Best Detective Stories of Cyril Hare Read online

  “Just what you like,” said Mr. Speckles. “Imagine that you are addressing a jury.”

  He switched on the machine and signed to his pupil to speak.

  “Er—members of the jury,” began Macintyre in a gentle, deprecating voice, “I rise to address you on behalf of poor old—er—I mean the unfortunate Mr. Speckles. Really, you know, members of the jury, he’s not such a blight—er—he is not so—I mean, things may look pretty black against him at present, but really, you know, taking everything into consideration and so forth, so to speak, I shouldn’t wonder if you didn’t find he was more sinned against than sinning. Really, you know, it is the Englishman’s privilege to be found guilty until he is innocent—er—I should say—the other way round, if you follow me—and this poor man Speckles—that is, of course, if you can find it in your hearts to say he is a man——”

  “I think that will do,” said Mr. Speckles severely, cutting off the machine. “You have much to learn. I will have a gramophone record made of that for you. It may entertain you when you have progressed somewhat. Now we will begin Lesson I: Exercises of the Vocal Chords.”

  They began. They exercised the Vocal Chords and on the next day the Labial Muscles. During succeeding weeks together they trod the difficult path of Voice Production, Expression, Breath Control (with Muscular Exercises), the mastery of the Epiglottis, and all the other mysteries of Mr. Speckles’s craft. And Macintyre (who was, as I have said, a diligent young man) continued his exercises at home. He practised them in his bath. He practised them when he got up in the morning and when he went to bed at night. No matron in the forties determined to recover that schoolgirl figure exercised half so hard as he did. For nearly a month his friends saw nothing of him, and as he lived alone, with only a deaf old housekeeper for company, nobody knew anything of the tremendous effects of Mr. Speckles’s teaching. Nobody, that is, except Mr. Speckles himself. His pride in Macintyre’s progress was immense. He frequently declared that he was the best pupil he had ever had. Once, indeed, towards the end of the course, he even went so far as to say that he, Speckles, could not have done so well.

  It is a curious fact, but very few people are conscious of the sound of their own voices. (Which is not to say that they do not like the sound of their own voices, but that is another matter.) They can tell you that So-and-so’s voice is hard or soft, and that someone else speaks through his nose, but they have not the smallest idea as to what their own is like. So it was in complete innocence that Young Macintyre returned to his chambers when the course was completed. He knew, of course, that his voice had gained in resonance, and his manner in assurance as the result of Mr. Speckles’s ministrations—the occasion when every passenger on the top of a bus passing down the Strand looked up to the sky expecting a thunderstorm when he fulminated in Mr. Speckles’s room was still a precious memory—but how much he had changed he did not realize.

  He was not left very long in doubt as to the real state of affairs. At his first tremendous bark of greeting his clerk, a bald and blameless old man, leapt bodily a foot from his seat before collapsing in a faint to the floor, two panes of glass were shivered and a pigeon dropped dead in the Temple Gardens. When he called a cheery “Good morning!” to his friend Goodbody, who shared his room, the learned K.C. who lived on the floor below sent up to complain that the plaster of his ceiling was cracking. Shouting at the top of his voice to make himself heard, Goodbody besought him to moderate his tones.

  “I’m sorry, old man,” said Macintyre, in what seemed to him to be little more than a whisper, but still in a tone which bored through his hearer’s ears like an auger. “I didn’t mean to talk so loud, but I’ve been studying elocution. I told you I’d learn to deliver the goods, and by Jove I can make myself heard now, can’t I?”

  “You certainly can,” assented Goodbody with conviction. “Heaven help any jury you get in front of now. But for goodness’ sake drop it for a bit and talk normally for a change.”

  “Confound you,” replied Macintyre, with a stridency that would have turned Mr. Speckles green with envy, “I am talking normally. What on earth are you driving at?”

  Goodbody’s face took on an expression of horror.

  “Heaven and earth!” he murmured piously. “Do you really mean it’s stuck like that for good?”

  Our nurses told us that if we made ugly faces like that, and the wind changed, we should stay like that for always. What the wind had been doing while Macintyre was in Mr. Speckles’s office I do not know, but there was no question that his voice was changed, and changed permanently. Gone were the gentle tones, the soft and hesitating utterance with which Nature had endowed him. Mr. Speckles had set his stamp upon him and it was not to be effaced. He could talk now with the utmost fluency on any subject under the sun; he could talk with perfect clarity and distinctness, giving its due value to every consonant and leaving his hearer in no possible doubt about the vowels; he could make himself heard first time at a public telephone call office; he could do anything, in fact, except talk like a normal human being. It took some time for the truth of the change that had taken place in him to sink in. In spite of the asseverations of Goodbody, of his clerk (who gave notice immediately afterwards), and of everybody else whom he consulted, for a long time Macintyre persisted that he was all right, a little improved and strengthened in voice production, but no more. At last he remembered Mr. Speckles’s gramophone record.

  “We’ll try it out,” he said to Goodbody, “and if there’s been any change worth talking about I’ll——”

  Happily he did not promise to do anything particularly rash, for scarcely had the needle of Goodbody’s gramophone touched the disc before the horrid truth dawned upon him. It was a dreadful moment. Dean Swift in his old age, reading one of the works of his youth, was heard to murmur sadly, “What a genius I had when I wrote that book!” but even his sorrow cannot have equalled Macintyre’s as he listened to the dulcet voice that once was his and never could be again. As the gentle, wavering tones smote his ear his eyes filled with tears.

  “Well?” said Goodbody when the record came to an end. “Do I win?”

  “Win?” roared Macintyre with a bellow like a ship’s siren. “That swine Speckles! ‘More sinned against than sinning’, indeed. Let me only get hold of the blighter who’s done this!”

  He snatched up the record and was about to fling it out of the window when Goodbody seized it from him.

  “Don’t smash this,” he said. “You will want it.”

  “Want it? What on earth for?”

  “For evidence, of course.”

  “What evidence?” asked Macintyre. “Where the—why the——”

  “Do you mean that you’re not going to sue this fellow for the damage he’s done to your voice?” said Goodbody. “You’re not going to take this lying down, surely! Get hold of your solicitor and go for him.”

  Macintyre considered for a moment. “By gum,” he said at last, “I will.”

  Such was the origin of the famous action of Macintyre v. Speckles. (Speckles v. Macintyre, of course, was Mr. Speckles’s action for the balance of his fees for the lessons. The two were eventually consolidated, but not until, after the best legal fashion, some thousands of pounds had been wasted in trying to try them separately.) It was fully reported at the time, and I need not trouble with the legal details of it. It took about two years to decide whether or not Macintyre had any claim for damages at all. His counsel enjoyed themselves immensely over it. They claimed for Trespass, for Contract, for Tort and breach of Copyright. Speckles’s men gave as good as they got, and said it was neither one thing nor the other. Eventually, after the case had been twice up to the House of Lords and down again on preliminaries, the case came on for hearing before Mr. Justice Snorebury and a special jury. Macintyre had briefed Sir Eliphaz Snarler, K.C., and Mr. Speckles had selected Mr. Snorter, K.C. (whose ceiling Macintyre had brought down, and who had hated him ever since). The court was crowded when Sir Eliphaz rose to open t
he case for the plaintiff. The crowd overflowed from the public galleries into the Strand and the mounted police had twice to charge to keep order.

  Sir Eliphaz was at the top of his form, which considering he had a thousand guineas on his brief and a “refresher” of a hundred a day was not perhaps surprising. The conclusion of his speech was masterly.

  “Members of the jury,” he said. “Before my unhappy client fell a victim to the blandishments of Mr. Speckles he was blessed with a diffident unassuming manner and a soft and charming voice. Those priceless attributes he has lost, and lost for ever. His manner is now blatant and assertive, his voice coarse and unattractive in the extreme. And this, members of the jury, I am in a position to prove. Before my client goes into the witness-box to demonstrate by every word and gesture the pernicious effects of Mr. Speckles’s training I shall place before you unimpeachable evidence of what he was before the unhappy occurrences I have described. I have here a gramophone record which will be played to you by the instrument now on the table before me, and when you have heard it and compared it with the lamentable noises now produced by my client you will in my submission have no hesitation in finding a verdict in his favour, and that for the most substantial, nay exemplary, damages.”

  Mr. Snorter was on his feet immediately, objecting that the gramophone record could not be received in evidence. He had been speaking for over three-quarters of an hour when it was observed that the judge was asleep, and the court adjourned for the day.

  The discussion as to the advisability of gramophone records lasted three days and cost the parties something over a thousand pounds apiece. (Perhaps I should explain at this point that the impecunious Mr. Speckles was supported in his action by the Amalgamated Society of Elocutionists and Voice Production Professors, and that Macintyre’s wealthy uncle was blessed with a sense of humour.) Finally, the record was admitted in evidence and a hushed court heard the soft tones that had been Macintyre’s lisping the defence of the man who was about to ruin them.

  By the time the trial was nearly over, some highly profitable weeks for Sir Eliphaz and Mr. Snorter having elapsed, Macintyre felt fairly confident of the result. The judge had listened to his evidence with attention (he had been deaf for ten years, and Macintyre’s was the only voice in all that time which had reached him), and there were four women on the jury whom he was sure he had impressed. But it was these very women who were to prove his undoing—they and the gramophone which Sir Eliphaz had fought for so strenuously. For when Mr. Justice Snorebury’s long, learned and painfully boring summing-up came at last to an end, with “Kindly consider your verdict”, the youngest and prettiest of the jurywomen leaned forward, smiled sweetly and said, “My lord, may the jury take the gramophone and record with them to help in considering the verdict?”

  In spite of his age the judge was still susceptible to feminine charms. He was dimly conscious that a good-looking young woman was asking him something, and having disposed of a long and tiresome case he was feeling in a state of sleepy amiability.

  “Certainly,” he smiled kindly. “Oh yes, decidedly! Anything that you wish, my dear young lady.”

  And the gramophone was picked up and carried out in triumph by the foreman of the jury.

  The case had come to an end at a quarter to four, and those experienced in the ways of juries have been heard to say that at that time of day they are never very long in coming to a decision. Human nature being what it is, they say, the claims of justice never very long resist the attractions of the train home to tea. But on this occasion the cynics were confuted. Half an hour, an hour went by, and still the jury came not. The crowd in court had begun to melt away. Macintyre and Mr. Speckles, at opposite ends of the same bench, having passed through all the stages from excitement to utter boredom, were dully staring in front of themselves, long past caring what happened. Sir Eliphaz and Mr. Snorter had departed, leaving their unfortunate juniors to see the end of it. As for the judge, he was the only happy man in court, for he was sound asleep. At last, after the jury had been gone an hour and a half, something, perhaps the pangs of hunger, woke him. He yawned, stretched, and looked incredulously at the clock.

  “Good gracious!” he said. “This jury is deliberating for an exceedingly long time. Usher, be good enough to enquire whether they are desirous of any further direction on points of law or fact, and if so I shall be glad to assist them.”

  The usher departed on his errand, and the court sank back into slumber. He was gone some time, and when he reappeared he was as pale and shaken as so dignified a person can ever be.

  “Well?” asked his lordship. “Does the jury require any assistance.”

  Speechless, the usher shook his head.

  “Then if they cannot agree upon a verdict they must be discharged. Do they say they cannot agree?”

  The usher shook his head again.

  “Then what in the name of Blackstone are they doing?” asked the judge.

  “May it please you, my lord, they’re dancing,” quavered the usher.

  His lordship could not believe his ears. Considering their quality, there was no reason why he should.

  “They are what?” he cried. “Speak up, man, I can’t hear you.”

  “D-d-dancing, my lord.”

  “I cannot hear a word you say. Here, Mr. Macintyre, I can always understand you. What is it this fellow here is trying to tell me?”

  “My lord,” answered Macintyre in a voice of thunder. “He says that the jury are DANCING!”

  “Dancing!” ejaculated his lordship. “Most improper! Unheard-of behaviour! I’ve never known anyone dance in the courts of justice since I was called to the Bar. There must be some mistake about it. Usher, are you quite positive that you heard the sound of—of dancing proceeding from the jury-room?”

  “Quite positive, my lord,” answered that scandalized official. “And, what’s more, I saw them ladies this morning when they went into the box with what looked like gramophone records under their coats. It’s a put-up job, my lord, and that’s the truth.”

  The truth was even worse than the gloomy usher imagined. For how could he tell, how could the judge tell, how could anyone have told that the jury-box had all this time been harbouring an angel unawares—in the far-corner seat of the back row to be precise—and that that angel was no other than the celebrated Mexican, Fandango? It was true, none the less, that for weeks the Royal Courts of Justice had been imprisoning in their gloomy walls the most famous ballroom dancer of the age. Fandango, the favourite teacher of half the crowned heads of Europe, the man who could make the fortune of any night-club by merely promising to look in for ten minutes during the evening. Fandango, the exquisite, the olive skinned, was on the jury; and pretty little Miss Beckwith, who sat next to him, was determined to make the most of it. So was plump, fair-haired Mrs. Simperton, when the great man had been induced to admit his identity one day at lunch. That thrilling but terribly difficult new dance, the Baltimore Squirm, had just been introduced; and the chance of a free lesson from the one man in all England who could dance it properly was not to be missed.

  It is not for me to say—because I do not know—by what means Miss Beckwith induced Fandango, who was notoriously averse from giving something for nothing, to lower himself so far as to give an exhibition of his art before an audience of eleven. One can only conclude that several weeks of the atmosphere of the courts had somewhat weakened his powers of resistance, and, after all, nobody can sit in such close proximity to a really charming girl, as Miss Beckwith was, without being affected in some degree. However it came about, there they were, at half-past five, turning the jury-room into as good an imitation of the Café de Paris as its limited accommodation allowed.

  Meanwhile consternation reigned in court. Mr. Justice Snorebury was not a particularly quick thinker, and for the first time in his professional life he found himself confronted with something entirely without precedent.

  “Most improper! Most improper!” he repeated again and
again. “I—I really don’t know what to do about this. Upon my soul I don’t. I think I must consult my learned brethren about this. Meanwhile they can stay where they are. The court is adjourned.”

  And forthwith he left the bench, only to find that his learned brethren had long since gone home and that there was nobody left in the building to whom he could turn for guidance. “Most improper!” he murmured, as he took off his wig and gown in his room. “Most improper!” he repeated, as he put on his silk hat. His car was waiting patiently at the judges’ entrance. Tired with his long day’s work, he climbed wearily in. “Most imp——” His head sank forward, and the rest of the word was a snore. The wicked behaviour of the jury, the opinion of his learned brethren, were all forgotten. It was a Friday evening. And the Courts of Justice do not sit on Saturdays.

  It was the Sunday papers that started the agitation about the imprisoned jurors, but as Mr. Justice Snorebury never read the Sunday papers they did not worry him. The fact that his absent-mindedness had spread dismay into twelve blameless homes left him quite calm and unruffled. The existence of the dancing twelve had completely passed out of his mind, and unfortunately he was the only person who had power to release them. When on Monday morning he took his seat and somebody timidly ventured to remind him of their existence, he was as nearly startled as his great age and serenity ever allowed him to be.