untidy brown hair and felt sure her nose was shining.
“Juliette!” she said. “What a surprise!”
“Where’s Stephen?” asked Juliette abruptly.
“I really don’t know,” replied Margaret truthfully.
“He spent last night here, didn’t he? —Well, didn’t he?” Juliette’s
voice, which carried easily to the gallery of a large theater without the aid
of a microphone, was rising ominously. At the same moment, Margaret
saw on the pavement beyond the gate the wicker-work prow of Lady
Percival’s wheelchair advancing steadily. At Juliette’s last remark,
however, the chair stopped.
Margaret was in a quandary. She was reluctant to let Juliette into the
house, and yet anything was better than to conduct a shouting match on
the doorstep under the quick ears of Lady Percival. She said, “You’d
better come in.”
Juliette pushed past her and marched into the drawing-room just as
Stephen had done the night before. Following her, Margaret could see
her thin tall back stiffen with the intake of a deep breath—the prelude to
a characteristically theatrical diatribe—but at the threshold of the room
Juliette stopped. No sound came but her breath relaxed in a sign of sheer
astonishment. Margaret grinned to herself in spite of everything and
wished she could see Juliette’s face. Whatever the latter had expected to
find at Wilberforce Square, it could hardly have been a room strewn with
ten-pound notes and a dismembered fur coat. She swung round to face
Margaret.
“What,” she demanded, “is going on here?”
“Can’t you see? I am sewing ten thousand pounds into the lining
of a fur coat.”
“Have you gone quite mad?” asked Juliette.
“Not quite,” said Margaret. “Sit down and I’ll get you a drink.”
Juliette sat down, looking baffled. It was clear that the carefully
rehearsed scene she had planned had taken an altogether unexpected
twist and Margaret was comfortably aware that the initiative had passed
to her.
“What can I get you, Juliette? Scotch, gin, sherry—?”
“I don’t want a drink,” said Juliette. “I want to know what the hell
is going on. Is Stephen here?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Where is he?”
“I’ve already told you. I don’t know.”
“Are you expecting him back?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Don’t laugh at me!”
Margaret looked sharply at Juliette and felt ashamed. The girl was
really upset. Any satisfaction Margaret had derived from her one-up
position evaporated. She said, “I’m sorry, Juliette. The truth is very
simple. Emma has been kidnapped.”
Juliette opened her enormous green eyes very wide. “Your little girl?”
“That’s right. I was out at the theater last night, and when I got
home she had gone. They—they left a note. Of course, I telephoned
Stephen at once, and he came round. So you see, you can stop worrying
that he’s being unfaithful to you.”
“And this?” Juliette stared at the bank notes. “This is the ransom,
is it?”
“Yes. And if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get on with it,” Margaret
picked up her needle and thread and started on another envelope of bank
notes.
“I think I’ll have a Scotch after all,” said Juliette.
“Pour it for yourself will you? You’ll find everything in the cup
board.”
Juliette walked slowly over to the corner cabinet and poured herself
a generous drink. Her hand was shaking so that the bottle rattled against
the glass, spilling a few drops of whisky onto the carpet. She took a quick
sip and then said, “Well, what’s happening? What are the police doing?”
“Nothing,” said Margaret. She paused to thread her needle. “They
don’t know.”
“They don’t know? Why on earth not?”
“Because we haven’t told them. It’s too dangerous from Emma’s
point of view. Stephen and I feel it’s best to tackle this alone.”
“I don’t see how you can be so calm. I’d be round the bend.”
“Don’t be deceived,” said Margaret. She smiled a little. “This out
ward stoicism is just numbness. Inside, I’m having screaming hysterics.”
Juliette looked at her. She said, “I’m terribly sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean—I came here all set to make a big scene. I’d been mis
informed.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Margaret. She knotted her thread and
snapped it off. “Are you really fond of Stephen, Juliette?”
There was a short silence. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Don’t you? He is my husband, you know.”
“Not—” began Juliette, and then stopped.
“Were you going to say ‘Not any more’?” Juliette said nothing.
Margaret went on, “Because if you were, it isn’t true. I’m speaking purely
technically. Stephen and I are still married—and will remain so until one
of us takes divorce proceedings and gets a final decree.”
“You don’t mean you’d refuse to divorce Stephen!”
“I wouldn’t refuse,” said Margaret, “if I was sure he was going to be
happy.”
“What bloody impertinence!” said Juliette. “To think that I was be
ginning to feel sorry for you!”
“Please don’t bother,” said Margaret. “I don’t need your pity.”
“Of course, I’m sorry about Emma,” said Juliette, “but if you’re
getting ideas about—” She stopped.
“About what?”
“You know very well what I mean. You’re beginning to hope that this
business of the child may bring you and Stephen together again.”
To her fury, Margaret felt herself blushing, “What absolute non
sense,” she said.
“It’s not nonsense at all. Emma’s the one hold you’ve still got over
Stephen. She’s the only reason he didn’t leave you years ago.”
“I think you’d better go now,” said Margaret. She considered, as from
a great distance, the possibility of attacking Juliette physically, of slashing
into that perfect complexion with her sharp embroidery scissors. At once,
the thought frightened her—not because it seemed inherently un
reasonable, but because she feared that she might be going a little mad.
Juliette laughed, “Don’t play it so innocent, Margaret,” she said—and
Margaret realized that she wasn’t being deliberately cruel, she was simply
stating facts of which she thought Margaret must be well aware. “You
know perfectly well that I wasn’t the first of Stephen’s little adventures.
I just happened to be rather more tenacious than the others. And then
a strange thing happened. We fell in love with each other. Even so, for
a long time I thought I’d lose him. I thought he’d go back to you, as he’d
always done before—because of Emma.”
“I see,” said Margaret. “And what made him change his mind?”
“Change his mind? Nothing. He hasn’t changed his mind.” Juliette
stood up, draining her drink. “This may not be the ideal moment for
blunt speaking, but you may as well face facts. Stephen intends to marry
me and to keep Emma. And he’ll manage it, you’ll see. Once he sets his
mind to a thing, he gets it. You should know that.”
Margaret felt very tired. “Please go away,” she said.
“Don’t worry about Emma,” said Juliette. Suddenly she sounded
awkward, ill at ease. “She’ll be all right. Stephen will cope with every
thing.” Margaret said nothing. Juliette went to the door and let herself
out.
Margaret finished sewing the money into her coat and tacked the
satin lining back into place. The coat felt unnaturally heavy and crackled
slightly when she picked it up. She carried it upstairs, and laid it on her
bed while she bathed, dressed in a black woolen suit, and made up her
face.
At seven o’clock she was ready to leave and there was still no sign of
Stephen. For a moment she thought that loneliness and anguish would
overcome her, that she couldn’t go on alone, but the ever-present and
agonizing thought of Emma obliterated all other considerations. Emma,
frightened and crying—Emma, drugged and ill—Emma, so tiny and so
vulnerable, fallen among thieves. Margaret pulled herself together with
a great physical effort. All she could do for Emma now was to keep her
head, to remain calm, to carry out her side of the bargain faithfully and
without fuss. She telephoned for a taxi.
+ + +
The Majestic Theater was a blaze of light. It hummed with activity, and
emanated that particular, tingling sparkle which goes with success. The
foyer was an excited ant-heap of theater-goers, all exhibiting the
satisfaction of those who have been clever or influential enough to secure
seats for the newest and most fashionable show in town. Outside,
passersby in winter coats shivered in the evening chill while on the
theater steps, in the same freezing temperature, women in decollete
dresses chatted happily, warmed by their sense of occasion. Margaret
dodged among them as unobtrusively as she could and made her way to
the box office.
A supercilious young man in a dinner jacket eyed her coldly from
behind the little glass window.
“I think,” said Margaret, “that you have a ticket for me. Mrs.
Cannington.”
The young man smiled distantly, with no suspension of disbelief.
“Mrs. Cannington? Just a moment, I will look.”
He began to flip through a small box of envelopes. As he came to the
last one, his smile became fixed and quite unbeatable. He was used to
would-be gate-crashers. “I’m sorry, madam,” he said firmly. “There is no
ticket in that name.”
Margaret tried not to panic. “But there is. One of the house seats—”
“I’m sorry, madam.”
“But I must—”
“I assure you, madam,” said the young man, “that if a house seat had
been reserved in your name it would be here. In any case, I happen to
know that the house seats are occupied tonight. There must be some
mistake.”
“There must indeed,” said Margaret. “May I see the box-office
manager?”
“I am the box-office manager.”
“Oh.”
“Having trouble?” Margaret swung round and almost cried with relief.
Standing behind her was Freddy Barnstable, looking distinguished and
slightly rakish in a well cut dinner jacket.
“Freddy! Oh, I am glad to see you! He says there’s no ticket for me.”
“Quite right. There isn’t.”
“But you promised—”
Freddy grinned. “Idiot,” he said. “I’ve got them both here.” He
patted his breast pocket.
“Both?”
“Well, it seemed a bit dismal—you going to the theater all alone.
Then it occurred to me that I’d like to see this show myself, and so I
asked my friend in the rabbit hutch to find us a couple of stalls. I trust
you don’t object?”
“Oh, no—no, of course not, Freddy. It was sweet of you.” Margaret
did her best to keep the dismay out of her voice.
“Well, then, let’s go in, shall we? Let’s see . . . Stalls A to M. That’ll
be our entrance. I wouldn’t check your coat if I were you. There’s always
such a scramble to get it back afterward. It’s easier to put it under the
seat, I always say.”
“I think I will leave it all the same,” said Margaret. “It’s—it’s rather
precious, you see.” She felt a hysterical desire to giggle at the under
statement. “I don’t want it to get crushed.”
“All right, if you must. Hand it over and I’ll go and deposit it.”
There was nothing else she could do. Margaret took off her coat,
listening anxiously for the crackle of bank notes, but it was mercifully
drowned by chattering voices. She watched Freddy as he made his way
to the cloakroom and stood waiting his turn in a crowd that already stood
three-deep around the counters. She saw the coat disappear into the arms
of one of the attendants.
Freddy came back. “I’ll keep the ticket, shall I?” he said. “Then I can
collect it for you at the end. You won’t want to get involved in that
rugger scrum.”
“I’m sorry to be difficult, Freddy, but I’d really rather have the ticket
myself.”
“What on earth for, idiot girl?”
Margaret searched for in inspiration, and then began to improvise
wildly. “As a matter of fact, Freddy, I haven’t been very well lately, and
the doctor’s given me some pills. It's a sort of migraine, you see, and
comes on quite suddenly. The pills are in my coat pocket and I’d like to
think that I could slip out and get one if—”
Freddy was looking at her curiously—a mixture of concern and dis
belief on his humorous face. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Of course
you can have the ticket, if you want it.” He handed her a square of
orange paper with the figure 187 on it in bold black numerals. Margaret
took the ticket and put it in her handbag, wondering if he had believed
her. With Freddy it was always a little difficult to tell whether or not one
was being mocked. Then the first bell rang and they went to their seats.
+ + +
Small Green Apples was the hit of the season. Critics had blown the dust
off seldom-used superlatives to describe its dancing, its decor, the wit and
pith of the book, and the no-less-witty music. Some of them had even
intimated that here, in the guise of pure entertainment, was a piece of
deep social significance—which enabled intellectuals to enjoy it with no
sense of guilt. All this praise may or may not have been warranted. As
far as Margaret was concerned, she might just as well have been watching
a switched-off television set. Her whole concentration was directed on
her plan of campaign.
As the curtain fell for the first interval, Freddy whispered, “Out,
quick! We’ll never get a drink unless we’re first in the bar.”
They were well placed for a quick exit, being in aisle seats, and were
already in the aisle before the house lights went up. Margaret was thank
ful that they were, at least, headed for the right bar—had their seats been
in the circle she would have had some awkward maneuvering to do.
“What’ll you have?” called Freddy over his shoulder as they entered
the rapidly filling bar.
“Gin and tonic, please. I’ll wait for you here.” Margaret made a bee
line for the mezzotint of Sir Henry Irving as Macbeth and sat down on
the red-plush bench beneath it. Freddy had disappeared into the mael
strom around the counter and she had plenty of time to extract the ticket
from her bag and then, on pretext of studying the picture, slip it behind
the frame. She hoped it wouldn’t fall out. Then she leaned back against
the red plush and tried to look like a woman suffering from a severe and
unexpected attack of migraine.
“Here we are then.” Freddy’s voice was loud and cheerful above the
chatter. “It always pays to be quick off the mark. Some of these poor
devils haven’t a hope of getting served before the end of the interval. Say
when with the tonic—” He broke off and looked at her—and about time,
too, thought Margaret. She had been giving an Oscar-winning perfor
mance of gallantly borne pain and nausea. “I say, Maggie, are you all
right?”
Margaret opened her eyes and smiled bravely. “I—I’m afraid not,
Freddy. It’s this beastly migraine. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, old thing. Here, grab my arm and see if you can
stand up. The main thing is to get you out of the crowd.”
“Thank you. Yes, if I can get into the fresh air—”
Freddy put a strong arm round her shoulders and supported her out
of the bar and into the comparative emptiness of the corridor.
“Now,” he said, “sit down on this bench, give me your cloakroom
ticket, and I’ll go and get your pills for you.”
“You’re very sweet, Freddy, but no, it’s not worth it. The sensible
thing is for me to go home. I am so sorry to spoil your evening.”
“I’m sorry foryou, old thing,” said Freddy. “It seems a shame to miss
the rest of the show, but if you’re sure, I’ll get your coat and find a cab
and take you home.”
“No, you mustn’t do that!” In her anxiety, Margaret spoke sharply,
and realized that she must have appeared to make a sudden recovery.
Quickly, she passed a limp hand over her forehead. “I’m feeling a lot
better now. I can easily go home alone. I wouldn’t dream of allowing you
to miss the second half.”
“Well—if you’re quite certain.”
“I am. See how much better I am already. It’s just the heat and the
crowd in there.”
“You don’t think that if you went, out into the fresh air for a bit
you’d feel well enough to stay for the rest of the show?”
Margaret’s spirits rose. This was just what she had hoped for. “Let’s
give it a try,” she said.
“I’ll get your coat then.”
“No, no—I don’t need it.”
“Of course you do. You’ll catch a chill or something. Besides, you’d
better take a pill.”
There was only one thing for it. With the pettishness of an invalid,
Margaret said, “Oh, Freddy, please. Don’t order me about. I don’t want
my coat.” She closed her eyes again and massaged her temples, as if to
indicate that the little burst of irritation had brought on the pain again.
“Whatever you like, of course, Maggie.” Poor Freddy was pathetically
subdued. “I didn’t mean . . . Here, take my arm. We’ll go outside.”
The foyer was crowded. People strolled, smoked, talked, and spilled
out into the lamplit street outside the theater. Walking with becoming
fragility on Freddy’s arm, Margaret scanned the faces around her. But she
saw only strangers.
“How do you feel now?” Freddy asked, full of solicitude.
“Much better.”
“How long has this been going on—this migraine business?”
“Oh, not very long. Since Stephen left me, really. I suppose it’s just
general worry and strain. The doctor says it’s not serious.” Margaret
THE HOLLY WREATH r) T \
hated herself, hated the fluency with which she was lying. She was
immensely relieved when the bell rang.
“There’s the bell, Freddy. You must go back.”
“What about you, Maggie? Do you feel up to it now?”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Margaret, as though the idea had just
occurred to her, “I’ll stay out here a few minutes longer and then if I feel
well enough I’ll come in and join you. If I don’t, I’ll take a cab and go
home. So don’t worry about me.”
“No use saying that. You know I’ll worry.”
“Well, you mustn’t. Go in now. The second bell will be going any
moment. I’ll probably be with you quite soon. Better give me my ticket
stub so I can get in again.”
At first it looked as though Freddy was going to refuse to leave her,
but by the time the third and last bell sounded he had been convinced.
Margaret watched him disappear into the theater and then quickly hailed
a taxi and went back to Wilberforce Square.
*F + +
The lights in the house were on and it was tremendously reassuring to see
through the drawing-room window that Stephen was sitting by the fire in
his favorite armchair, drinking coffee. He came out into the hall when he
heard her latch-key in the door.
“Well, how did it go?” He seemed in a much better mood now.
With a certain amount of satisfaction, Margaret told him about
Freddy’s good-hearted but misguided gesture, about the fictitious
migraine and her histrionic performance, and they both laughed—for all
the world as though Emma were asleep upstairs in the nursery and the
Canningtons were a happily married couple. Then Stephen said, “Well,
I suppose all we can do now is wait for our friend to telephone.” And the
nightmare closed in again.
In the drawing-room Margaret said, “How did you get on this
afternoon?”
Stephen shrugged. “Badly,” he said. “As expected. Grace Bridge left
the hostel yesterday. Nothing unusual about that, of course—nearly all
the students are away for Christmas. She left no forwarding address
except London University.”
“And the University?”
“Is on vacation,” said Stephen. “Not a hope.” He paused and took
a drink of coffee. “However, I did manage to get inside the hostel and I’m
pretty sure X doesn’t telephone from there. There’s a public phone
tucked into a little booth in the hall, where there are no windows, and the
principal has a private phone in her sitting-room, which is at the back of
the house, upstairs. The only rooms from which you can see into this
house are the Common Room on the ground floor and the dormitory
above it, and neither of them has a telephone.”
“It must be one of the other houses then,” said Margaret.
“I had a good look at No. 2—the empty house. It seems to be bolted
and barred, and I’d be surprised if it has a telephone in working order.
I think we can eliminate Lady Percival. I don’t see her as a kidnapper,
nor do I see her letting strangers telephone from her house. That leaves
the Bassetts in No. 12. Unlikely, I admit, but you never know. I had a
shot at calling on them. There was no reply to the bell, but a couple of
poodles had hysterics in the drawing-room. I looked in through the
window and there’s a beautifully placed telephone. I really don’t know
what to think.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t matter,” said Margaret. “Perhaps they’ve got the
money by now and they’ll keep their word and send Emma back.”
The telephone rang. Stephen jumped up and reached it in one stride.
“Cannington here. Yes, this is her number. Yes, she is—who wants her?
. . . Just a moment.” He put down the telephone and said to Margaret,
“It’s your friend, Mr. Barnstable.”
Margaret took the telephone. “Freddy—”
“Maggie—” Barnstable sounded thoroughly rattled “—I hope I’m not
disturbing you.”
“Of course you’re not, Freddy.”
“I thought I’d just call to find out how you are. I’d no idea you—
weren’t alone.”
“It was sweet of you to ring, Freddy. I’m feeling a lot better, but 1
thought it was more sensible to come home.” She paused. “Stephen has
just dropped in to—to discuss a few business matters.”
“Maggie—” Freddy sounded urgent and worried “—are you sure
you’re—all right?” There was a strange inflection in the last two words.
“Of course I am, Freddy. Perfectly all right.”
“You wouldn’t like me to come round?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, good night then, old thing. Take care of yourself.”
She put the phone down and turned round. Stephen was sitting by
the fire, looking at her mockingly. “So the boy friend is suspicious of my
intentions, is he?” he said.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh yes, you do.”
“You can hardly blame Freddy for being surprised when you answered
the phone.”
“I don’t doubt that he was surprised. He usually finds you alone,
doesn’t he?”
“Of course he does. Don’t be childish, Stephen.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” said Stephen equably, pouring himself more coffee.
“I never nagged you.”
“Oh, no?”
“Well, look how you bullied me.”
“Bullied? Bullied, she says. My dear girl, I’d as soon try to bully the
Great Pyramid.”
“That’s not very funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
They glared at each other. The telephone rang again.
“I’ll take it this time,” said Margaret.
“Mrs. Cannington.” The voice was sickeningly familiar. “Congratu
lations, my dear. It all went off splendidly, didn’t it?”
“I hope so,” said Margaret, from a dry throat.
“We have the coat, and we have the money. All without a hitch. A
real success.”
“What about Emma?” said Margaret.
“Ah, yes. Emma. I was coming to that. Now, Mrs. Cannington,
you’ve played fair with us, and you’ll see that we’ll play fair with you.”
“You’ll send her home?”
“Not too fast, now. You surely realized that this evening’s little ex
periment was in the nature of a pilot scheme, as it were. Now that we
find it works so well, we can get down to real business, can’t we?”
“Come now, Mrs. Cannington. You’ll surely agree that your sweet
little girl is worth more than ten thousand pounds? We don’t want to be
unreasonable, of course. Twenty thousand in all, that’s our figure. That
means another ten thousand tomorrow night.”
“You devil!”
“Please don’t let’s get abusive, Mrs. Cannington. Everything has been
so pleasant up to now. I suggest the Superdrome Cinema for tomorrow
night. We don’t want to bother Mr. Barnstable again, do we? You will
get there in time for the last showing of the feature movie, which is at
7:45. Leave your coat and put the ticket behind the photograph of
Robert Redford which is halfway up the left-hand staircase. Go to your
seat and leave by a side exit after a quarter of an hour. Is that clear?”
Before Margaret could say anything, the telephone was snatched out
of her hand. Stephen, standing immediately behind her, had been able
to overhear the whole conversation. Now, seizing the receiver, he
shouted, “No, it is not clear! You don’t get another penny, do you
understand?”
“Temper, temper, Mr. Cannington. Most unwise.”
“I’m going straight to the police!”
“Stephen, please!” cried Margaret.
“That’s right, Mrs. Cannington,” said the telephone soothingly. “I’m
sure I can rely on you to deal with your husband. Don’t let him do any
thing silly will you? Emma could so easily have a nasty accident, and we
don’t want that, do we?” With a gentle click, X rang off.
“Didn’t I tell you this would happen?” Stephen demanded.
“Yes, you did.” Margaret felt crushed by the intolerable weight of her
disappointment. “But what can we do?”
“Do? There’s only one thing to do. Get on to the police at once!”
“And have Emma murdered!”
“My dear Margaret, please be a little sensible. Naturally, I shall ask
the police to be discreet. It’s always done in kidnapping cases.”
“What do you mean it’s always done? How do you know?”
“Everybody knows,” said Stephen, annoyed. “You only have to read
the papers.”
“That’s exactly what I mean! The kidnappers can read the papers,
too, can’t they? They’ll simply kill Emma and disappear with ten
thousand pounds. And that will be that.”
Stephen walked across the room and put his two hands on Margaret’s
shoulders. “Now, look here, darling,” he said, “you seem to have got hold
of some idiot idea that I care less about Emma than you do. Believe me,
I wouldn’t risk a hair of her head. There’ll be nothing in the papers, no
publicity. All I want is to get her back. But it’s foolish to try to do it
alone. We need the power of the police behind us.”
His hand tightened on her shoulders and Margaret became aware of
a strange, dreamlike feeling—an infinitely pleasant sensation of re
nouncing responsibility, of letting herself fall into the eternal arms
beneath her. Stephen, with his strong hands and his strong will, was
supporting her, taking control of the situation, and behind him she
seemed to see a vista of serried ranks of comforting dark-blue tunics and
domed helmets. She saw herself and her defiance as puny and pathetic.
Hubris, she thought, that’s all it was. What a fool she’d been. She felt
very tired.
She heard herself saying, “Yes, Stephen. You’re perfectly right.”
“That’s my girl.” Quickly, he stooped and brushed her forehead with
his lips. Then he walked over to the writing desk and took a pen out of
his pocket. “Now, we’d better marshal our facts before I telephone.
What was the exact date when you contacted the Students’ Baby-Sitting
Bureau for the first time?”
Still feeling dazed, Margaret repeated the whole story. Stephen took
notes. At last he said, “Right. I’ll call Scotland Yard. You’re sure you’re
quite happy about it?”
“Yes, Stephen.”
“Right. Now, go upstairs and put on the bedroom light. I’ll turn this
one out just in case. And make sure the curtains are securely drawn.”
He took a small pencil-shaped flashlight out of his pocket, shone it on
the telephone in the darkened room, and very deliberately began to dial.
+++
Chief Inspector Harlow was reassurance personified. As Margaret came
back into the dark drawing-room and stood beside Stephen, the deep
unemotional voice on the other end of the line seemed to bring the whole
nightmare into the focus of everyday life. The Chief Inspector was gently
rebuking that Stephen and Margaret had not informed him sooner, but
on the other hand he sympathized with their feelings. Of course there
was no need for them to worry. The police would do nothing whatsoever
to put the kidnappers on their guard. For that reason, he would not sug
gest coming to Wilberforce Square himself, in case the house was being
watched, nor would he advise the Canningtons to visit a police station, as
they might be followed. Could they suggest a rendezvous—the house of
a trusted friend or relative, perhaps?
At once Stephen said, “Miss Juliette Dean is an intimate friend of
both my wife and myself, and she is the only other person who knows
about the kidnapping. I’m sure we could meet at her house.”
In the darkness, Margaret looked at Stephen in surprise. She had not
told him of Juliette’s visit. Stephen was still talking. “Yes, a hundred and
one, Belgrave Mews. I shall have to call her, of course, to make sure she’s
back from the theater—she’s appearing at the Frivolity. Yes, I’ll ring her
right away. If I don’t get in touch with you again within the next twenty
minutes, you can assume all is well.” He glanced at the luminous figures
on his digital watch, “It’s a quarter to eleven now. We’ll meet you there
at midnight. Thank you, Inspector.”
As he rang off, Margaret said, “Did you have to drag Juliette into it?”
“Have you a better suggestion?”
“I’m sure Freddy Barnstable would have—”
“That,” interrupted Stephen, “would not be a good idea. I’ll call
Juliette.”
“I thought,” said Margaret, “that she wasn’t very pleased with you
right now.”
“Oh, that was just a misunderstanding,” said Stephen lightly, already
dialing. “1 contacted her while you were at the theater. She told me
she’d been here and that you’d explained everything, so all is now
sweetness and light again. Hello, Juliette? Stephen. Just as we expected,
I fear . . . Anyhow, Margaret has finally come to her senses and we’ve
informed Scotland Yard. Now, I’m calling to ask if we might. . . ”
+++
Big Ben was chiming midnight into the icy air as Stephen rang the
doorbell of the pretty little mews house in Belgravia. He had called a
radio cab from home, agreeing to meet it a couple of blocks away from
Wilberforce Square. The Canningtons had then put off all the lights in
the house and left by the back door, walking quickly to their waiting taxi.
As far as they could see, they had not been seen or followed.
Juliette answered the door herself. She had dressed carefully for the
occasion in demure but provocative black chiffon and had applied a pale
and interesting complexion. Her voice was low, and vibrant with sym
pathy.
“Margaret, dear Stephen. Please come in.” She closed the door
almost furtively. “Your—your friend is waiting for you in the drawing
room. I’ll leave you alone with him. Just put your coats down here. If
there’s anything you want, call me.”
Chief Inspector Harlow was sitting on the edge of a fragile, silk-
covered chair, looking altogether too burly and masculine for Juliette’s
white-and-gold drawing-room. He wore civilian clothes of the most un
obtrusive sort, but his sturdy frame was so obviously designed for uniform
that he gave the impression of being in fancy dress. He stood up as
Margaret and Stephen came in.
“Good evening, sir—madam. Mr. and Mrs. Cannington, I presume?”
“Yes,” said Stephen. “You must be Chief Inspector Harlow.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“It’s very good of you to take all this trouble,” said Margaret.
Harlow looked shocked. “Trouble? Not a bit of it, Mrs. Cannington.
It’s my job. No, you’re the people with the trouble, I’m afraid. I do
assure you of my deepest sympathy in your predicament.” The Chief
Inspector had gone rather red. “I don’t want to scold you, not at a time
like this, but I do wish you’d let us know right away. I really do. The
trail has cooled by now, if I may coin a phrase.”
“I felt I must give them a chance to play fair,” said Margaret.
Harlow shook his head sadly. “Play fair,” he repeated. “They don’t
know the meaning of the words, people like that. The more you give in
to them, the greedier they get.”
“Exactly what I said,” remarked Stephen.
“There’s only one thing to do in a case like this,” the Inspector went
on. “Track ’em down without them knowing they’re being tracked.”
“How?” asked Margaret bluntly, trying to keep her voice from rising.
“You’ll have to leave that to us, Mrs. Cannington.” The Chief
Inspector sounded as though his mouth were full of warm treacle. “No
question of jeopardizing the little girl’s safety. Now, if we could just have
all the facts . . . ”
For what seemed the hundredth time, Margaret went over the story,
while Harlow took voluminous notes. When she had finished, he said,
“This Mr. Barnstable, could we have a little more on him?”
“More? What do you mean, more?”
“Well—is he an old friend, for instance?”
“I’ve known him for ten years,” said Margaret defensively.
“1 see. An old friend of the family.”
“Hardly,” said Stephen. “I’ve never met the man.”
Harlow looked taken aback. “Really, sir?” There was an uneasy
pause.
Margaret said, “He used to be a colleague of mine when I worked on
a magazine, before I married. I lost touch with him for a while, but
recently I met him again. He arranged for me to do this job, reviewing a
play every week. You see, I’ve been—my husband has been away from
home a great deal lately. I was on my own and getting rather bored.”
“I understand, Mrs. Cannington,” said the Inspector wisely, from the
depths of his ignorance. He evidently didn’t keep up with London’s
society gossip. “Well, there it is. Business is business, and we all know
about the penalties of success.” He looked at Stephen almost roguishly.
“I don’t suppose there’s anyone in Great Britain who hasn’t heard of
Cannington Electronics.”
“You’re very flattering, Chief Inspector,” said Stephen, actually
sounding pleased.
Harlow nodded appreciatively to himself. “Yes,” he said, “what you
might call a household word. As a matter of fact, we’ve got a Cannington
color telly at home. My wife thinks the world of it. However, that’s by
the way. What I’m driving at is that these people are no fools. They
picked you very carefully. They know you’re a rich man, and they also
know that you have heavy business responsibilities and are away from
home a lot. They’ve also noticed that Mrs. Cannington goes out every
Wednesday evening and employs a baby-sitter.”
“I told her it was idiotic to go out on the same evening each week,”
said Stephen.
“I’ve said I’m sorry,” said Margaret, “For God’s sake, what more can
I say? Do you think I dreamed Emma would be kidnapped?” She heard
her voice soaring toward hysteria.
“Nobody is blaming you, Mrs. Cannington,” said Harlow with pon
derous tact. “Naturally, you couldn’t be expected to foresee this. Never
theless, it established a pattern—no getting away from it. And a pattern
does make things that much easier for criminals. However, what’s done
can’t be undone, so let’s not cry over spilt milk.” He consulted his notes.
“The girl, Grace Bridge, was obviously the operator chosen to gain access
to the house. I see that Fisher of the Baby-Sitting Bureau told you she
had specifically asked to be sent to you. Very interesting. And now she
has conveniently disappeared. Well, don’t worry—we’ll lay our hands on
Miss Bridge, or whatever her real name turns out to be. But that’ll only
be the beginning.”
“How do you mean?” Stephen asked.
“Well, sir, I don’t see the Bridge girl as the brains behind this thing.
Not a young girl like that, a student. As I figure it, she was acting under
the influence of some man. There may be others involved as well, but
you can take it from me there’s a man behind it. An older man. Which
brings us back to Mr. Barnstable.”
“What do you mean by that?” Margaret demanded.
“Well, now, Mrs. Cannington—you say you’ve known the gentleman
for ten years and yet Mr. Cannington has never met him.”
“I told you—I knew him before I was married.”
“I see,” said Harlow woodenly. “And how long ago did you meet him
again?”
“A couple of months ago. At a party.”
“May I ask what party?”
“As a matter of fact, it was at the Bassetts. Our neighbors in Wilber-
force Square.”
“Mr. Cannington wasn’t with you?”
“No.” A little pause. “He was away.”
Harlow consulted his notes. “Would that be retired Major-General
Bassett, residing at No. 12?”
“Yes.”
“Now, that’s very interesting, Mrs. Cannington. As Mr. Cannington
so cleverly noticed, No. 12 is one of the houses from which it is possible
to see into your drawing-room. Tell me—have you ever known Mr.
Barnstable to be short of money?”
Margaret stood up. “I won’t have you picking on Freddy like this,”
she said.
“Sit down, Margaret, for heaven’s sake,” said Stephen.
“1 assure you, I didn’t intend to upset you in any way, Mrs. Canning-
ton,” said Harlow blandly. He sounded like a cross-examining counsel
who has just trapped a witness into a damaging admission. “It’s just that
I have to make a thorough investigation of everybody concerned.”
“Then you might start with Miss Dean,” said Margaret angrily.
“Margaret, stop being childish and sit down.” Stephen sounded dan
gerous. Margaret sat down.
Stephen favored Harlow with a charming, diffident smile. “My wife
is naturally rather wrought-up,” he said.
“I quite understand, sir,” said Harlow almost conspiratorially. “Now
to get back to Mr. Barnstable. Is he a rich man, did you say, Mrs.
Cannington?”
“I didn’t say,” said Margaret, “but if you must know, he isn’t. He’s
not exactly poor, but—”
“I believe he works for Incorporated Newspapers, as Chief Features
Editor for their provincial group. That would be a well-paid job, I should
imagine.”
“Yes, it is. But Freddy—” Margaret stopped.
“Yes, madam?”
“Well, he’s inclined to be a bit extravagant. That’s not a crime, is it?
Why are you going on and on about him?”
“Well, madam, it just occurred to me that you said you didn’t see
anybody you recognized at the theater tonight. But that’s not quite true,
is it?”
“Of course it’s true!”
“Not if you think for a moment, madam. You saw Mr. Barnstable.”
“But—he arranged my ticket for me!”
“Exactly.”
“I mean, I rang him and asked him to!”
“At the suggestion of the voice on the telephone.”
“Yes, but—”
“So the kidnappers knew of your friendship with Mr. Barnstable?”
“Apparently. Why shouldn’t they? There’s no secret about it.”
“You know where Mr. Barnstable lives, of course?”
“Of course. Flat 28, Flaxman Court, Chelsea.”
“He’s a bachelor, I believe.”
“You even manage to make that sound like a crime,” said Margaret
angrily.
Harlow went on placidly, “Were you surprised to see him at the
theater?”
“I—Yes. No. Not really. It was a very kind thought. He felt sorry
forme.” Harlow looked up for a moment from his notebook. Margaret
added defensively, “I’ve been alone a great deal lately.”
“I see. W ell. . .” The Chief Inspector took a deep breath and seemed
to change gear. “That seems to cover Mr. Barnstable. There’s nothing
else you can tell me about the Bridge girl?”
“No. I only saw her for ten minutes. I told you that her brother
knew my brother.”
Harlow smiled sadly. “So she said,” he remarked. “A very old trick.
Creates a sense of confidence. You didn’t stop to think, I suppose, how
easily she could have found out that you had a brother in the Foreign Ser
vice and where he had recently been stationed.”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“People don’t.” Again a change of tone. “Well, now, I think we can
lay our plans for tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Stephen.
“First of all,” said Harlow, “we’ll have some enquiries to make—very
discreetly, you may be sure, Mrs. Cannington. None of our subjects will
have the least idea they are under observation.”
“How can you be certain of that?”
Harlow smiled. He did not actually say “We have our methods,” but
he implied it. “In the evening, we will keep the appointment at the
cinema,” he told her.
“We?” said Margaret sharply.
“You will keep the appointment, Mrs. Cannington. We will also be
there, but you won’t be aware of it, I assure you, and neither will the
kidnappers. The number of your cloakroom ticket will be noted and
whoever claims it will be trailed. I think we can safely say that the little
girl will be home before the night is out.”
“But supposing they get suspicious?”
“Do leave things to the Inspector, Margaret,” said Stephen. “He
knows what he’s doing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cannington,” said Harlow. “Now, as far as the ran
som is concerned, you’d better sew the appropriate number of pieces of
paper into the coat so that—”
, “N o!” Margaret stood up again. “They’ll kill Emma if—”
“Margaret, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous! You’re proposing to do exactly what they
warned us not to do! They’ll realize they’re being watched, they’ll realize
the money is fake, and they won’t even try to pick up the coat! They’ll
simply murder Emma and disappear. I won’t allow it!”
“Now, now, now, Mrs. Cannington—”
“I’m not interested in anything you have to say,” said Margaret.
“Emma is my child and I—”
Stephen was standing now, too. “Emma is also my child,” he said,
“and I entirely approve of the Chief Inspector’s plan. I would also remind
you that the money is my money.”
Harlow glanced from one to the other appraisingly. Then he said,
“Look at it this way, Mrs. Cannington. If you simply take the money
along tomorrow evening, you don’t imagine that these people will hand
your child back, do you?”
“They might,” said Margaret. She sounded to her own ears like
Emma in one of her stubborn, sulky moods.
“I assure you that they won’t,” said Harlow. “They didn’t the first
time, did they? They’ll simply step up their demands. And there’s a
more serious aspect that I didn’t want to bring up for fear of distressing
you, but you force me to do it.” He leaned forward impressively. “Mrs.
Cannington, don’t you see that the actual physical presence of the child
is highly embarrassing to the kidnappers? They want to be rid of her but
as long as you cooperate they’ll go on demanding money. You may go on
paying for weeks or even months, but what makes you think they’ll keep
the little girl alive all that time? Each time you pay, you put the child in
worse danger.”
Margaret felt very cold. Obstinately she said, “I think they might
send her back.”
Harlow shook his head. “If they’d demanded a really large ransom
in the first place, I might have advised taking a chance on it. If
kidnappers only had a bit of sense,” he said more in sorrow than in anger,
“they’d take their money and release the victim. And they’d likely get
away with it. But they don’t have the wit to see that. No, if they’re not
satisfied with the first payment, they’re never satisfied. They go on
asking for more and more, and soon they find they can’t keep the child
hidden any longer, and so . . .” He shrugged eloquently. “Mrs.
Cannington, will you please trust Emma to me? I’ve more experience in
these matters than you have, you know.”
Margaret said nothing. Stephen went to her and put his arm round
her. “The Chief Inspector is perfectly right, my dear,” he said, “We all
want to get Emma safely home and he knows the best way to do it.”
Margaret was standing stiffly, her arms at her sides. At last she said,
“Very well.”
Harlow exhaled deeply and the tension relaxed. He began to pack his
notebooks back into his briefcase. “That’s very wise of you, Mrs. Canning-
ton, if I may say so. I’m sure you won’t regret it.” He glanced at his
watch. “One o’clock already. I’ll be off then, and I’ll contact you by
telephone tomorrow. If you have news for me, call Scotland Yard and ask
for me. Oh, by the way, Mr. Cannington, you must, of course, visit your
bank tomorrow morning, though there’s no need to cash any money, of
course. Well, goodnight, Mrs. Cannington—Mr. Cannington. We’ll meet
again tomorrow. Try not to worry too much. I’ll see myself out by the
back way, same as I came in.”
When he had gone, Margaret and Stephen stood looking at each
other in silence, like strangers. There seemed nothing to say. Margaret
was relieved when Juliette came in, carrying a tray.
“Has the sleuth gone?” she asked with mock caution. “All clear
now?”
Stephen went over and took the tray from her. “Yes, he’s gone. A
very nice, sensible, professional fellow. I must say it’s a great relief to
have the thing in the hands of an expert.”
“Oh, Stephen, I am glad,” said Juliette. “So now you can sit back and
leave it all to the police. Now, I’ve made coffee and I suggest you both
have a brandy with it. Margaret, dear?”
“No, thank you,” said Margaret.
“You’re sure?”
“Perfectly.”
Juliette flickered a glance at Stephen, her beautifully groomed eye
brows just slightly raised. Stephen replied with the faintest of shrugs and
a rueful grin. Margaret said, “As a matter of fact, Juliette, I won’t have
any coffee, either. I’m very tired. I’d like to go home.”
“Oh, have a heart,” said Stephen. “Let me at least drink a cup of
coffee before—”
“There’s no reason why you should come with me,” said Margaret.
“Now that the whole matter is in the hands of the police, I imagine you’ll
want to go back to your flat.”
“But—”
“I think,” said Margaret, “that it would be much better if you slept at
the flat and came round to Wilberforce Square in the morning.”
Before Stephen could answer, Juliette said, “Margaret’s right,
Stephen. It’s no use being emotional. That nice Inspector is coping with
everything and you can talk it over in the morning. Shall 1 call a cab for
you, Margaret?”
“Yes, please.”
Juliette started toward the door, then turned and came over to
Margaret. With a faintly theatrical gesture, she took her hand. “Thank
you, Margaret,” she said, “for being so civilized.”
“If you’d just call that cab—”
“Of course. But you’re to promise me you’ll sleep well and not worry
any more.”
“Oh, go to hell,” said Margaret. “I’ll find a cab for myself.” She
walked out without turning her head.
In Eaton Place, she hailed a cruising taxi.
She was still trembling when she reached Wilberforce Square. “Here
we are, lady,” said the cabby cheerfully. “Number Sixteen you said?”
“Yes. Thank you,” Margaret took three pound notes from her purse,
trying to control her shaking fingers. “Here. Keep the change.”
“Thankj/ow, lady,” said the cabby. He added, “No holly wreath this
year?”
Margaret looked up, surprised. The cabby chuckled. “You don’t re
member me, but I know this Square well. It’s not the first time I’ve
driven you home. And there’s been a holly wreath every Christmas that
I can remember.”
“Not this year,” said Margaret.
“Ah, well. Happy Christmas all the same.” He slammed the taxi into
gear and executed a smart U-turn. As he pulled away, Margaret saw that
a small black Ford was parked at the curb. The registration number was
AJX 5067 and a man in a dark overcoat was just opening the driver’s
door. For a moment he and Margaret looked at each other in surprise
under the light of the streetlamp. Then Margaret said, “Why, Mr.
Fisher—”
“Mrs. Cannington!” Donald Fisher moved away from the car and
came toward her. “I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you for a moment. Of
course, you live here in Wilberforce Square, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “I live at No. 16.”
“I’ve just been visiting my aunt,” said Donald Fisher. “Her company
is somewhat formidable, but she does live in one of the prettiest houses
in London.”
“Your aunt?”
Donald jerked his head in the direction of the corner. “Number
One.”
“Oh, Lady Percival.”
“That’s right. Well, I must be off. I hope your little girl is well?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“That’s good. Well—goodnight, Mrs. Cannington. I hope we’ll be
seeing you in the office again soon. You’ll give us a second chance won’t
you?”
“Yes, of course. Goodnight, Mr. Fisher.”
“Happy Christmas!”
The young man waved a light-hearted salutation, climbed into the
little car, and moved off noisily in the direction of Kensington High
Street. Margaret opened the wrought-iron gate and walked slowly up the
path to the house. Inside, she did not switch on the lights at once.
Instead, she went into the drawing-room and stood by the window,
looking out toward Number One. A light was still burning in Lady
Percival’s drawing-room, throwing out golden streaks between the dark
curtains which had been carelessly drawn. Had the curtains been pulled
back, Margaret could have seen clearly into the room,
For perhaps three minutes she stood looking out at the dark Square.
Then she switched on the lights, drew the curtains, and looked at her
watch. It was half past one. That would mean it was still only half past
eight in Washington, D.C. She picked up the telephone and dialed the
transatlantic number. A few seconds later, her brother’s voice said,
“Hello. Thornton here.”
“Dick, it’s Maggie.”
“Maggie! My dear girl, where are you?”
“In London, of course.”
“But what on earth—?”
“Listen, Dick—did you ever know a man called Bridge in Nigeria?”
“Yes, of course I did. Harry Bridge. One of my best pals.”
“Did he have a sister called Grace?”
“Yes, now you mention it, he did. I never met her, but he had a
photograph of her on his desk. A dark girl with a sharpish sort of face.
Rather attractive. She was just a school kid then, of course.”
“Dick, this is terribly important. Do you know where Harry Bridge
is now?”
“I say, why all the drama, old thing? Certainly I know. He’s in Paris.
We correspond every so often. In fact, if you’ll hold on for the shake of
a gnat’s tail, I can give you his address.”
“Bless you. I’ll hold on.”
“It’s somewhere here in my diary . . . Yes, here we are. Harry Bridge,
28 Rue Belfort, Paris 8. Telephone Elysee 289754. Now you might tell
me what it’s all in aid of.”
“I can’t explain on the phone, Dick, I’ll write. It’s—I’m trying to
trace the sister, you see. I must go now.”
“How’s my niece?”
“She’s—fine.”
“Give her my love. What news of the rat Cannington?”
“No news. The divorce is going ahead. It’s all in the hands of the
lawyers.”
“Well, I hope you soak him good and proper for alimony,” said Dick
Thornton with brotherly solicitude.
“I’ll do my best. Goodbye, Dick. Give my love to Martha.”
“I’ll do that.”
“’Bye, Maggie. Happy Christmas.”
+++
Margaret slept litde that night. She lay motionless in the dark, plotting
and thinking. Now that she had made up her mind and decided on a
positive course of action, she found she was quite calm. The trembling
had stopped and she was able to think clearly. Also, the success of her
phone call to Washington was immensely heartening. At about half past
two, she fell into a dreamless sleep—from which she awoke at six, feeling
refreshed. She got up, dressed, and made coffee. At eight o’clock, she
decided that if Harry Bridge was not up and about yet, he should be. She
put through a call to Paris.
“ ’Alio. C ’est Monsieur Bridge qui parle—”
“Mr. Harry Bridge?”
“Oh, you’re English.” The sleepy voice sounded relieved. “Yes,
Bridge here. Can I help you?”
“I’m afraid you don’t know me,” said Margaret. “My name is Can
nington, Mrs. Stephen Cannington. I’m Dick Thornton’s sister.”
“Good old Dick! How is he? Still enjoying Washington?”
“I think so. I spoke to him on the phone last night. He gave me your
address and number.”
“Well, now, Mrs. Cannington—when are you coming to Paris, and
what can I do for you?” Bridge sounded resigned. He obviously received
many similar calls. “I may as well tell you straight away that I can’t get
you tickets for the Opera or the Comedie Frangaise or an introduction to
the President. Anything else within reason—”
Margaret laughed “You can relax,” she said, “I’m not coming to Paris.
I rang you because I need to get in touch with your sister Grace.”
“Grace? Oh, you’re a day too early.”
“She’s still in London. She doesn’t arrive here until tomorrow
morning.”
“You mean you’re expecting her in Paris?”
“That’s it. She’s coming over tomorrow, spending Christmas with us,
and then going to Nice in search of some sun.”
“I wonder if you could tell me where she’s staying in London at the
moment? I know she’s left the hostel where she was living and I
especially want to see her before she leaves.”
“She’s staying with friends of the family—somewhere in Hampstead,
I think. Hang on a moment, I’ll see if I have the address.”
A couple of minutes later, Harry Bridge was back on the line. “The
people are called Minton-Stacey, and they live in Avenue Road, No. 208.
I haven’t got their phone number, I’m afraid.”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s all I wanted to know,” said Margaret. She
hesitated, and then said, “I shall miss Grace—she’s been doing some
baby-sitting for me.”
“Baby-sitting?” Bridge sounded astonished. “Grace? Baby-sitting?”
Margaret laughed. “There’s no need to sound so shocked,” she said.
“It’s perfectly respectable. Lots of students do it nowadays to earn extra
pocket money.”
“Oh, I know that. But, well—Grace usually spends her evenings at
theaters or concerts, and besides, to be frank—” He stopped.
“Go on,” said Margaret.
“No, no. Nothing.”
“Do you mean,” said Margaret, “that Grace has a perfectly adequate
allowance and has no possible reason to—”
“Adequate? Ridiculous, I call it, for a kid of her age. Still, father
stipulated the amount in his will and the trustees have to pay it, whether
they like it or not. Personally, I don’t approve of students having too
much money. To do her justice, I don’t think Grace does, either. That’s
why she insists on living in hostels and going to the gallery with the
others when she could easily afford the Royal Box. But she does seem to
be carrying things a bit far, baby-sitting for a few pounds.”
“Well,” said Margaret, “I expect she just did it for fun.”
“Or to help somebody out perhaps. She’s a good-natured child, as
you probably know.”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “Yes, I think you’re right. Well, thank you,
Mr. Bridge. I’ll get in touch with her today.”
“Give her my love. Tell her I’ll be at the airport to meet her to
morrow.”
“I’ll do that. Goodbye, and thank you again.”
Margaret rang off and looked at her watch. Half past eight. She went
over to the window and pulled back the curtains. The December morning
was still dark. Here and there a lighted window showed that at least
some of the inhabitants of Wilberforce Square were up and about. For
example, Lady Percival’s establishment was showing signs of life. A light
was burning in the drawing-room, and, as Margaret watched, a maid in
an old-fashioned cap and apron drew aside the heavy velvet curtains,
giving Margaret a clear view into the room, with its pretty Regency
furniture.
Once again, Margaret picked up the telephone. With her eyes on the
drawing-room of No. 1, she dialed Lady Percival’s number. The maid,
who was still clearly visible in the drawing-room did not react at all when
the ringing tone started. Margaret nodded to herself. This confirmed her
rather hazy recollection that there was no telephone in that room.
After about half a minute, a thin genteel voice said, “This is Lady
Percival’s residence.”
All the other front windows were curtained. It was impossible to tell
in which room the telephone had been answered. Margaret said, “This
is Mrs. Cannington. May I speak to Lady Percival, please?”
“Just a moment. I’ll see if—”
“All right, Taylor—” the thin voice was supplanted by a rich deep
one. “I will take this call. Good morning, Mrs. Cannington. What may
I do for you?”
“I was just ringing to talk about the Jumble Sale,” said Margaret
mendaciously.
“How exceptionally kind of you.” Margaret was almost sure she could
detect a note of ironic amusement in the old lady’s voice. “Most people
have to be hounded into corners before they will even discuss such
matters. Well, for a start, the principal of the hostel at No. 13 has kindly
put a room at our disposal, and all jumble is to be delivered there. The
students are away for Christmas, you see. You might pass that infor
mation along to your helpers. I will arrange for everything to be collected
and sorted before the sale. I am relying on you to organize the Jams and
Preserves, as you did so well last year . . . ”
For several minutes the conversation took a purely technical turn and
Margaret found herself committed not only to Jams and Preserves but to
judging the Home-Made Millinery Contest and staying behind afterward
to recount the takings. When these matters had been agreed to Lady
Percival’s satisfaction, Margaret said, “Oh, by the way, I met your nephew
last night. He was just leaving your house.”
“My nephew?”
“Yes. Young Mr. Fisher, who runs the Students’ Baby-Sitting
Bureau.”
“Mv dear Mrs. Cannington,” said Lady Percival firmly, “I really do
not follow you. I have four daughters, two sons, and ten grandchildren,
but I am delighted to say that I have no nephews. I have always been
given to understand that they are very tiresome young men.”
“But—”
“We shall expect you at the Committee Meeting on the fifth, Mrs.
Cannington. Please remember me to your husband. So nice to see him
back from his travels. Don’t let him work too hard, will you? I thought
he looked a little seedy yesterday. Goodbye, Mrs. Cannington.”
Margaret finished her coffee and went to take a bath. She was drying
herself when the telephone rang. She put on her dressing-gown and ran
downstairs to answer it.
“Maggie? This is Freddy. I say, I hope I didn’t put my foot in things
by ringing you last night. I’d no idea that Stephen was—well, was with
you.”
“Don’t worry, Freddy. It didn’t matter at all. He was only here on
business.”
“Rather fortunate that you came home early from the theater, wasn’t
it? Otherwise you’d have missed him.”
“Yes, wasn’t it lucky,” said Margaret blandly, ignoring the curiosity
in Freddy’s voice.
“I mean, I thought you weren’t supposed to see him until the divorce
is through.”
“Business is business,” said Margaret.
“I know it is, my dear,” said Freddy. “Which brings me to the reason
for this call.”
“I hate to harry you, love, because I know you’ve been laid low with
migraine and so forth, but this is Friday and we must have this week’s
copy from you before the day is out.”
“Oh, Freddy! I’m most terribly sorry. I—” Margaret bit back the
word “forgot.” In fact, she hadn’t given a thought to the fact that her
weekly column was supposed to be on Freddy’s desk by four o’clock.
“You will let me have it by lunchtime, won’t you, old thing? I can’t
stretch the deadline any further, even for you.”
“By lunchtime? I . . . Freddy, I can’t explain properly, but I can’t do
the column at all this week. I simply can’t.”
“You mean you’re really ill?”
“No . . . yes . . . no, not really. I just can’t do it, that’s all.”
“I see.” Freddy sounded far from pleased. Margaret knew that there
had been opposition to giving her the job, on the grounds that she was a
wealthy amateur who would only play at working. She knew that Freddy
had fought and won on her behalf, staking his reputation on the fact that
she was still a professional journalist at heart. The last thing she wanted
was to let him down—but it wasn’t humanly possible for her to write and
deliver fifteen hundred words of copy by lunchtime with everything else
that she had to do.
“Freddy, please believe me, I’ve got a very good reason and I’ll tell
you about it as soon as I can. Will you just take my word that it’s
impossible for me to do the column this week?”
“It all sounds very mysterious,” said Freddy. “However, I seem to
have no choice. I suppose I’ll have to do it myself. What did you see on
Wednesday?”
“A Case in Point. At the Lyric.”
“Haven’t seen it. Nevermind. I’ll do a piece on Small Green Apples.
Not that anyone from the provinces has a hope in hell of seeing it for a
couple of years.”
“Freddy, you’re an angel.”
“That’s all right, old thing. I shall quite enjoy doing it,” Barnstable
seemed to leave recovered his customary good humor. “So long as you’re
not on the sick list, that’s the main thing. You had me really worried last
night. Which reminds me—”
“What of?”
“I meant to ask you last night on the phone, but Stephen put me off
my stride.”
“Ask me what?”
“Whether you got your coat all right.”
Margaret tried not to hesitate and failed. She hoped Freddy would
not notice. “My coat? What about it?”
“You picked it up from the cloakroom before you left?”
“Of course.”
“Well, that’s all right then. But it may interest you to know there’s
a double of it running around London.”
“Well, it’s a fairly distinctive design, isn’t it, with that high-set belt
and the ermine collar.”
“It’s made from a Paris toile. It was one of the last presents Stephen
gave me.”
“Anyhow, after the show last night I stopped in the foyer to have a
word with the house manager. There was one hell of a scrum around the
cloakroom, as you can imagine. While we were talking, a girl emerged
from the milling throng and I could have sworn she was wearing your
coat.”
“How very odd,” said Margaret. “What sort of a girl?”
“Oh, just a girl. Dark-haired. Rather good-looking. Anyhow, it must
just have been a coincidence.”
“That’s right,” said Margaret. “Just a coincidence. I believe Harrods
sold quite a few of those coats.”
There was a pause, then Freddy said, “Well, I’d better get cracking on
that piece.”
“It’s so kind of you, Freddy.”
“That’s all right, old thing.” Barnstable hesitated, and then went on,
“You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you? Don’t do anything foolish. It
could be dangerous.”
“What do you mean dangerous?”
“Migraine can be very nasty. You don’t want to take any chances.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
“And if there’s anything I can do, just call me. Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Goodbye, then, Maggie.”
“Goodbye, Freddy.”
Nine o’clock. Margaret dressed quickly and came downstairs. There
was no sign of Stephen. She dialed the number of his apartment but
there was no reply. She considered ringing Juliette’s house and decided
against it. Lucidly, she had given Stephen the spare set of keys to No. 16,
so that he could come and go freely. She scribbled a note: “Stephen, I’ve
gone out to make some enquiries. Will be back before noon. M.”
Leaving it conspicuously on the hall table, she went out.
It was a cold, dark day, with lowering clouds that threatened snow.
The Square was deserted, there was no sign of the black Ford, and even
the Students’ Hostel was quiet. As Margaret reached the corner, she saw
the tall trim figure of Major-General Bassett coming down the garden
path of No. 12. He held a leash in each hand, and to each leash was
attached an extremely lively black poodle. He saw Margaret and made
the mistake of trying to raise his hat—during which process he lost his
grip first on one leash, then on the other, and finally on the hat itself.
The poodles and the bowler departed at speed in three separate direc
tions, thereby posing a nice problem in strategy and tactics which was
clearly going to exercise the General’s skill for some little time. Feeling
rather mean, Margaret left him to it. A few minutes later, she was in a
taxi, speeding northward across the park toward the opulent tranquility
of Avenue Road.
+++
Margaret paid off the taxi some hundred yards down the road from No.
208. It wheeled around in a U-turn and made off toward Regents Park,
leaving Margaret feeling a little desolate. There was no traffic on the side
residential street. The big houses stood self-consciously isolated, each
behind its protective wall, each enclosed by its large garden, but it was
December and the trees were bare, exposing the houses to view, revealing
their fish ponds and sun dials, their verandas and frilled white curtains.
Some of Margaret’s confidence began to ebb away. How could she be
sure that it might not be dangerous—to Emma as well as to herself—to
approach this house, with its well kept secrets? It would be a perfect
place to hide a kidnapped child—too large and aristocratic to have prying
neighbors, too respectable to excite suspicion. Outside No. 208, Margaret
stood hesitantly on the pavement, wishing she had mentioned her des
tination in her note to Stephen. She longed to run away, to abandon the
whole rash enterprise, but tearing at her heart came the ever-present
image of Emma’s small, scared face. If there was the faintest chance of
helping Emma, she must go through with it, whatever the cost. She took
a step toward the house.
It was a massive cube of neo-Georgian red brick, dating from the early
thirties and built as a family house in the days when money was still
money. Eight or ten bedrooms, three bathrooms, four reception rooms,
large garden. Margaret wondered whether the Minton-Staceys owned the
whole house or whether, like so many of these modern mansions, it had
been converted into apartments. In either case, it seemed a ludicrous
background for a mean kidnapping and a twenty-thousand-pound
ransom. Through the open door of a built-in garage, Margaret could see
the sleek hindquarters of a Rolls Royce which must have cost at least
twice that amount. But then, of course, this was not Grace Bridge’s
home—and there was always Inspector Harlow’s mysterious “older man,”
the presumed Svengali behind the scenes. Margaret tried to make up her
mind what to do next.
As it turned out, the decision was taken out of her hands. The sound
of a horse’s hooves clattering on the tarmac road behind her made her
turn sharply—and there was Grace Bridge, dressed in immaculate
breeches, riding jacket, and bowler hat, mounted on a gleaming chestnut
mare.
“Why, Mrs. Cannington!” Grace reined the horse to a stop beside the
gate. “Fancy meeting you here!”
“I—I came to see you, Grace,” said Margaret. She felt in a most
literally one-down position as she craned her neck upward to speak to the
girl on horseback. The transformation of Grace Bridge from a student in
blue jeans to a glossy debutante was breathtaking.
“I’ve been riding in the park,” said Grace. “It was wonderful. Do
come in.”
She leaned forward expertly and pushed open the wrought-iron gate
leading to the sweep of drive in front of the house. Once inside, she said,
“Do you mind waiting for a moment? I’ll just take Tessa round to the
stables and then I’ll be with you.”
She gave Margaret a friendly smile and walked the mare round the
corner of the house and out of sight. A few minutes later, the front door
opened from the inside, and she said, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,
Mrs. Cannington. Do come in. I’m afraid nobody else is up yet.”
Margaret followed her into a big parquet-floored hall that smelled of
furniture polish and chrysanthemums and from there into a light, chintzy
sitting-room, where a wood fire crackled in the hearth—fulfilling a purely
decorative purpose in view of the competent central heating.
“Do sit down, Mrs. Cannington,” said Grace. “I’ve ordered coffee,
but if you’d rather have something else—”
“No, coffee will be fine, thank you.” Margaret sat down in a large
armchair.
Grace threw herself onto the sofa with the loose coltish elegance of
the young. She had taken off her bowler, revealing her black hair twisted
into it neat chignon at the nape of her neck. Her pale-beige breeches and
shiny black boots showed off her long legs to great advantage. Her fine,
sharp features looked more patrician than ever and might have been
formidable had they not been illuminated by her genuinely sweet smile.
“I hear you’re off to Paris tomorrow,” said Margaret.
“Yes, that’s right—but how on earth did you know?”
“I telephoned your brother.”
“Harry? In Paris?” Grace sat up straight. “This is all very mys
terious.”
“Not really,” said Margaret. “I got his number from my brother Dick.
You remember, you told me they were friends.”
“Yes, but—” Grace frowned. “What’s it all about? Why did you
want to see me?” She hesitated, and then said, “It was all right about the
other night, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean by all right,” said Margaret. “You
promised me you’d stay until half past eleven.”
“Yes, but—”
“1 got home at eleven. You had already gone.”
“I know, but—”
The door opened and an elderly woman in an apron came in, carrying
a tray with coffee and cups. Conversation stopped while the small cere
mony was conducted. Margaret accepted milk and sugar, refused a
biscuit, and felt thoroughly put out. As the door closed behind the maid
she made an effort to recapture the initiative.
“Why did you leave early?” she demanded.
Grace Bridge opened her-green eyes very wide. “But surely Sheila
told you—”
“Sheila?”
“Sheila Durrant. The red-headed girl. Surely you remember her?”
“Certainly I do,” said Margaret. “She was supposed to come to me
on Wednesday but her mother got ill and so you came instead. As far as
I know, she went to Dorset on Wednesday and is still there.”
Grace looked astonished. “You mean Sheila wasn’t there when you
got back?”
“Of course she wasn’t.”
“Oh,goshl” said Grace. There was a pause. “1 can see why you’re so
angry.”
“I’m not angry,” said Margaret. To her surprise it was the truth. “I
just wanted to know what happened.”
“Well, I had met Sheila quite a few times at the hostel and I liked
her. 1 was sorry for her, too. She had this sick mother, and very little
money. Baby-sitting meant a lot to her—the difference between eating
and not eating, as far as I could make out. So when she told me she
couldn’t go to your place on Wednesday, I offered to stand-in for her.
We fixed it through the Bureau so it would be official.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “I know.”
“Well, I came along to Wilberforce Square, as you know. And you
left your little girl with me and went out. And then, soon after nine,
Sheila turned up.”
“What?”
“Yes. She said that her mother was better so she’d taken the last
train back to London and come along to finish the baby-sitting stint.”
“And you simply changed places with her?”
Grace reacted at once to the censure in Margaret’s voice. “It was
terribly awkward,” she said. “When she asked me to take her place, I told
her I’d give her whatever you paid me, but she flatly refused. She said
whoever did the work should get the pay. But then when she turned up
at nine she told me she needed the cash desperately—the railway fare had
just about cleaned her out. She said I was to take the money for the two
hours I’d done and she’d take the rest. What could I do, Mrs.
Cannington? Anyhow, I knew that you’d originally asked for her—”
“Grace,” said Margaret, “how well do you know Sheila Durrant?”
“I told you, I met her at the hostel.”
“You didn’t meet through your studies?”
“No, she’s at an acting school, not University.”
“Did you meet her through friends?”
“No. No, I don’t think I did. It was in the canteen one evening. We
sort of chummed up.”
Margaret made up her mind. “Grace,” she said, “after you left on
Wednesday, my little girl was kidnapped.”
“Was—?” Grace Bridge seemed to be robbed of the power of speech.
At last she said, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not very complicated,” said Margaret. “She wasn’t there when
I got home. Nobody was. There was a note.”
“A note?”
“Later, I got a ransom demand. That was paid, but Emma wasn’t
returned. Now there’s been another demand.”
Grace put her coffee cup down on the table. Her hand was shaking
so that the silver spoon rattled on the porcelain saucer. “It’s all my fault,”
she said.
“Of course it isn’t, my dear,” said Margaret. “You were taken in by
this Sheila creature, just as I was.”
“Can’t the police do anything?”
“You don’t understand, Grace. We dared not contact the police
because of what might happen to Emma. The kidnappers threatened—”
Grace nodded. “I see. How absolutely bloody. Can I help you?”
“I hope you can,” said Margaret.
Suddenly Grace said, “You must have thought it was me. When you
got home and there was nobody there and the child was gone—”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “I did think it was you,”
Grace stood up. “Why should you decide to trust me now? How do
you know I’m innocent?”
Margaret smiled. “There’s no need for melodrama,” she said. “I re
membered that you’d told me your brother knew Dick—”
“I’m leaving the country tomorrow. Don’t you find that suspicious?
Hadn’t you better notify the police at once?”
“Don’t be silly, Grace. I know you’re going to Paris. I spoke to your
brother this morning. That’s why I had to find you today, to ask you to
help me.” She didn’t add that if Grace Bridge did attempt to fly to
France the following day, using her own passport, Chief Inspector
Harlow’s net would surely catch her and she would be arrested.
Grace sat down again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s a little unnerving
having this sort of thing sprung on one before breakfast. What do you
want me to do?”
“Just answer a few questions, if you will.”
“Fire away.”
“Sheila Durrant. Will you describe her for me?”
“But you know her, Mrs. Cannington!”
“I know a girl who calls herself Sheila Durrant.”
“Oh. I see. Well, the first thing you notice about her is her hair.
Short and curly and the most wonderful auburn-red color. Otherwise
she’s nothing sensational. Figure good but ordinary. Complexion fair.
Voice pleasant—a bit of a soft west-country accent. The only other things
I know about her is that she says her home is in Dorset, that she’s a
drama student, that her mother isn’t well, and that she’s chronically
broke.” She studied Margaret. “Does that tally with your information?”
“Almost exactly,” said Margaret. “How much contact did you have
with the Baby-Sitting Bureau?”
“Me?” Grace looked surprised. “None at all.”
“You’ve never worked for them before?”
“Good Lord, no.”
“You didn’t tell them that you particularly wanted to work for me?”
“Look, Mrs. Cannington,” said Grace, “I don’t know who has been
telling you these extraordinary stories, but I can assure you that I never
went near the beastly Bureau. Sheila rang me at the hostel with her tale
of woe. I said I’d take her place to help her out and she said she’d ring
the Bureau and get them to notify you so that it would all be in order.”
“When was this?”
“On Wednesday morning. When did they ring you?”
“At lunchtime,” said Margaret. “That seems to tally all right.”
“Well—that’s all there is to it,” said Grace. “Have some more
coffee?” Margaret passed her cup. “Yes, I came along to your house, as
you know, and then at about ten past nine, it must have been, Sheila
turned up and took over and I went back to the hostel. That’s all I
know.”
“You don’t know where Sheila lived? In London, I mean.”
“Not the faintest. She just used to use the hostel canteen
sometimes.”
“I’m wondering,” Margaret said, “why Sheila specifically called you.
The Bureau could have found somebody else easily enough. Didn’t you
think it was a bit odd?”
Grace looked down and went a little pink. “Well,” she said, “I should
have told you sooner. Sheila told me that if she could get back on the last
train—it’s only a couple of hours by express—she’d try to get around to
do the last couple of hours. She said the money meant so much to her.
I told her she could have the lot—but, as 1 explained, she wouldn’t agree
to take it.”
“So you weren’t surprised when she turned up.”
“No—that is, yes 1 was, because I never thought she’d get back that
evening.”
Margaret put down her cup and looked at her watch. It was a few
minutes after ten o’clock. She stood up. “Thank you, Grace,” she said.
“You’ve been very helpful.”
“I haven’t. I haven’t told you anything.”
“But you have—”
“No—don’t try to make me feel better about it. It was all my fault.
I was a damn fool. Surely there’s something I can do?”
“You can telephone me,” said Margaret, “if you think of anything else
useful. And particularly if you hear from Sheila Durrant again—but I
don’t think you will. Here’s my card. If I’m not home and somebody else
answers, ask when I’ll be in and call back. Don’t say a word to anybody
else—not anybody at all.”
Outside in the hall, there was a tapping of feminine footsteps on the
wooden floor and a braying voice called, “Grace? Are you back?”
“And don’t tell anybody who I am or why I came here,” added
Margaret quickly.
Before Grace could answer, the door opened and a thin middle-aged
woman with blue-rinsed hair came in. She wore a quilted housecoat and
high-heeled slippers with little sprouts of ostrich feather on their vamps.
“Ah, there you are Grace. I—” She stopped dead when she saw
Margaret.
Grace said easily, “Hello, Elvira. Up already? Amanda, this is Mrs.
Minton-Stacey.”
“How do you do?” said Margaret.
“How do you do, Mrs.—er?”
“Amanda came to say goodbye to me,” said Grace. “She’s off to the
country for Christmas. By the ten-thirty train from Waterloo.”
“Which I shall miss if I don’t go at once,” said Margaret. “Goodbye,
Mrs. Minton-Stacey. It was so nice to meet you.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. —er . . . I didn’t catch your friend’s name, Grace.”
“Oh, don’t bother, Elvira. I’ll show Amanda out.”
Grace opened the door and ushered Margaret into the hall. On the
doorstep, Margaret whispered, “Thank you. You managed that
beautifully.”
“The woman’s a fool,” said Grace casually. “But an inquisitive fool.
Goodbye, Mrs. Cannington.”
+++
“So you see,” Margaret said with a certain amount of self-satisfaction,
“it’s all perfectly simple.”
She smiled at Chief Inspector Harlow, stirred her coffee, and sat back,
waiting to be complimented. She had telephoned the Chief Inspector
from a booth at Baker Street Station a few minutes after leaving Avenue
Road and they were now both ensconced in a nearby coffee-bar, the only
two customers in the place.
Margaret had told her story crisply and, she felt, creditably. She
didn’t understand why Harlow didn’t reply at once. Then it occurred to
her that his professional pride had probably been wounded by the fact
that she, an amateur and a mere woman, had stolen a march on the
police. “Of course,” she said kindly, “I had a lot of luck, remembering
what Grace has said about her brother and mine. It really wasn’t difficult
for me to trace her.”
Harlow shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t, was it?”
“I mean,” said Margaret, “I don’t want you to feel that—”
“Mrs. Cannington,” said the Chief Inspector, “you’ve just said that
it’s all perfectly simple. Would you like to explain just what you mean
by that?”
“But of course.” Margaret was surprised that he could be so slow on
the uptake. “Grace Bridge is obviously in the clear. She was simply used
as a red herring by these people. They knew that she lived in the hostel
in Wilberforce Square, and that she was leaving there on Thursday and
going to Paris on Saturday. She made a splendid suspect.”
“And who do you think ‘these people’ are?”
“Donald Fisher and Sheila Durrant,” Margaret replied promptly.
“They’re obviously in league. Sheila Durrant came twice to my house to
spy out the land and then pulled that trick on Grace. And now she’s
disappeared.”
“And how does Fisher come into it?”
“Well, you yourself said that there must be a man involved. And I’ve
caught him out in two definite lies.”
“What lies?”
“First, he told me that he’d employed Grace before, and had a
complaint about her. Actually, she’d never worked for him nor even been
to his office.”
“And yet he had her address in his files?”
“Of course he did. He got it from Sheila Durrant. He wanted to give
the impression she’d worked for him before. And then there was the
second lie—telling me that he was Lady Percival’s nephew when she says
she has no nephews at all. He was just trying to explain away the fact
that he was hanging round Wilberforce Square in that awful old car of
his. I told you how he followed us the other day.”
Harlow stirred his coffee thoughtfully. Then he said, “I’m sorry to
disappoint you, Mrs. Cannington, but given the set of facts that you’ve
just told me I’d come to a very different conclusion.”
“What!”
“It’s perfectly natural,” Harlow went on, “that you should be im
pressed by the Bridge girl, with her smooth talk and her fancy friends and
so on—”
“That has nothing to do with it! Her brother knows my brother!”
“I dare say. Which may well have given her the idea of the snatch in
the first place.”
“But she’s rich!”
“How do you know that? By what her brother told you—went out of
his way to tell you, in fact, on the telephone. You, a perfect stranger. A
bit odd, I’d say.”
“Not odd at all. It came up in conversation.”
“I see. Well, be that as it may, Fisher’s story is just as likely to be
true as Bridge’s. It’s just a question of one person’s word against
another’s.”
“The Minton-Staceys—”
“Are only friends, as I understand, putting the girl up for a couple of
nights. They may be quite innocent, of course. On the other hand, if
they are in on the conspiracy, that house you’ve described would be a
perfect hiding-place for the little girl. Had that occurred to you, Mrs.
Cannington?”
Margaret ignored the question. The fact that it had occurred to her
did nothing to improve her temper. “You’ve just said it’s only a question
of one person’s word against another’s,” she said. “You’re simply choos
ing to believe Fisher and disbelieve Grace, for no reason. And you can’t
get away from the fact that Fisher said he was Lady Percival’s nephew,
and he isn’t.”
Harlow sighed. “There’s rather more to it than that,” he said.
“Several things. First of all, I was interested to hear about your call
from Mr. Barnstable.”
“What about it?”
“That mention of the coat. Very interesting. Very singular. I take
it your coat is of distinctive design.”
“Yes—but there may be others like it.”
“At the same theater, the same evening? No, Mrs. Cannington.
Either Mr. Barnstable really did see a girl leaving the theater in your coat
or else he had some other reason for making up the story. Do you agree?”
“I suppose so. But 1 wish you’d stop accusing Freddy of—”
“I’m not accusing him of anything, madam. No, indeed, I was about
to suggest that his story was almost certainly true.”
“What of it?”
“The girl he saw was dark-haired.” Harlow paused, impressively.
“And Miss Bridge is dark-haired.”
“But—”
“Whereas Miss Durrant is a redhead.”
“That’s no proof of anything!”
“It helps, Mrs. Cannington, taken in conjunction with other facts.”
“What other facts?”
Harlow took a long drink of coffee and crumbled a sweet biscuit in his
stubby fingers. “We haven’t been idle since last night, you know.”
“What have you done, then?”
“For a start, we’ve traced Miss Sheila Durrant.”
Margaret said nothing. The Chief Inspector reached into his raincoat
pocket and pulled out a typewritten sheet. He adjusted his glasses and
scanned the paper.
“This is the report from the Dorsetshire police,” he said. “I won’t
bother with it all. What it boils down to is that Miss Sheila Durrant is
with her parents at Red Acre Farm, Hampton Parva, and has been since
Wednesday. Her mother isn’t well, it seems. Miss Durrant is well known
in the village—a very popular young lady, it seems. Description, five feet
six inches tall, slim build, fair complexion, striking auburn hair.
“It so happens that on Wednesday evening when she was supposed
to be at your home, taking over from Grace Bridge, she was in fact
attending a Whist Drive in the village hall in aid of the Church Organ
Restoration Fund. This is confirmed by the local constable, who was also
participating. He interviewed Miss Durrant today and she told him she
had received a telegram on Wednesday morning, purporting to come from
her father, telling her that her mother was worse and she should come
home at once. Funnily enough, her mother turned out to be no worse
and her father never sent a telegram. Miss Durrant couldn’t understand
it—but since she was planning to go home for Christmas anyhow, she
simply decided to stay on. So, you see, Mrs. Cannington—”
“There must be some explanation,” said Margaret.
“There is. Indeed there is. Miss Grace Bridge has taken you for a
proper ride, madam, if you’ll forgive my saying so. However, I think I
may say that it has all worked out for the best.”
The Chief Inspector beamed at Margaret. “You’ve been very helpful,
Mrs. Cannington—perhaps without quite meaning to be. First of all, you
traced Grace Bridge more quickly than we were able to, thanks to your
brother. Your proper course would have been to notify us, and I ought
to be very cross with you for going along there by yourself. However, as
things have worked out, all you’ve done is give the girl the idea that you
don’t suspect her at all—and that just suits our book. Give her all the
rope she wants. I daresay she’s feeling pretty good just now, imagining
that she’s fooled you. Did she ask you what we—the police—were
doing?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, she did.”
“Ah, yes. She would, of course.”
“It was a perfectly natural question.”
“In the circumstances—yes. What did you say?”
“I said we hadn’t dared contact you, because of Emma.”
Harlow nodded approvingly. “Very good. Excellent. Well, now, Mrs.
Cannington, I ought to be getting back. I’ll have a strict watch put on the
Avenue Road house, and naturally Bridge won’t be allowed to leave the
country tomorrow—if she’s still at liberty, which I doubt. I suggest that
you go home and wait for this evening.”
“You mean to say, “ said Margaret slowly, “that you’re not going to
go after Fisher, or—”
“We shall go ahead with our original scheme, Mrs. Cannington,
greatly helped by your contribution. Now, go home and try not to
worry.”
Harlow stood up and picked up the bill. As far as he was concerned,
the interview was over, and he was a busy man . . .
In the taxi home, Margaret came near to tears of frustration, anguish,
and anger. It seemed to her that nobody else cared a rap about what
happened to Emma. Harlow, she told herself, was only concerned with
catching the criminals and gaining himself credit for a successful
prosecution. Margaret knew in her heart that this was unfair, even as the
thought came to her, but the Chief Inspector was so stubborn, so stupid.
She must convince Stephen that she was right and Harlow wrong, and yet
Stephen seemed to believe implicitly in the Inspector—and Juliette didn’t
help with her easily complacent comfort. And all the time, Emma was in
terrible danger, which grew deadlier every hour.
Margaret’s mood was not improved by the sight of the pale-blue Alfa
Romeo standing outside No. 16. As she put her key into the front door,
she could see through the drawing-room window that Juliette was sitting
on the sofa, languorously plying a needle thread as she sewed bundles of
newspaper into the lining of Margaret’s favorite winter coat, which had
been ripped open for the purpose. Stephen was sitting by the fireplace,
looking bad-tempered. The fire had not been remade and last night’s
dirty ashes still lay in the hearth.
Margaret walked in and addressed herself to Juliette. “What are you
doing?”
“Oh, there you are, Margaret.” Juliette smiled, like a cat. “I’m doing
your work for you.”
“You’re very kind,” said Margaret, “but it isn’t necessary.”
“I’m sorry, Juliette, I must speak to Stephen privately. Will you
please go now?”
“Go?” Juliette’s eyebrows went up.
She turned mutely to Stephen with an injured expression.
He stood up. “You’d better go, Juliette.”
“Well, really—”
“This is something that concerns only Margaret and myself,” Stephen
told her gently.
For a moment it seemed that Juliette might launch into a histrionic
tirade, but something in Stephen’s face stopped her. She jabbed her
needle viciously into the arm of the sofa. “I shall be delighted to go,” she
said. “You can do your own bloody sewing!”
“Juliette—” Stephen began, but Juliette snatched up her pale beaver
coat, swung it round her shoulders, and almost ran out of the room. The
front door slammed and a few moments later the engine of the Alfa
revved up savagely and the car roared out of the Square.
Stephen said, “You didn’t have to be so rude to her.”
“She was rude to me,” said Margaret.
Stephen sighed. “You’re behaving like a child,” he said, “but I
suppose it’s understandable.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“You’d better tell me where you’ve been. 1 got a very nasty shock
when I found you weren’t here this morning.”
“How terrible for you. I suppose you immediately rang Juliette to
come and hold your hand. Or did you bring her with you in the first
place?”
Stephen flushed angrily. “I rang Juliette because I was worried about
you.”
“How very curious,” said Margaret. “I’m afraid I don’t follow your
mental processes.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop it,” said Stephen. He sounded beaten.
Margaret was aware of a quick, warm flush of reprehensible pleas
ure—like a child who knows it is behaving badly and getting away with
it. At once, she became contrite. Having won her little victory, she was
ashamed of it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I’m behaving horribly. But
I had to talk to you, Stephen. I’ve just seen Inspector Harlow.”
Quickly, she outlined the events of the morning. “And so you see,”
she ended, “the wretched man has got it all wrong and he won’t budge an
inch. He’s concentrating all his forces on poor Grace Bridge, who is com
pletely innocent. If we’re going to save Emma, we’re going to have to do
it ourselves.”
“You don’t seriously mean that you’re going to try to find the child
yourself?”
“It’s the only thing to do. Surely you see that?”
“I think you’re out of your mind,” said Stephen. “Look here—sit
down and think sensibly. First of all, the police know what they’re doing.
Second, you’re on the warpath against Sheila Durrant, who is apparently
living a blameless life in Dorset. You may have something in the case of
Fisher, but how on earth do you propose to follow it up? Far better to
leave it to the Chief Inspector.”
“There’s an explanation about the Durrant girl, I know there is. If
only I could think of it.”
Stephen walked over to the sofa and sat down beside her. “Margaret,
darling,” he said. Margaret was intensely aware of his arm stretched along
the back of the sofa behind her head. The temptation to abandon respon
sibility and relax against that comforting arm was almost irresistible.
She sat up even straighter.
Stephen went on. “You’ve been under a tremendous strain, and
you’ve been wonderful. The Inspector thinks so, and so do I. But this
thing is out of our hands now police are dealing with it. All we can do is
cooperate with them.”
“So you won’t help me.”
“I’ll do anything that—”
“Will you or won’t you?”
“If you insist on putting it like that, no. I think it’s insane.”
“I see,” said Margaret. Stephen moved his arm so that his hand was
touching her shoulder. She stood up.
“There’s some cold meat and salad in the fridge,” she said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just that you can get yourself some lunch if you want to. I’m going
out.”
“Where to?”
“I think,” said Margaret, “that you had better get on with the sewing.
What will the Inspector say if it’s not done by this evening?” And before
he could answer, she walked out of the house.
As a matter of fact, she had no clear idea of where she intended to go.
Feeling herself let down by both Harlow and Stephen, she hadn’t thought
out her next move with any great coherence. All she knew was that it
must start at the Students’ Baby-Sitting Bureau.
As she walked toward Kensington High Street, Margaret considered
how she could get into the office of the Bureau without being recognized.
Dark glasses and a black beard, she thought to herself ruefully. Not
my line at all.
The window of a small hairdressing salon caught her eye. In the
center of it a severed wax head displayed a bouffant blonde wig and a
card announced that similar models in any color would gladly be made to
order for clients. For a moment it crossed her mind that here was a form
of disguise . . . but, no, it was ridiculous. She would simply look like
Margaret Cannington in a blonde wig. She walked on, her problem still
unsolved. As far as she knew, Fisher worked alone at the office. If she
could be sure that he was out of the way— She went into a phone booth
and dialed the number of the Bureau.
Fisher’s voice answered at once. “Students’ Baby-Sitting Bureau, can
I help you?”
False boards and wigs might be impractical, but Margaret could dis
guise her voice. Adopting a super-refined accent, she said, “I wonder if
you could tell me your charges per hour?”
“Certainly, madam.” Quickly and efficiently, Donald Fisher outlined
his prices.
“I see,” said Margaret loftily. “Would it be possible to engage a girl
for next Thursday evening, the twenty-third?”
“I’m terribly sorry, madam. We’re closed next week. In fact, we’re
officially closed now, but I just happened to be in the office when you
called. It’s Christmas, you see. All our girls are on holiday.”
“Oh, what a pity. Well, thank you all the same.”
“A pleasure, madam. I hope you’ll call us again in the New Year.”
Margaret rang off. Then she took a taxi to the corner of the street
where the Bureau had its office and went into the small ladylike tearoom
she remembered having noticed just across the road.
She was in luck. The window table was free. From it, she had a good
view of the Bureau’s front door, outside which the black Ford was parked.
She suddenly realized that she hadn’t eaten all day and was extremely
hungry. She ordered poached eggs and orange juice and sat down to wait.
She had finished the eggs and ordered another glass of orange juice
before anything interesting happened. Then the door of the Bureau’s
house opened and Donald Fisher came out. He was not alone. With him
was a girl—an attractive little thing with mouse brown hair and a tip-
tilted nose. His girl friend, Margaret presumed. It could hardly be a
baby-sitter or a client, since the office was closed. In fact, Margaret was
not very interested in the identity of the girl. The important thing was
that Donald Fisher had at last decided to go out to lunch, leaving the
coast clear.
Margaret paid her bill and walked to the doorway of the restaurant.
Fisher was still standing on the pavement, talking to the girl. Margaret
lingered in the shelter of the doorway, out of sight. At last the couple
over the road decided to part. Fisher got into his car and drove away.
The girl turned in the opposite direction and began to walk toward Ken
sington High Street. Margaret came out of the tearoom doorway, crossed
the street, and began walking up the hill toward the Bureau.
Then she saw to her annoyance that the girl had stopped. She was
standing looking earnestly into the window of a shop displaying Christ
mas decorations. The shop was only a few doors from the Bureau and
Margaret would have to pass it in order to reach her goal.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. She and the girl were strangers to each
other. There were other enterprises in the same house as the Bureau, any
of which Margaret might be visiting. She hoped the girl wouldn’t notice
her going into the house, but even if she did it shouldn’t matter. She was
abreast of the girl now, walking quickly and trying to appear unobtrusive.
Suddenly, with no warning, there was a sharp report, like a gunshot.
Instinctively, Margaret stopped and both she and the girl turned to locate
the source of the noise.
It was nothing—only a motorcycle backfiring. The girl readjusted the
big scarf that she wore round her neck, then began walking slowly down
the road. Margaret, however, stood transfixed. For in that brief moment
when the girl had turned round and the scarf had slipped, she had had an
excellent opportunity to study the girl’s profile and she had recognized it.
The girl was Paddy, the Irish medical student, the first of her baby-sitters.
And yet, she wasn’t. Something was different. Another couple of seconds
and she had the answer—Paddy had been a platinum blonde.
Suddenly the pieces of the jigsaw clicked together. Paddy, Sheila,
Grace . . . Donald Fisher and Freddy Barnstable . . . Lady Percival and the
Bassetts and the Students’ Flostel. . . Sheila Durrant in Dorset and Grace
Bridge in Hampstead and a dark girl at the Majestic Theater in a Persian-
lamb coat. It all fitted. Margaret felt a surge of panic. What was she to
do now? There was no time to contact Stephen or Inspector Harlow.
Paddy had reached the corner and in another moment she would be
engulfed in the crowds of Christmas shoppers in the High Street.
Margaret hurried down the road after her.
She had no idea how difficult it would be to shadow somebody. Her
impression of sleuthing had always been of the tracker taking pains to
avoid being detected by his quarry. She very soon realized that in Ken
sington High Street, in midafternoon a week before Christmas, the
problem was to keep her prey in sight. The pavements around the big
stores were crammed to suffocation point with shoppers. Harassed
women, many shepherding broods of children, purposeful men who had
slipped out of the office for ten stolen minutes and were determined not
to waste a second of them, idling teenagers drawn magnetically by the
crowds and the lights, bewildered foreigners questioning passersby, street
traders with hot chestnuts, balloons, jumping beans, and mechanical toys.
Every other minute a leviathan of a double-decker bus would draw up and
disgorge a milling mass of more shoppers, while absorbing a struggling
and exhausted throng of humanity and parcels.
Through the maelstrom, Paddy walked quickly and purposefully. She
was carrying a small square case made of red leather—the kind women
models use for their makeup and accessories—and the splash of red more
than once helped Margaret locate her where the crowds were especially
dense. Then, without warning, Paddy stopped and Margaret had no
option but to walk on past the girl, who was gazing, apparently fasci
nated, at a window-display of Christmas decorations and animated toys.
A few yards farther on, Margaret stopped and bought an unwanted
evening paper while Paddy still studied the Teddy Bears Band, the
Orbiting Space Rocket, and the Kute Kittens Ballet, all of which were
performing energetically, to the delight of the children on the pavement
outside the window.
Then Paddy seemed to make a sudden decision. She walked briskly
into the store.
Following her up the escalator to the Toy Fair on the second floor,
Margaret felt a pang of doubt. Suppose she was all wrong about Paddy?
Suppose she was just a nice innocent Irish student who did a bit of baby
sitting to make pin-money and had spent some of it on a blonde wig, just
for fun? Well, it was too late to turn back now. Margaret stopped and
pretended to examine a complicated computerized toy while Paddy made
her way to the counter displaying Christmas decorations. With no
hesitation, she made her purchase. It was a small holly wreath made of
shiny plastic. She slipped the parcel into her model-box and walked back
to the escalator.
It was at this point that Margaret nearly lost her, for somehow it
never occurred to her that Paddy would choose to go up rather than
down. Just in time, Margaret squeezed onto the mounting staircase. Up
and up the Irish girl went, through Model Gowns, Coats and Rainwear,
Millinery, Underwear and Corsets, Furniture and Carpets. At each floor
the crowd thinned out more and more. There isn’t a very brisk trade in
Furniture and Carpets the week before Christmas; nevertheless a good
many women remained faithful to the escalator as it mounted to its final
stage, and the reason soon became obvious. For the seventh floor, as well
as Accounts, Enquiries, and Telephones, housed the Ladies’ Powder
Room.
Margaret arrived at the head of the moving stairway just in time to
see Paddy’s red box disappear through the pink swing-doors.
Margaret looked around quickly, seeking cover. She dared not follow
Paddy into the cloakroom, and the arrowed sign to Enquiries and
Accounts directed customers through a solid wooden door. If she was to
keep the Ladies’ Powder Room in sight, she must stay here in the foyer.
But how could she keep out of sight? Then, with huge relief, she spotted
the row of telephone booths along the wall, each discreetly screened in
soundproof material. From one of them, she could not only keep watch
but she could ring Inspector Harlow. It was the perfect solution.
Delighted, she hurried over—and then stopped in dismay. She had over
looked one small snag. Every booth was occupied.
Even under ordinary circumstances, there are few more frustrating
experiences than waiting for a public telephone to become free: watching
the fortunate occupants as, with maddening slowness, they hunt for
numbers in the wrong telephone book, seeing in dumb-show the utterly
futile small talk and chatter of teenagers with all day to spare, observing
with sinking heart the deliberate lighting of a cigarette, the comfortable
settling of shoulders against the wall which are the preliminaries of a long
leisurely gossip. All this Margaret had to endure, together, with a sense
of utter vulnerability. She was trapped in the bare, circular foyer, where
at any moment Paddy might emerge and recognize her. No amount of
hiding behind her newspaper gave her the remotest feeling of security.
And, to crown it all, the chance of contacting Scotland Yard was growing
slimmer and slimmer . . .
After what seemed a lifetime, an ample lady in a tweed coat gathered
up an armful of parcels and came slowly out of one of the booths.
Margaret made a dash for it and established herself inside only a fraction
of a second ahead of a woman who had only just come up on the
escalator. The money was ready in her hand. Feverishly, she dialed
Scotland Yard. “Inspector Harlow, please. Quickly. It’s very important.
Tell him it’s Mrs. Cannington.”
There was an endless pause. Then the voice said, “I’m afraid he’s just
gone out to lunch. If you’d like to—”
And at that moment, Paddy came out of the Powder Room. Or
rather, the red leather model-box came out of it, for it was this which
Margaret recognized. A girl with mouse-colored hair, a navy-blue
raincoat, and a scarf had gone in but out came a brunette with long
straight hair, wearing a sand-colored coat and no scarf. Only the red box
remained constant.
Of course, it was perfectly simple. A reversible raincoat, of the kind
that could be bought almost anywhere, a black wig carried in the box,
now replaced by the scarf. Yet the transformation was so complete that
Margaret was horrified to realize how nearly she had let the girl slip by
unrecognized. She slammed down the receiver and resumed the chase.
From then on it was quite straightforward. Paddy took the escalator
to the ground floor, went out into the street, and hailed a taxi from the
rank in the middle of the road. Margaret, close behind her, took the next
one—and heard herself uttering the immortal and unlikely words,
“Driver, follow that cab!”
The driver, a little man with a face like a walnut-shell, grinned
broadly. “Wot’s in it, then, lady? The Crown jools?”
Margaret forced herself to laugh. “No, just a friend of mine. I’ve a
date with her, but I don’t know her address. So mind you don’t lose her.”
The driver shot her a swift, shrewd look in his mirror, but said
nothing. The cab in front pulled away from the rank and headed for
Hyde Park Corner.
It wasn’t a long drive. The leading taxi negotiated the complicated
arrangements at Hyde Park Corner and turned up Park Lane, then cut
across to the far side of Oxford Street, took a couple of right and left
turns, and pulled up outside the main doors of an enormous modern
block of service apartments. Margaret’s driver began to slow up behind
it. She leaned forward and spoke urgently through the partition. “No,
driver. Don’t stop. Pull up round the corner.”
The driver did as he was told, making no comment. As Margaret
jumped out and pressed the fare, plus a generous tip, into his hand he
remarked, “Another friend of yours, eh?” —but he said it to himself for
she had already gone. The driver sighed. He had been about to draw her
attention to the fact that another car had, in his opinion, been following
him. But it was none of his business and he drove off.
There were quite a number of people in the hallway of the building,
most of them returning Christmas shoppers laden with gaily wrapped
parcels. In the small crowd waiting for the two elevators Margaret could
see Paddy’s dark head. She made a quick decision. She knew that she
would lose her quarry at once in this rabbit-warren of furnished
apartments if she didn’t at least establish which floor the girl was bound
for. The risk was considerable, but she had to take it.
Thanking her stars for the evening paper, which she still clutched, she
boarded the same crowded elevator as Paddy, hiding herself in the
farthest corner, behind a man who was carrying a small Christmas tree.
Then she opened her paper and buried her nose in it, peeping round the
edge at every stop. First floor, second, third, fourth, fifth—the elevator
was emptying fast, but still Paddy rode upward. Sixth, seventh, eighth—
by the ninth floor, there were only the two of them left. The automatic
doors slid open, and Paddy stood back, with a polite gesture, waving Mar
garet to leave the elevator first. She showed no sign of recognition. There
was nothing for it but to obey, keeping her face as well shielded as she
could. In the corridor, Margaret started to walk to the left. After a few
steps, she risked a quick look behind her, but Paddy was nowhere to be
seen. The elevator doors had closed again, and Paddy had startled on the
downward ride, having neatly ditched her pursuer.
Furious, Margaret ran back to the elevator. The illuminated indicator
showed that it was traveling down non-stop. The colored lights flickered
on and off. Eight, seven, six, five, four—then, at three, it stopped long
enough to take somebody on or let somebody off. There was no telling
which, but it was the only indication Margaret had. Urgently, she pressed
the button for the second elevator, which arrived a few seconds later with
a passenger. Within a minute, Margaret was standing on the third floor,
wondering which way to turn. She didn’t have long to wait. While she
stood there undecided, the other elevator arrived, traveling upward. The
door opened and Donald Fisher came out.
He looked at her without surprise. Then he said, “May I direct you,
Mrs. Cannington? You’re looking for No. 340.”
Margaret said nothing. The numbness had come back, and she felt
like a zombie. Fisher said, “To the left, Mrs. Cannington. Quickly,
please, I don’t like hanging about.” His hand was in his coat pocket and
Margaret could see the outline of something hard grasped between his
fingers. She turned left along the corridor.
At once, Fisher came up beside her. She could feel the gun in her ribs
now, propelling her to walk faster. A turn to the left, another to the right
—Margaret tried to remember the way back through this green-carpeted
maze. At last Fisher stopped outside a door marked 340. He pulled a
key from his pocket, opened the door, and pushed Margaret in ahead of
him.
It was a furnished studio apartment, a replica of the hundreds of
others in the block. Yellowing, cube-shaped furniture grown shabby from
continual use by strangers; two divans made up to impersonate sofas in
red-hessian covers; an alcove for a kitchen; a shower.
Margaret saw all this, and yet did not see it. All she registered was
that the girl called Paddy was sitting on one of the divans, unwrapping
the holly wreath—and that on the same divan Emma was lying sprawled
in a deep, unnatural sleep.
She managed to say, “Emma,” and then she was on her knees beside
her daughter, holding her, kissing her, begging her to wake. But Emma
did not wake.
Paddy stood up. “She followed me from Kensington,” she said. “I
thought I’d shaken her off.”
“Well, you hadn’t.” Fisher’s voice was light and very cold. Margaret
recognized it. She had heard him use it several times. “What in hell
made you go buying Christmas decorations, for heaven’s sake?”
“She keeps asking for a holly wreath, whenever she’s awake.” Paddy
was defensive. “I thought it would keep her quiet. People will start
asking questions if she cries any more.”
“There’s a perfectly good way to stop her from crying,” said Fisher.
“Not if you want to keep her alive,” said Paddy. “You can’t give her
much more of that stuff. It’s too strong for a kid.”
“That’s my business.” Fisher transferred his attention to Margaret.
“You’re wasting your breath trying to wake her. She’s had a good dose.
She’ll be out for some time, thank God.” He looked at Margaret again.
Then he shook his head. “You must be crazy.”
Clutching Emma, Margaret said nothing.
“On your own, aren’t you? You thought you’d be cleverer than
Cannington. And now we’ve got you. We’ve got the child, and we’ve got
you.” He paused and lit a cigarette. When he spoke again, it was in the
attractive, wry-mouthed way that had made such a favorable impression
on Margaret when she first visited the Baby-Sitting Bureau. Now it
didn’t sound so appealing.
“We’ve got you,” he said again. “The question is—what are we going
to do with you?”
There was a long silence. Then Fisher said, “This creates a new
situation, which we must appraise very carefully. In one way you’re an
asset to us. In another, you’re a liability. I hope I’m not boring you.”
Margaret shook her head, dumbly. “Let me explain. To have both you
and the child puts me in a very strong position vis-a-vis your husband.
On the other hand, you are now in a position to identify both my wife—”
he nodded toward Paddy “ —and myself, and to set the police on us. You
must see that it is virtually impossible for me to let you go alive.”
Margaret found her voice. “I swear,” she said, “I swear I won’t tell
the police. Just let me take Emma home and you’ll hear no more about
it. Not a word. Ever. I swear it.”
“My dear Mrs. Cannington, you must think me very gullible. Even
if you didn’t go to the police, your husband would.”
“The police couldn’t force me to—”
“I think, Mrs. Cannington, that your attitude might be rather
different once you were safely home again and under police protection.
They would point out the danger to other innocent mothers and children.
Your duty to the community, your obligation to society, and all the rest
of the claptrap.”
“I promise you—”
“And if by chance the police didn’t convince you, your husband
would. D’you think he’d allow you to keep your mouth shut? Of course
he wouldn’t.” Fisher laughed. “I have made quite a study of Mr.
Stephen Cannington.”
“Stephen and I are—” Margaret began, then stopped.
“Oh, I know all about that. You have separated and you will shortly
divorce him so that he can marry Juliette Dean. Or will you? I don’t
think you have quite made up your mind.” Fisher was speaking almost
to himself. “Yes. Yes, that’s a very interesting thought. Stephen
Cannington doesn’t care about you any more. I’d put it even more
strongly. It would be very convenient for him to have you out of the way.
You do agree, don’t you?”
“Stephen would never—”
“Oh, he’d never risk the child’s life. He would do anything to save
her—and to have her to himself. Anything at all, Mrs. Cannington. And
I’d have no objection to sending Emma back to him if the terms were
right. Emma has never seen me, and she’s only seen Paddy in a black wig.
I think it suits her rather better than either the blonde or the red one,
don’t you? However, that’s neither here nor there. The point is that a
four-year-old who has been doped for several days isn’t going to help the
police much. No, I think I could do a deal with Mr. Stephen Cannington.
It’s a nuisance, mind you. I have no desire to kill you. It’s dangerous and
messy. But you do see that I’ve no alternative, don’t you?”
“You’re not serious, Donald!” Paddy said. “You wouldn’t!”
“Nothing for it, I’m afraid, love,” said Fisher. “Unpleasant but
unavoidable.”
Paddy had gone very pale. She began to cry, “You promised nobody
would get hurt,” she sobbed. “You swore to me, Donald. You—”
Margaret said, “He’s bluffing. He’d never be so crazy as to kill me.
He doesn’t want to face a murder charge.”
“Certainly I don’t want to,” said Fisher equably. “Nor a kidnapping
charge. Nor do I want to lose the ten thousand pounds which will be
waiting at the Superdrome Cinema this evening. I presume that is all
organized?”
Margaret’s throat felt dry.
“Of course it is.”
“No double-crossing?”
“We didn’t double-cross you the first time, did we?”
Fisher appeared to be meditating. At last he said, “Naturally, with
this new situation, different arrangements will have to be made. Which
reminds me—Cannington may be getting worried about you. I think we
should telephone him. I also think we should give him the opportunity
of making the final choice.”
“What do you mean?” Margaret asked.
Fisher was smiling, with secret and frightening enjoyment. “You’ll
soon know,” he said.
On the divan, Emma still slept, breathing deeply. Fisher dragged her
small, unconscious body unceremoniously to one side, sat down beside
her and picked up the telephone. Fascinated, Margaret watched him dial
her number. “Cannington.” She could hear Stephen’s voice on the other
end of the line.
Fisher switched on his mock American accent. “Ah, Mr. Cannington.
How are you keeping? Everything organized for tonight?”
Margaret couldn’t hear Stephen’s reply. Fisher went on. “It occurred
to me that you might be wondering where your wife had got to. There’s
no need to worry. She’s here with me.”
Margaret heard a sharp exclamation from the telephone.
Fisher grimaced. “There’s no need to be abusive, Mr. Cannington.
Your wife has behaved rather foolishly, I agree, but you’ll be able to
discuss that with her when you see her—I hope. After we have collected
the money tonight, and after three clear days have elapsed—and on the
understanding that the police are not informed, naturally—neither now
nor later— Please don’t shout, Mr. Cannington. Yes, the little girl is—
not exactly well, perhaps, the sedatives don’t seem to be suiting her, but
it’s nothing serious. I hope very much that she’ll stand up to the next
three days, but—”
Margaret heard herself shouting, “Don’t listen to him, Stephen!
Don’t—”
Fisher took no notice, but Paddy was on her feet in a flash. Before
Margaret knew what was happening one of Paddy’s wool-clad arms was
across her nose and mouth, stifling her. One of her arms, pinioned
behind her back, screamed in silent agony and as it was twisted Margaret
felt sure that it must break. In her ear, Paddy said, “Quiet now, or I will
break it.” Margaret managed to nod, and the unbearable pressure
relaxed.
Fisher was saying, “Yes, I’d very much like to send Emma home
tonight. Frankly, she needs some medical attention that we can’t give
her, for obvious reasons. It would be rather more expensive, of course.
Say fifteen thousand. Surely you can raise another five? What about the
night safe at your office? . . . There’s just one snag, though. It may be a
little more difficult to return Mrs. Cannington to you . . . No, no, I
meant tonight or any other night . . . Now, please don’t take that
attitude, it won’t get you anywhere . . .
“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that myself, but if you insist,
you might call it a choice between them. If you were already divorced, it
would be rather different, wouldn’t it? But if she contested the divorce,
after all, and decided to hang onto Emma, your money would have been
wasted in a way, wouldn’t it? Whereas for just fifteen thousand pounds,
you can have Emma back tonight and no further worry about— Good,
I’m glad you’ve grasped what I mean. Now, let me see, what’s the time?
Half past four already. Quite dark outside, I can give you ten minutes to
make your decision, Mr. Cannington . . . Oh, dear me, no, I’ll call you—
in exactly ten minutes.”
He replaced the receiver very quietly and turned to Margaret, who
was nursing her bruised arm. He did not refer to her attempted outburst,
but merely said, “Poor Mr. Cannington. Quite a dilemma for him, I’m
afraid. Still, he wouldn’t have got where he is without making a few un
pleasant decisions, would he? I feel sure he will be able to make up his
mind quite quickly.”
Margaret said, “May I sit beside Emma, please?”
“But of course.” Fisher stood up, leaving her his place on the divan.
Margaret gathered her daughter in her arms and buried her face in her
brown hair. Fisher said, “I’m really very sorry, Mrs. Cannington, but it
was your own fault. You must admit that.”
Margaret lifted her head. “I don’t believe you ever intended to give
her back to us,” she said. “You were going to kill her.”
“That’s not true!” said Paddy.
Fisher said nothing for several moments. Then he took a deep breath
and said, “That’s a hypothetical question, isn’t it, Mrs. Cannington? One
which I am not prepared to answer. You’ll never know, I’m afraid, just
what I planned to do. However, if you really believe that I was going to
kill the child, it may be some consolation to think that by dying yourself
you are saving her life.” After a moment, he added, “In all probability.”
“Won’t you even promise me that much?”
“I never make promises, Mrs. Cannington.” Fisher looked at his
watch. “Five minutes to go. I don’t suppose Mr. Cannington is finding
it easy to make up his mind. Or perhaps he’s merely concerned with
raising the extra money.”
Margaret stood up. “Please, Mr. Fisher,” she said, “shoot me now.
Quickly. I’m not very brave, and I don’t want to make a fuss, but if you
can tell Stephen that I’m dead already, then he won’t have to make that
decision, which is a decision no man should ever be asked to make. At
least I can spare him that.”
Fisher looked surprised. “You don’t want to wait—” he consulted his
watch “—just another three minutes, until I phone him? After all, he may
have decided that you are more important to him than Emma is.”
“No,” said Margaret. “I don’t want to wait.”
Fisher smiled, and Margaret thought that she had never seen anything
so evil. “I think,” he said, “that you’re afraid.”
“Of course I’m afraid.”
“I mean,” he said, “you’re afraid that he won’t choose you. You dare
not wait for his decision. You’d rather die not knowing, believing that
perhaps he might still care enough for you—”
Margaret said nothing. She could not, for there was a grain of truth
in his words. He went on, “Eight minutes. That’s long enough. I’ll ring
him.”
It was very quiet in the little apartment, and very warm. From
outside the windows came the distant roar of traffic and, as it grew
darker, a soft white curtain muffled the sky. It had begun to snow. As
Fisher dialed, each tiny click and whirr of the apparatus sounded
unnaturally loud—but when the telephone was answered, the voice at the
other end was so subdued that Margaret couldn’t hear a word. She could
only follow Fisher’s side of the conversation.
“Mr. Cannington? I think you will find that the ten minutes are up
. . . Well, let’s say nine, I’m in rather a hurry . . . No, nothing has
changed, my position is still the same, and I trust that you have made up
your— You can’t? . . . No, I’m afraid I can’t give you any more time . . .
Surely the night safe and the petty cash between them— No? Well,
that’s too bad, isn’t it? Still, twelve thousand five hundred is not too bad,
I suppose—it shows you’ve really tried and we shall have to be satisfied
with i t . . .
“So you’ve definitely decided. That’s very sensible. You don’t want
to take any chances with Emma’s health, and it would kill two birds with
one stone as it were . . . Yes, perhaps that was an unfortunate simile, I
apologize . . . No, I don’t think she will. I think she was expecting it. . .
Well, that’s settled then.
“Now, we must make plans. The cinema scheme is canceled, of
course . . . Why should you be surprised? My dear Cannington, you’ve
certainly informed the police by now. You didn’t think I’d be fool enough
to repeat the same trick twice, did you? Now, listen carefully. The
Students’ Hostel in Wilberforce Square is making a collection of second
hand clothes for the Church Jumble Sale—Never mind how I know. You
will wrap up your wife’s coat with some other clothes and take them over
to No. 13. Mark the parcel on the outside with the one word ‘Jumble’ in
red ink. You have a red pen? . . . Good. Do that at once. Have no fear,
we shall get the coat, and the money with it. Oh, and by the way, your
movements are under close observation, so don’t try to— Good . . . Good.
I thought you’d be sensible. Well, now, Mr. Cannington, I think that’s
all you need to know. Provided that the money is there, Emma will be
home before the night is out. I can’t give you any more details, just stay
at home—in Wilberforce Square, I mean—and wait. Goodbye, Mr.
Cannington, and may I congratulate you on a very sensible decision.”
He put down the receiver and turned to Margaret. His handsome
face was gravel, but there was a sort of unholy enjoyment in his grey eyes.
“I fear,” he said, “that the decision went against you, Mrs. Cannington.”
Slowly and gently, he took the revolver out of his pocket. “It was he who
decided. Not I. Not I.”
Margaret couldn’t take her eyes off the revolver. The lamplight
glinted on the chilly metal as Fisher checked over the mechanism—it was
wickedly hypnotic and Margaret had to wrench her attention from it with
an effort. She said, “Promise me you’ll take Emma back tonight.”
He did not look up from the gun. “You heard what I said.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
“Supposing—” Margaret thought of Juliette sewing bundles of cut-up
newspaper into the blue coat. “Supposing the money isn’t—”
Fisher did look up at that. “Isn’t what?”
The girl called Paddy suddenly said, “We’ll take the child back any
how. We’ve got to be rid of her. She won’t last much longer under these
drugs, poor little rat.”
“It was kind of you to buy her the holly wreath,” said Margaret.
Fisher stood up. “Well,” he said, “there’s no sense prolonging the
agony. Fortunately, these apartments are well sound-proofed.” The gun
came up and there was a deafening explosion of sound. Instinctively,
Margaret flung herself onto the floor on her face and lay there, waiting for
the coup de grace. And then she became aware of a curious fact. The noise
was continuing, and it was not gunfire. There was a tremendous
splintering crash, and then another—and Margaret lifted her head to see
the door of the apartment flying open under the blows of a pick-axe.
All at once the room was swarming with blue uniforms. Men were
shouting and Paddy was screaming. Only Donald Fisher seemed quite
still and silent, like the eye of a hurricane. With only one thought in her
mind, Margaret crawled to the divan. She managed to get her arms
around Emma before the child stirred, writhed uneasily, and at last
opened her eyes.
“It’s all right, darling,” said Margaret. “Mummy’s here.”
“Mummy,” said Emma, very feebly. Then she fell asleep again.
Suddenly, a door slammed and the bedlam stopped. Margaret felt a
hand on her shoulder and looked up to see the room empty except for
Chief Inspector Harlow, who was looking down on her paternally.
“Well, now, Mrs. Cannington,” he said, “that all ended very satis
factorily, I must say, although we had a few awkward moments, and I
daresay you did, too.”
Margaret nodded, and swallowed.
“So this is the little girl,” Harlow went on. “Pretty as a picture, if I
may say so. The doctors at the Children’s Hospital are waiting to take a
look at her. We’ve a car at the back door, so I suggest we get along there
right away. I’ll take the young lady.” He helped Margaret to her feet and
then stooped to pick Emma up in his solid arms. As he walked with her
to the door, his large feet trampled the plastic holly wreath into the
cheap, worn carpet.
+++
Outside, it was still snowing. Several young constables were waiting at
the back door of the building to escort Margaret and Harlow through the
flashing ranks of reporters and photographers to the black police car. As
soon as the door had closed behind the Inspector, the limousine moved
off down the dark wet street through the curtain of snow.
The hospital, with its dazzling cleanliness and brisk, kind efficiency,
seemed quite unreal to Margaret. Inspector Harlow vanished after
handing Emma over to the care of the nursing staff. Then Emma was
whisked away, while Margaret herself was given a quick check-over, some
sedatives, and a friendly chat—not one word of which she could recall
afterward—by a pleasant young doctor. She was then given a cup of tea
and asked if she would like to lie down while she waited to hear the
verdict on Emma. She supposed that she must have slept, for though it
didn’t seem very long, before the nurse came back when she looked at her
watch she saw it was already nine o’clock, so that she and Emma must
have been in the hospital for four hours. She felt much better.
“I’ve good news for you, Mrs. Cannington,” announced the nurse.
“Your little girl can go home with you this evening. You’ll need to keep
her in bed for a couple of days, but after that she’ll be as right as rain.
We’ve contacted your local doctor, and he’ll be waiting at your house to
see Emma to bed. How do you feel yourself?”
“I feel fine,” said Margaret.
“Splendid. Then I expect you’d like to get your coat on and be off
home with your little girl.”
“Could you be very kind and call me a taxi?”
The nurse beamed. “A taxi? Dear me, that won’t be necessary. We
were going to send you in an ambulance, but your friend the Chief
Inspector has insisted on the privilege of driving you home himself in a
police car. You’ll be going in style, don’t worry.”
Harlow was waiting in the corridor and once again insisted on
carrying Emma—who was still sleeping—to the car. Once inside, he
handed her gently into Margaret’s waiting embrace. Then, as the car
moved off, he said, “I thought you’d like a full explanation of all that
happened, Mrs. Cannington. As far as we’ve been able to reconstruct it,
that is.”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “Yes, I would.”
“Well,” said Harlow, “for a start, you owe a big thank you to your
friend, Mr. Barnstable. He almost certainly saved your life.”
“Freddy did? But how?”
“Well, it seems he was on his way to visit you this afternoon when he
caught sight of you in Kensington High Street. And the next thing he saw
was the dark-haired girl he’d seen wearing your coat at the theater. She
got into a cab, and you jumped into the next one and set off in pursuit.
This intrigued Mr. Barnstable. He was very worried about you and
suspected you were in some sort of trouble that you hadn’t told him
about. So he turned his car around and followed you. He tracked you as
far as the block of apartments and then we took over.”
“You did?” Slowly, reality was beginning to come back to Margaret
and with it, curiosity. “How did you manage that?”
Harlow looked a little abashed, “I admit we had the wrong end of the
stick, Mrs. Cannington,” he said. “You see, my men were tracking two
suspects. Two wrong suspects.”
“Who?” Margaret asked, her sense of reality slipping again.
“Grace Bridge and Freddy Barnstable. So it was quite a procession
that came up from Kensington—you following the Fisher woman, Mr.
Barnstable following you, and my man following him. Naturally, young
Burnaby—that’s my detective—recognized you as well. At the apartment
block, Barnstable seemed undecided what to do next—he didn’t get there
in time to see which apartment you’d gone to. Burnaby reported back to
me at once, and I told him to pull Barnstable in for questioning right
away, to find why he’d followed you. He reminded us about the dark
haired girl he’d seen at the theater—and that convinced us he was
innocent and that we were close behind the kidnappers.
“Then Mr. Cannington reported from Wilberforce Square that he’d
had a call from the kidnappers, claiming they’d got you as well as the
child, and that they were going to ring back in ten minutes. That was our
real break. You see, you can’t trace dialed automatic calls, as Fisher well
knew, but once we knew the call came from that building, it was merely
a question of finding from which apartment it came—and by the grace of
God, the building has a switchboard through which outgoing calls pass.
The units don’t have individual telephone lines, you see. When you lift
the receiver, there’s a tiny pause before the dial tone while the operator
in the basement connects you to one of the building’s outside lines. In
that ten-minute respite we managed to get our chaps in control of the
switchboard so we were easily able to trace the second call to No. 340.
After that, it was just a question of getting Mr. Cannington to keep Fisher
talking until we could get to the door of the apartment and break it
down.”
“Who is he? Fisher, I mean?”
“Who? Hard to say, really. An ambitious young man, quite brilliant
in some ways, but antisocial. He’s been in trouble before, stealing cars.
The sort of Clever Charlie who thinks society owes him a living,” added
Harlow. “The girl is a medical student. Or was. He married her last
year and they set up this Baby-Sitting Bureau. Seems they’ve been
making a very good thing out of it.”
“Baby-sitting, you mean?”
“No, no. That was just chicken-feed. Blackmail was their line. All
very discreet, but a baby-sitter can get to know a lot of things. The actual
baby-sitting business was very efficiently run, of course, and the blackmail
victims were few and far between, and carefully selected. However, they’d
been after a big kidnapping job right from the start, building up a
reputation among the smart set, waiting to be asked to sit with the right
baby. Your little girl happened to be the one. It was all very carefully
planned.”
“Those wigs,” said Margaret.
“That’s right. They picked Grace Bridge as the perfect suspect, the
ideal red herring—living in a hostel on the same Square as your house,
leaving the hostel a week before Christmas to go abroad. It seemed
perfect. Of course, they didn’t realize that Miss Bridge was a very
wealthy young lady or they wouldn’t have used her. Nor did they
imagine that her brother and yours would be friends. Bit of bad luck,
that—for them.
“But you see how cleverly it was done. The first Wednesday the
Fisher girl came to your house herself, wearing her blonde wig, to spy out
the lie of the land. The next two weeks Fisher sent you Sheila Durrant
of the striking red hair. Meanwhile, Mrs. Fisher—in her red wig—intro
duced herself to Grace Bridge at the hostel as Sheila Durrant. Throwing
suspicion yet another step away from herself, as it were. And when a girl
has really remarkable red hair, as I gather Miss Durrant has, well, it’s the
first thing people mention when describing her. You and Grace Bridge
discussed Sheila Durrant, didn’t you? And it never occurred to you that
you weren’t talking about the same person.”
“Actually, it did occur to me,” said Margaret. “Grace said that Sheila
had a lilting voice, but I knew she had a very precise way of speaking,
Probably as a drama student—”
Harlow was not listening. He was in full spate. “On the actual day
of the kidnapping, the real Durrant was lured off to the country by a
faked telegram and the red-wigged Paddy—whom Grace Bridge knew as
Durrant—played her little scheme and got into your house. And then we
come to the second reason why your child was such a perfect victim for
Fisher. He could actually see into your house from his aunt’s front
room.”
Margaret sat forward. “That’s not true. Lady Percival told me she
wasn’t his aunt, and she wouldn’t—”
“Lady Percival? Dear me, no.” Harlow chuckled at the very idea.
“Then—Mrs. Bassett—?”
“No, no, no. Fisher’s aunt is Miss Taylor, Lady Percival’s companion.
Lady Percival is a cripple, as you know, and lives entirely on the ground
floor. Miss Taylor has her own sitting-room on the first floor above the
drawing-room in the front of the house, with a telephone extension in it.
That’s where Fisher phoned from the first time, and where he kept watch.
When he couldn’t be there himself, he set poor Miss Taylor to watching
No. 16 and reporting your movements. She didn’t know what it was all
about, of course. She idolizes Fisher—she never married and he’s her
only nephew. Sad in a way,” the Chief Inspector conceded with a sigh.
“I’m afraid she’ll take it very hard when she learns the truth. Very hard
indeed. Still, she’s not as deeply involved as she might have been, which
is a blessing.”
“Well, this latest scheme of Fisher’s for including the coat and money
in a bundle for Lady Percival’s Jumble Sale. Miss Taylor would have been
sent to the hostel and ordered to pick up that parcel and bring it to
Fisher. That would have put her in a very awkward position.” Harlow
took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked at Margaret. “Why
are you smiling, Mrs. Cannington?”
“It’s just,” said Margaret, “that it’s ironic that all my suspicions of
Donald Fisher were founded on the only true thing he ever said to me.”
“The only true thing?”
“That he’d been visiting his aunt. It was the solemn truth. But I
thought it was a lie and it sent me off on a wild-goose chase—”
“Not wild-goose at all, Mrs. Cannington. We might never have
caught them without you, and we’re very grateful. Ah—here we are.”
The big-dark car pulled up noiselessly on the white carpet that
covered Wilberforce Square. The snow was falling under the yellow
lamplight in big fluffy flakes, like cotton wool. There was one car outside
the house—a modest saloon Margaret recognized as belonging to her local
doctor. So Stephen had gone.
The front door of the house opened at once and the doctor came out
to meet them. He took Emma from Harlow’s arms and said, “I’ll take her
upstairs to bed. If you’d like to come, along, Mrs. Cannington . . .”
Chief Inspector Harlow said, with a touch of awkwardness, “Well, I’ll
be off now, madam. Of course, we’ll be in touch in the morning, but for
the moment—well, you and your husband will want—that is, you won’t
want—well, goodnight, then.” He backed out of the hall into the
darkness.
Margaret followed the doctor upstairs. Soon Emma was safely tucked
into her own bed. The doctor pronounced her fit and well, prescribed rest
and quiet and a mild diet, shook Margaret warmly by the hand, and con
gratulated her on the happy outcome of such a dreadful affair. Then he
took his leave.
Margaret listened to his footsteps clattering cheerfully down the stairs
and the click of the front door as it closed behind him. Then there was
silence—the silence she had been dreading. Somewhere in the distance
outside, children’s voices began to sing “Silent Night,” accentuating the
stillness inside the house. Margaret sat down on the stairs and wept.
The children were still singing when the key turned in the latch and
the front door opened. Margaret lifted her tear-stained face and saw that
Stephen was standing there. He looked strangely tentative, almost shy.
He was holding a bulky parcel in both his hands. He said, “Margaret. . .”
Margaret pulled herself together.
“She’s all right, Stephen. Emma’s all right. I expect you want to see
her. The doctor said—”
Stephen said, “Of course 1 want to see her. But I want to see you
first.”
“Oh, Stephen, not tonight. I can’t face a row tonight. I’m too tired.
You can say all you like in the morning. Or get your lawyers to say it.
Just leave me in peace tonight.”
“You don’t think—you don’t imagine I’m angry with you?”
“Of course you are. You must be. And quite right, too. But just for
tonight—”
“Margaret Cannington,” said Stephen, “you are a goose.”
Margaret looked at him, wondering. It was a year since he had used
that affectionately insulting epithet.
He said, “I’ve brought you something. Been all over London to get
it. That’s why I wasn’t here when you got back.”
He thrust the clumsily wrapped parcel into her hands. “Well, go on.
Open it.”
“What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
Margaret pulled away the paper. It was a holly wreath. A real one,
with dark shining leaves and big red berries.
“It wouldn’t be Christmas if we didn’t have a holly wreath on the
front door,” said Stephen. “Tomorrow I’ll get the paper chains and the
mistletoe for the hall. And a Christmas tree.”
“Stephen,” said Margaret, a little uncertainty, “it’s all over now.
There’s no need to—”
Stephen smiled, and it was the old Stephen. Then, with a touch of
the new Stephen, he said, “For God’s sake, don’t hound me into a corner
and make me apologize on my hands and knees, because I’m damned if
I will. And I still say that you can be a pretty awkward person to live
with. But can’t you take a hint, woman?
“Or,” he added, very seriously, “are you really trying to throw me
out?”
Ten minutes later, the carol singers were belting out “Good King
Wenceslas” just outside the front door of No. 16, but to their disgust
nobody came out. Instead, the lights in the house went out, one by one
by one until only the little lantern over the door remained lit.
Woman’s Mirror, 1965

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THE McCONE FILES

By Marcia Muller
Introduction by the Author
The contemporary female private eye story began in 1977 when

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about Sharon McCone, investigator for the All Souls legal co-op.
One of the most humane and sympathetic of all current sleuths,
McCone investigates cases which make a difference not only to
her clients but to the world about her. The McCone Files contains
the thirteen previously published short stories about McCone as
well as two written specially for this volume. Jon L. Breen wrote
in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, “Of the leading triumvirate of
female private-eye authors . . . Muller is the most skilled at the
short story form, offering fully-plotted puzzles and a real feel for
The City.” William L. DeAndrea said in The Armchair Detective,
“The stories are superb . . . I had forgotten just how build-a-
character, make-the-reader-care good Muller is.” Cover by Carol
Heyer. Signed, limited clothbound edition, out of print. Trade
paperback (ISBN: 1-885941-05-6), $15.00.
THE DARINGS OF THE RED ROSE
By Margery Allingham
Introduction by B. A. Pike
The lights are dim and a silent figure, in a diaphanous white
gown, sneaks toward the safe where the famous diamond, The
Seven Stars, is kept. Softly the safe door opens, the diamond is
removed, and the figure slips away, leaving only a red rosebud
behind. Betty Connolly appears to be a Bright Young Thing
interested only in the debutante world of 1930s London, but she
has a secret life. In the guise of the mysterious crook, The Red
Rose, she strikes fear into the cold hearts of eight financiers who
ruined her Lancashire town. The book contains eight newly
discovered stories by the creator of the classic sleuth Albert
Campion. Cover by Deborah Miller. Trade paperback (ISBN: 1-
885941-01-3) $15.00.
DIAGNOSIS: IMPOSSIBLE
THE PROBLEMS OF DR. SAM HAWTHORNE
By Edward D. Hoch
“Satan himself would be proud of his ingenuity,” John Dickson
Carr said of Edward D. Hoch, today’s major exponent of the
Challenge-to-the-Reader detective story. The former President of
the Mystery Writers of America and an Edgar-Award winner,
Hoch is author of many classics featuring New England country
doctor Sam Hawthorne, who in the 1920s and 1930s specialized
in locked rooms and other impossible crimes. Diagnosis: Impossible
begins with the tale of a horse-and-buggy that vanishes inside a
covered bridge and continues with eleven other ingenious and
atmospheric stories. Elleiy Queen’s Mystery Magazine commented,
“If there was ever a short-story detective who deserved the
permanence of book form, it’s this New England doctor.” Cover
by Carol Heyer. Signed, limited clothbound edition (ISBN: 1-
885941-03-X), $38.00. Trade paperback (ISBN: 1-885941-02-
1), $15.00.
SPADEWORK: A COLLECTION
OF “NAMELESS DETECTIVE” STORIES
By Bill Pronzini
Introduction by Marcia Muller; Afterword by the Author
The recipient of The Eye for Lifetime Achievement from the

Private Eye Writers of America, Bill Pronzini is one of the grand
masters of the detective fiction, and his Nameless private inves
tigator continues the Hammett-Chandler-Macdonald tradition of
lone investigators down Mean Streets. Yet Nameless has never
succumbed to the world-weary cynicism of too many fictional
sleuths, nor the penchant to shoot before thinking, and his cases
are filled with twists, turns, and solid clueing. Spadework contains
15 previously uncollected stories, including two appearing in
print for the first time. Cover by Carol Heyer. Signed, limited
clothbound edition (ISBN: 1-885941-06-4), $40.00. Trade
paperback (ISBN: 1-885941-07-2), $16.00.
MY MOTHER, THE DETECTIVE

THE COMPLETE “MOM” SHORT STORIES
By James Yaffe
Almost thirty years ago, Frederic Dannay (half of “Ellery Queen”)

asked “when will there be a collection of James Yaffe’s stories
about Mom, the Bronx armchair ‘mayvin’?” In recent years,
Yaffe has brought Mom to Colorado in four novels, but My
Mother, The Detective is the first collection of the classic short
stories. The Mom stories are simon-pure studies in ratiocination
combined with a marvelous evocation of time and place. Each
Friday evening, a young police officer brings his cases to Mom,
who solves them over the roast chicken and chopped liver. Cover
by Carol Heyer. Forthcoming in signed, limited clothbound
edition (ISBN: 1-885941-10-2) and in trade paperback (ISBN:
1-885941-11-0).
Currently planned are collections of short stories by William L.
DeAndrea, Margaret Maron, Christianna Brand and Ed Gorman,
as well as second volumes by Edward D. Hoch and Bill Pronzini.
Other books are under consideration.
Crippen & Landru offers discounts to individuals and institutions who

place standing ordersfor its publications. Please writefor details.
Who Killed Father Christmas? And Other Unseasonable Demises by Patricia
Moyes is set in 10 point Arrus BT. The book is printed on 50 pound
Glatfelter supple-opaque paper. The cover design is by Deborah Miller.
Thomson-Shore, Inc., Dexter, Michigan printed and bound the first
edition comprised of approximately one thousand, four hundred copies
in trade paperback, notch-bound, and three hundred fifty copies sewn in
Roxite-B cloth, signed and numbered by the author. Copies one through
two hundred thirty-three contain a tipped-in original or carbon typescript
page from the author’s files of a story in this book; copies two hundred
thirty-four through three hundred fifty contain a tipped-in carbon type
script page from the author’s files of the Superintendent Henry Tibbett
novel Black Girl, White Girl. Who Killed Father Christmas? was published
in September 1996 by Crippen & Landru, Publishers, Norfolk, Virginia.
1
1011$
Mystery $ 1 6 .0 0
VILLAGE VILLAINIES!
CARIBBEAN CRIMES!
HOLIDAY HOMICIDES!
W arm th . U rb an e ch arm . C le v e r p lo ttin g . S ly ly w ic k e d
WHO KILLED F A T H E I C H R I S T I A S ?
sen se o f h u m o r. A ll th e se w o r d s d e s c r ib e th e n o v e ls a n d
s h o r t s t o r ie s o f P a t r i c i a M o y e s , w h o is, in th e w o r d s o f
Encyclopedia o f Mystery and Detection, o n e o f m y s t e r y ’ s
“ f in e s t p r a c t it io n e r s .”
U n d e r th e h o lid a y tr e e , Who Killed Father Christmas? o f fe r s

2 1 m y s t e r io u s g ift s . F a n s w h o r e c o g n iz e M o y e s a s th e
a u t h o r w h o “ p u t th e w h o b a c k in to w h o d u n it” w ill fin d p a r
c e ls w ith t r a d it io n a l f a ir p la y p u z z le r s. T h o s e w h o th in k th a t
h o lid a y s a r e b e s t t a k e n w ith a n o u n c e o f c y a n id e w ill fin d
p r e s e n t s fille d w ith n e f a r io u s n o e ls s c a t t e r e d e v e r y w h e r e ,
in c lu d in g “ T h e H o lly W r e a th ,” a c o m p le te s h o r t d e te c tiv e
n o v e l. F o r th o se w h o s u s p e c t t h a t E n g lis h v illa g e s a n d e x o tic
h o lid a y s a r e fille d w ith la r c e n y , M o y e s h a s s o m e b r ig h tly
c o lo r e d , a n d d e c e p tiv e ly c h e e r fu l, s u r p r i s e p a c k a g e s .
W h e th e r y o u h u n t w ith th e p o lic e o r sc h e m e w ith th e c r o o k s

(w h o , it m u s t b e a d m it t e d , s o m e tim e s s u c c e e d in th e se
d e lic io u s t a le s ) , Who Killed Father Christmas? is j u s t r ig h t
f o r y o u r h o lid a y s — a n d e v e r y d a y . A n d r e m e m b e r , n o t a ll
p a c k a g e s a r e w h a t th e y se e m .
FIRST BOOK PUBLICATION

IS B N : 1-885941-09-9
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EH

SHORT STORY COLLECTION

After All, They’re Only Cats . . .

Clll'Pf.Nfi LANPRD PUB LISHERS NORFOLK, VIRGINIA 1996

Cover copyright © 1996 by Crippen Sc Landru, Publishers

Cover design by Deborah Miller

Crippen Sc Landru logo by Eric D. Greene

ISBN (limited edition): 1-885941-08-0

ISBN (trade edition): 1-885941-09-9

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

Crippen Sc Landru, Publishers

The Holly Wreath 197

London Evening News, 1961

London Evening News, 1961

London Evening News, 1961

London Evening News, 1961

London Evening News, 1961

Dear Mr. Smith,

“Pretty chilling, I think you’ll agree,” I said to Sue, with satisfaction.

Dear Mr. Smith,

I had to drive into Shinglesea to do some shopping, so 1 decided to

Dear Mrs. Westlake,

Of course, I had to confess to Sue. She began to wail like a banshee,

1) One of the Smiths was an impostor.

First publication unknown, but around 1961

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1982

T opinion of the village of Little Hartney in the county of Dorset in

An alert young policeman noticed the letter and reported it to his

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1982

T be considered actually senile, it was not until he reached this

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1982

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1982

Elleiy Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1982

T A visitor from the country, gazing at the apparently random

Elleiy Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1982

T put it with unnecessary melodrama—is really not very difficult nor

Elleiy Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1983

T to murder his wife after all should not be ascribed to kindness,

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1983

Janice, Godfrey said, should be seen by the villagers of Medhurst to

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1984

T were so successful in defrauding the firm for which they worked.

Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, 1989

Christmas Stalkings, 1991

“Margaret,” said Stephen, “can’t you ever keep to the point?”

Margaret said nothing. She was considering Stephen and wondering

“You’re quite wrong,” said Margaret quickly. “I assure you I’ll be in

Woman’s Mirror, 1965

Crippen & Landru publishes first editions of important works by

The following books are now (September 1996) available or

THE McCONE FILES

The contemporary female private eye story began in 1977 when

The recipient of The Eye for Lifetime Achievement from the

MY MOTHER, THE DETECTIVE

Almost thirty years ago, Frederic Dannay (half of “Ellery Queen”)

Crippen & Landru offers discounts to individuals and institutions who

U n d e r th e h o lid a y tr e e , Who Killed Father Christmas? o f fe r s

W h e th e r y o u h u n t w ith th e p o lic e o r sc h e m e w ith th e c r o o k s

FIRST BOOK PUBLICATION