Best Detective Stories of Cyril Hare Read online

  “Dear me, yes!” he said mildly. “The jury? Of course, bring them in.”

  They were brought, or rather carried in. Sixty hours of incarceration, even with a gramophone and the world’s best dancer for company, is a trifle trying. Pale, dishevelled and miserable, they were propped up before the bench.

  “Let me see,” asked the judge. “Have you agreed upon your verdict?”

  It was the last straw. All four women fainted, and Fandango uttered remarks that were happily unintelligible.

  “Apparently you haven’t,” said his lordship. “Ah, yes, I remember now. You were the people who spent your time dancing. Disgraceful! I have a good mind to commit you all for contempt of court! However, you can go now. Let us proceed with the next case.” And with that the learned judge dismissed the jury from the court and the whole affair from his mind.

  The great British public, however, and its mouthpiece, the great British press, did not treat the affair so easily. On the contrary, they took it to their hearts with gusto. Miss Beckwith had an uncle who was an O.B.E., and Mrs. Simperton was related to the Lord Mayor, so they were not people to be trifled with. Soon all England rang with their grievances. They talked of Magna Charta and the Bill of Rights, of Habeas Corpus and a variety of other things which they did not understand. It so happened that there was a lack of sensational murders and fashionable weddings at the time and the newspaper world was overjoyed at the opportunity. “Should jurors dance?” became the question of the hour, and the country was rent in twain between those who answered “Yes, they should!” and demanded poor Snorebury’s blood, and the kill-joys who said “No!” and were base enough to suggest that it served them all right. But on the whole there could be no doubt that the Ayes had it. The twelve jurors became popular heroes. Their photographs were in every picture-paper, the unmarried among them received a total of no less than two hundred and fourteen proposals of marriage (of which Miss Beckwith accounted for one hundred and eighty-five), their views were invited by the Sunday newspapers on every subject under the sun from shingling to birth control, and the Baltimore Squirm was in their honour renamed the “Jury-room Jeebies”. Meanwhile every effort was made to secure redress for the wrongs they had suffered. Earnest M.P.s asked questions in Parliament. Ministers were heckled in their constituencies, actions were launched and struck out and reconstructed and adjourned, and in the end I really believe that the Government would have fallen if they had not dealt with the matter boldly by passing a special Act of Parliament, presenting the jurors with £100 apiece for their trouble and promoting Mr. Justice Snorebury to the Court of Appeal, where there would be no jurors to worry him.

  But the matter did not end there. As I have said, there were kill-joys, who did not sympathise with the woes of the jurors. Among them was the editor of the Megaphone (which was owned by the Agglomerated Press, which is owned by Lord Baronscourt). It may or it may not be coincidence that that great journal was at the time conducting a campaign entitled “Keep the Alien Out of England”, and that his lordship was largely interested in promoting the revival of Morris dancing on village greens; but the fact remains that it was bitterly hostile to the twelve all through their campaign, and after it was all over it rated them soundly in one of its most pompous leading articles. It was entitled “Aliens and the Law”, and “the material parts”, as they were afterwards described by learned counsel, were as follows:

  “The disgraceful series of events which has recently been terminated by the intervention of the Government reveals a disquieting, not to say ominous, state of affairs. It is clear that the orgies by which British justice has been brought into contempt would never have occurred but for the presence upon the jury of a half-caste Mexican dancer to whose incitements the remainder of his colleagues succumbed. We have had occasion in the past to warn our readers of the presence of alien influence in the Army, the Church, the Post Office, the British Museum and the Commissioners of Woods and Forests, but this is the first time, we believe, that an alien hand has been permitted to pollute the fount of Justice.”

  The result of this effusion, as will be remembered, was the case of Fandango v. The Agglomerated Press, in which Fandango successfully proved that his name was William Griggs, that he was born in Peckham, and that he had never been nearer Mexico in his life than Bude. His counsel (need I say that it was Sir Eliphaz?) pointed out with irresistible logic to the jury that not only was it a horrid libel on an Englishman to call him an alien, but also that his client would suffer untold damages by being compelled to reveal that he was not a Mexican at all. “What attraction is there,” asked Sir Eliphaz dramatically, “in dancing with a Mr. Griggs? What restaurant or cabaret will engage a mere Englishman for such a work? His livelihood is gone, and you must replace it.” Profoundly moved, an English jury assessed the damages at £10,000 (a sum which Lord Baronscourt could well afford), and since, oddly enough, Fandango’s popularity was not destroyed, as Sir Eliphaz had feared, but rather improved by the advertisement, he may be taken to have done well out of the affair.

  As for Mr. Speckles, although he never attempted to have his action re-tried, and although the balance of Macintyre’s fees are still due and owing, he is not to be pitied. Immediately after the action he was elected Perpetual President of the Amalgamated Society of Elocutionists and his name became known wherever the science of elocution is practised. He has offices now in the smart new building which has replaced the old one in the Strand, and when I last heard of him he was on his way to deliver a series of lectures in America.

  And Macintyre—the innocent cause of all the trouble—what of him? I have called this truthful little history a tragedy, and so from the legal point of view it was, for the Temple lost a promising advocate and a charming fellow. But the ill wind that blew him out of the law blew him good after all, for it blew him to Hollywood, the one place in the world where expression counts for a great deal and voice production for nothing. He has, it appears, an ideal photographic face, and the only thing now that can prevent him making a fortune would be the universal introduction of Talking Films.

  P.S. I saw Sir Eliphaz going down Piccadilly yesterday in a new Rolls-Royce, so it seems that he’s all right.

  Weight and See

  Detective-Inspector Mallett of the C.I.D. was a very large man. He was not only tall above the average, but also broad in more than just proportion to his height, while his weight was at least proportionate to his breadth. Whether, as his colleagues at New Scotland Yard used to assert, his bulk was due to the enormous meals which he habitually consumed, or whether, as the inspector maintained, the reason for his large appetite was that so big a frame needed more than a normal man’s supply for its sustenance, was an open question. What was not open to doubt was Mallett’s success in his calling. But if anybody was ever bold enough to suggest that his success might have been even greater but for the handicap of his size he would merely smile sweetly and remark that there had been occasions when on the contrary he had found it a positive advantage. Pressed for further and better particulars, he might, if in an expansive mood, go so far as to say that he could recall at least one case in which he had succeeded where a twelve-stone man would have failed.

  This is the story of that case. It is not, strictly speaking, a case of detection at all, since the solution depended ultimately on the chance application of avoirdupois rather than the deliberate application of intelligence. None the less, it was a case which Mallett himself was fond of recollecting, if only because of the way in which that recollection served to salve his conscience whenever thereafter he fell to the temptation of a second helping of suet pudding.

  * * *

  The story begins, so far as the police are concerned, at about seven o’clock on a fine morning in early summer, when a milkman on his round came out of the entrance of Clarence Mansions, S.W.11, just as a police constable happened to be passing.

  “Morning,” said the constable.

  “Morning,” said the milkman.

>   The constable moved on. The milkman stood watching him, two powerful questions conflicting in his breast. On the one hand, it was an article of faith with him that one whose work takes him to other people’s houses at a time when most of the world is only beginning to wake up should never poke his nose into other people’s business; on the other, he felt just now a craving, new-born but immensely powerful, not to be left out of the adventure which some sixth sense told him was afoot. The constable was almost out of earshot before the issue was decided.

  “Oy!” shouted the milkman.

  The officer turned round majestically.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  The milkman jerked his thumb in the direction of the block of flats behind him.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I think there’s something queer up there.”

  “Where?”

  “Number 32, top floor.”

  “How d’you mean, queer?”

  “The dog up there is carrying on something awful—barking and scratching at the door.”

  “Well, what of it?”

  “Oh, nothing, but it’s a bit queer, that’s all. It’s a quiet dog as a rule.”

  “They’ve gone out and left him in, I suppose.”

  “Well, if they ’ave, they’ve left a light on as well.”

  The constable looked up at the windows of the top storey.

  “There is a light on in one of the rooms,” he observed. “Seems funny, a fine morning like this.” He considered the matter slowly. “Might as well go up and see, I suppose. They’ll be having the neighbours complaining about that dog. I can hear it from here.”

  With the milkman in attendance he tramped heavily up the stairs—Clarence Mansions boast no lift—to the top floor. Outside No. 32 stood the pint bottle of milk which had just been left there. He rang the bell. There was no reply, except a renewed outburst of barks from the dog within.

  “Are they at home, d’you know?” he asked.

  “’S far as I know. I ’ad me orders to deliver, same as usual.”

  “Who are the people?”

  “Wellman, the name is. A little fair chap with a squint. There’s just the two of them and the dog.”

  “I know him,” said the policeman. “Seen him about often. Passed the time of day with him. Didn’t know he was married, though.”

  “She never goes out,” the milkman explained. “He told me about her once. Used to be a trapeze artist in a circus. ’Ad a fall, and crippled for good. Can’t even get in or out of bed by ’erself, so he says.”

  “Oh?” said the constable. “Well, if that’s so, perhaps——” He sucked his cheeks and frowned perplexedly. “All the same, you can’t go and break into a place just because the dog’s howling and someone’s left the light on. I think I’d best go and report this before I do anything.”

  The milkman was looking down the staircase.

  “Someone coming up,” he announced. “It’s Mr. Wellman all right,” he added, as a rather flushed, unshaven face appeared on the landing below.

  The constable put on his official manner at once.

  “Mr. Wellman, sir?” he said. “There have been complaints of your dog creating a disturbance here this morning. Also I observe that there is a light on in one of your rooms. Would you be good enough to——”

  “That’s all right, officer,” Wellman interrupted him. “I was kept out last night. Quite unexpected. Sorry about the dog and all that.”

  He fished a latchkey from his pocket, opened the door, and went in, shutting it behind him. The other two, left outside with the milk bottle for company, heard him speak softly to the dog, which immediately became quiet. In the silence they could hear his footsteps down the passage which evidently led away from the front door. They looked at each other blankly. The policeman said “Well!”, the milkman was already preparing to go back to his round, when the steps were heard returning, there was the sound of the door of a room nearby being opened, and then Mr. Wellman was out of the flat, his face white, his eyes staring, crying, “Come here, quick! Something awful has happened!”

  * * *

  “But this,” said Mallett, “is odd. Very odd indeed.”

  He sat in the office of the Divisional Detective-Inspector, meditatively turning over a sheaf of reports.

  “Odd is the word for it,” the D.D.I. replied. “You see, on the one hand there seems no doubt that the lady was alive at nine o’clock——”

  “Let me see if I’ve got the story straight,” said Mallett. “Mrs. Wellman is found dead in her bed at about seven o’clock in the morning by her husband, in the presence, very nearly, of a police officer and another man. She has been killed by a blow on the back of the head from a blunt instrument. The doctor thinks that death occurred about seven to eleven hours previously—say between eight o’clock and midnight the night before. He thinks also—in fact he’s pretty sure—that the blow would produce instantaneous death, or at all events instantaneous unconsciousness. There are no signs of forcible entry into the flat, and Mrs. Wellman was a cripple, so the possibility of her getting out of bed to let anybody in is out of the question. Am I right so far?”

  “Quite correct.”

  “In these circumstances the husband quite naturally falls under suspicion. He is asked to account for his movements over night, and up to a point he seems quite willing to do so. He says that he put his wife to bed at about a quarter to nine, took the dog out for a short run—— What sort of a dog is it, by the way?”

  “An Alsatian. It seems to be a good-tempered, intelligent sort of beast.”

  “He takes the Alsatian out for a short run, returns it to the flat without going into his wife’s room, and then goes out again. That’s his story. He says most positively that he never came back to the place until next morning when the constable and the milkman saw him going in. Asked whether he has any witnesses to prove his story, he says that he spoke to the constable on night duty, whom he met just outside Clarence Mansions on his way out, and he further gives the names of two friends whom he met at the Green Dragon public-house, half a mile from Clarence Mansions——”

  “Seven hundred and fifty yards from Clarence Mansions.”

  “I’m much obliged. He met his two pals there at about a quarter-past nine, and stayed there till closing time. He went from the public-house with one of them to the nearest tram stop, and took a No. 31 tram going east, or away from Clarence Mansions. His friend went with him on the tram as far as the next fare stage, where he got off, leaving Wellman on the tram, still going away from home. Is that all clear so far?”

  “Quite.”

  “Further than that Wellman wouldn’t help us. He said he’d spent the rest of the night in a little hotel somewhere down Hackney way. Why he should have done so he didn’t explain, and when asked for the name of the place he couldn’t give it. He thought it had a red and green carpet in the hall, but that’s all he could remember about it. The suggestion was, I gather, that he was too drunk to notice things properly when he got to the hotel, and was suffering from a bit of a hang-over next morning.”

  “He certainly was when I saw him.”

  “Things begin to look rather bad for Master Wellman. They look even worse when we find out a few things about him. It seems that he hasn’t a job, and hasn’t had one for a very long time. He married his wife when she was travelling the country as a trapeze artist in a small circus, in which he was employed as electrician and odd-job man. When a rope broke and she was put out of the circus business for good, her employers paid her a lump sum in compensation. He has been living on that ever since. His accounts show that he has got through it pretty quickly, and it’s odds on that she had been wanting to know where it had gone to. It’s not very hard to see a motive for getting rid of her.”

  “The motive’s there all right,” said the divisional inspector, “but——”

  “But,” Mallett went on. “Here’s where our troubles begin.—Wellman is detained for enquiries, and the
enquiries show that his story, so far as it goes, is perfectly true. He did meet his pals at the Green Dragon. They and the publican are positive on that point, and they bear out his story in every particular. Therefore if he killed his wife it must have been before a quarter-past nine or after half-past ten, which was approximately the time when he was last seen on the No. 31 tram. But Mrs. Wellman was alive when he left Clarence Mansions, because——”

  He pulled out one of the statements before him.

  “Statement of Police Constable Denny,” he read. “At approximately nine o’clock p.m. I was on duty in Imperial Avenue opposite Clarence Mansions when I saw Wellman. He had his dog with him. We had a short conversation. He said, ‘I’ve just been giving my dog a run.’ I said, ‘It’s a nice dog.’ He said, ‘I bought it for my wife’s protection, but it’s too good-natured for a watch-dog.’ He went into Clarence Mansions and came out again almost at once. He had a small bag in his hand. I said, ‘Going out again, Mr. Wellman?’ He said, ‘Yes. Have you seen my pals about anywhere?’ I informed him that I did not know his pals, and he replied, ‘I expect they’re gone on ahead.’ He then said, ‘I’m waiting to see if the wife has turned in yet.’ I looked up at the windows of Clarence Mansions, and there was a light in one of the windows on the top storey—the window to the left of the staircase as you look at it. I have since learned that that is the window of the bedroom of No. 32. As I was looking, the light was extinguished. Wellman said to me, ‘That’s all right, I can get along now.’ We had a bit of a joke about it. He then went away, and I proceeded on my beat. At approximately ten-thirty p.m. I had occasion to pass Clarence Mansions again. There were then no lights visible in the top storey. I did not pass the Mansions again until on my way back from duty at approximately six-fifteen a.m. I then observed that the same light was on, but I gave the matter no thought at the time.”