The Murder League

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  “I am not speaking of writing,” Carruthers said patiently. “Let us take it as read that our fiction days are over. I am speaking of the possibility of employing our rather unusual talents in real life.”

  Simpson adjusted himself a bit in his chair. It was almost as if he were being refolded into a more compact package. He studied the serious face of Carruthers for several moments.

  “Exactly what are you proposing?” he asked slowly, and then smiled; it was evident that he still refused to treat the matter with proper sobriety. “Robbing a bank? I can see it now. We shall kill a guard and escape with ten thousand of the best, carefully packed in a nondescript suitcase in a black sedan with covered number plates. Going west, into the setting sun, of course.”

  But Carruthers was not to be deterred. “Not a bank,” he said, refusing to be irritated by Simpson’s light manner. “In fact, not robbery at all. To begin with, our particular talents do not run to burglary or crimes of that nature, and the whole purpose of my suggestion is that we employ our talents to their best advantage. Besides, the rewards of bank robbery are far too uncertain in relation to the risks involved, and to our physical capacity—or, rather, incapacity.” He looked genuinely sad. “We must face the fact, gentlemen, that we are no longer spry enough to make an assured, or even a dignified, getaway.”

  “I know!” said Briggs, leaning forward. “Blackmail!”

  Carruthers shook his head sharply. “Definitely not! Even in my writing days I avoided blackmail as a subject because the thought of blackmail has always been extremely distasteful to me. It is a repulsive crime. Besides, we do not have any facts at our disposal which would warrant anyone paying us a tanner for their suppression. No,” he went on calmly, “I ask you gentlemen to return to our original thesis: we are experts in the field of inventing foolproof means of eliminating unwanted persons.” His voice dropped as he peered at his two colleagues from beneath his shaggy white eyebrows. “If you must have it placed to you bluntly, I shall be blunt. I mean murder!”

  “A murder league?” Briggs asked incredulously.

  Carruthers smiled in fond congratulation. “You were always by far the best of us for titles, Tim. May I congratulate you. The Murder League it shall be!”

  “You know,” said Simpson thoughtfully, serious at last. “That’s really not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. The only thing is, whom shall we murder?” He glanced involuntarily across the room toward the group in the southeast corner. “And be paid, I mean.”

  Carruthers shrugged the question aside. “A glance at the daily journals will show you gentlemen that people are being murdered quite regularly; for insurance, for love, for hate, for money—in short, for all the sordid motives we know so well.” He raised an admonitory finger. “And consider this: other people are being severely punished for these murders with almost equal regularity. Why? Because they are amateurs attempting to do a professional job. Certainly there must be a wide field for our abilities among people of this nature.”

  “True,” Simpson admitted. “We would have the distinct advantage of not being connected with the victim in any way.”

  “With our experience in plotting murder stories,” Briggs added, now thoroughly intrigued, “we should easily be able to make all of them appear as either accident or suicide.”

  “Plus,” said Carruthers, clinching his original argument, “there being three of us, by alternating—assignments, shall we say?—we would avoid that repetitious appearance at the scene which so often leads the police to second thoughts about accidents, or even suicides.” He nodded his head in satisfaction. “I could go on, of course, and list the advantages that would accrue to our clients by dealing with us rather than allowing their passions to get out of hand, but I am sure with your experience you gentlemen can see these quite readily.”

  “It is really a very good idea,” Simpson said, nodding. “And it would be fun to be plotting crimes again, with all the intricacies of method, and weapon, and all that. And, best of all, not even have to worry about motive. I have only one question.” He looked across at Carruthers, a small frown of worry adding further wrinkles to his high brow. “Don’t you feel that possibly we might be too old?”

  “The ability to murder is one of the few things not taken from man by advancing age,” Carruthers responded dryly. “I was not considering any hand-to-hand tussles as a means of fulfilling any obligations we might contract.”

  “Anyway,” Briggs argued, “I’m only seventy, and I must be at least a year older than either of you. No, that’s not the problem as I see it. What I should like to know is, would it pay enough?”

  “Enough?” Carruthers stared at him. “What’s enough? As it is, none of us is earning a farthing, and hasn’t for ages. And actually, I imagine it could prove to be quite lucrative. At one thousand pounds per murder, let us say, we should easily arrive at our figure of ten thousand pounds well within three months. And that’s only planning on one victim a week, which you’ll grant is scarcely excessive.”

  “One thousand pounds?” Simpson shook his head doubtfully. “Just to kill someone? It seems to me rather dear. We wouldn’t want to frighten away custom.”

  “Better too dear than too cheap,” Briggs said decisively. “Otherwise we could easily find ourselves killing quite a low-grade person for quite shabby reasons.”

  “That is correct,” Carruthers said, and smiled at Briggs in the manner of a professor confronted with the expected proper answer from a star pupil. “And really, you know,” he added for Simpson’s benefit, “One thousand pounds isn’t all that expensive when you consider it. After all, if a man can afford to pay more than a thousand pounds for a new motorcar, certainly it should be worth as much to eliminate a nagging wife, or a wealthy aunt.” He raised one hand. “Wherever possible, of course, we should try and select clients whose victims, shall we say, represent no great loss to society?”

  “Agreed,” Briggs said. “There certainly should be ample of those.” He paused thoughtfully. “One thing,” he added, “if we go into this we shall have to be quite firm about charity work. It is certain that we would be approached by many prospective customers with sad stories of desperate need, but with empty pockets. We shall have to turn down all offers that appear to be hardship cases. Whether their victims merit extinction or not.”

  “Yes,” Carruthers said sadly, shaking his head. “It is true that people exist who are ready to take advantage wherever and whenever they can. You are quite right; as far as the financial aspects are concerned, I’m afraid we shall be forced to become quite hardened.”

  “And no credit,” Simpson added. They looked at each other solemnly and nodded agreement at this logical clause. Then Simpson suddenly leaned forward, his frown returning.

  “But how would we go about finding clients?” he asked, worried.

  “By advertising, of course,” Carruthers replied quite simply. “It’s the rage now, you know, and I’m told it’s remarkably effective. I can’t imagine why, but there you are. In one of the more widely circulated journals, of course. But not the News of the World, or anything like that. Their readers scarcely run to thousand-pound fees, I shouldn’t judge. The Times, possibly, or the Statesman.”

  “But advertising?”

  “If they can sell some of the worthless services they do,” Briggs interrupted, “then what we are offering should—”

  “I didn’t mean that!” Simpson’s tone was testy. “I was merely thinking it was a bit open. A bit overt. Not subtle, if you know what I mean. Why, for example, would a journal like the Times ever accept an advert offering murder as a service?”

  “Simply because they could never conceive of it as being an advert offering murder as a service,” Carruthers replied calmly. “They will consider it the opening wedge in a campaign to sell a new Christmas toy or game, or something equally logical. Let us only hope that their readers are less gullible.”

  “But the police?”

  “The police?” Carruth
ers shook his head slowly. “I can’t see where they should present any problem. You certainly don’t credit them with less imagination than the editors of the Times, I hope?” He looked at his two friends with a cheerful smile. “Well, gentlemen? Are we agreed? Is the Murder League a going concern?”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  “All right,” Simpson said at last. “You’ve answered my questions. I think it’s a grand idea. The only thing is—” he frowned slightly—"do you think we should wait a few years? After all, they’re talking quite a bit about abolishing hanging, and shouldn’t we give ourselves every break?”

  “Nonsense!” Briggs said. “We’re not of an age where we can wait a day, let alone a few years. The worst that can happen if anything goes wrong is that we do hang. And they’ve yet to convince me it’s any worse than slow starvation.”

  “Fine!” Carruthers said, pleased. “All right, gentlemen, as of this moment the Murder League is in business!”

  They reached across and clasped hands across the low oaken table. The bouquet of interlaced fingers caught the attention of those in the southeast corner.

  (“A suicide pact, d’you suppose?” Potter asked, and was pleased that his mot received the laughter he had hoped for.)

  The three founding members of the Club—and now the founding members of the League—leaned back and eyed each other in secret congratulation. Then Carruthers leaned forward.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said softly, “I’d best get cracking on that advertisement.”

  He took a pencil from his pocket and began to scribble on the back of an old menu. His face wore the satisfied expression of a man finally engaged in an important endeavor he should have contemplated and tackled long before.

  Briggs leaned back slowly, tenting his fingers, lost in the huge chair, and also lost in his dreams. His share of the interest on ten thousand pounds was already being subdivided in his mind among the multiplicity of his creditors.

  Simpson fingered the ragged cigar butt in his pocket softly, his busy mind already delving among past writings for possible means and methods of moderately safe murder.

  The Murder League was functioning.

  2

  Mr. Potter, bustling into the Club with the morning Times clutched manfully in his hand, was a bit disappointed to find none of his usual coterie to whom he could show the unusual and (the word was on the tip of his tongue for the first he might encounter) “delicious” advertisement. So great was his need to share his discovery that for one moment he even considered discussing the matter with the three solitary fixtures in the northeast corner, but as he approached them he noted that they were bent over an identical copy of the Times, folded back to expose the same advertisement.

  A sudden doubt of purpose checked Mr. Potter’s footsteps. Damned silly advert anyway, he suddenly thought, bitter at his lack of audience, and even more bitter that his tentative approach toward the founding members had been noted and was being commented upon. With flaming ears he turned and beat a quick retreat, well aware that his actions had caused a small wave of silent mirth behind him. Fool advert is probably only leading up to a new flick that will be playing the picture palaces sometime next month, he thought angrily. Discarding his copy of the paper on the magazine table, he fled into his office.

  “Poor little man,” commented Carruthers with a smile and also unerring accuracy. “Nobody around to show his copy to. Probably thought he had discovered America.”

  “And when he found we had already discovered it,” added Briggs with a grin, “he probably figured in that case it wasn’t worth discovering in the first place.”

  “By now,” Simpson guessed shrewdly, “I’d be willing to wager he has decided the whole thing is only an advertisement for a new J. Arthur Rank film which will be coming out in the next few weeks.”

  “A bloody pity his wife doesn’t have a thousand pounds,” said Briggs brutally, and with this the three dismissed the case of Potter, Hesitant Secretary, returning to study the journal before them. The result of Carruthers’ efforts was carried on the front page, top left-hand corner. It was neatly boxed and read:

  IS THERE ANYONE YOU’D LIKE TO MURDER?

  For Insurance?

  For Inheritance?

  For Love?

  For Hate?

  For Fun?

  IF SO: CONSULT

  THE MURDER LEAGUE!!!

  Rapid Service—Reasonable Fees

  DON’T DO IT YOURSELF

  LET US DO IT FOR YOU

  IT’S SAFER

  ALL INQUIRIES TO BOX 544 TIMES

  Please: The merely curious are kindly requested not to answer this advertisement, as it can only delay service to serious clients. Thank you.

  “It’s not too bad,” said Briggs, studying the quarter-column cut objectively. “Actually, it’s quite good.” He paused and a sudden frown of concern appeared on his small face, wiping out his pleased expression. “Must have cost a fortune, though.”

  “Eight pounds six and thruppence,” Carruthers admitted calmly.

  “Eight pounds—!” Briggs was shocked.

  “Six and thruppence,” Carruthers finished. “Tax, you know. You can’t make an omelette without breaking pound notes, you know. Not with the cost of living today.” He shrugged. “We must simply consider it a necessary part of expected capital expenditure; all companies face that, you know. Especially new companies entering an established field. I’ll keep a detailed list of all expenses for future reimbursement, naturally.”

  “Of course,” Simpson agreed. “There are bound to be various expenses. Arms, possibly. Or travel.” He coughed delicately. “I imagine that anyone willing to expend a thousand quid for our services shouldn’t cavil overly at any small additional expense.”

  “Of course not,” Carruthers said. “A bit rough on the treasury at first, of course, but once we get rolling…”

  Tea came and they consumed it, for the first time in years, in a relaxed manner. It is doubtful if they even thought of the loss of the view of Swan’s Park, or the other sad changes of the past; their minds were firmly fixed upon the future.

  “Tomorrow,” Carruthers said between cakes, “there should be the first of our responses from an eager and necessitive public. I’ll stop by and pick them up before passing this way.”

  “There’ll probably be a mob waiting for you,” Briggs said. “People wondering what we’re selling. Would you like me to meet you here, say at eight, and go along with you?”

  “Oh, no,” Carruthers said airily, reaching for the teapot. “I considered that possibility. I requested that any answers be sent from the central offices to their place in Notting Hill. On the quiet, of course. A respectable journal like the Times does that, you know. Protect the boxholder and all that.”

  “Ah, yes,” Simpson recalled absently. “That switch of replies from central to Notting Hill—you used that in The Bloody Dagger, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Thank you for remembering,” said Carruthers with a truly grateful smile. He reached for the cakes again. “Well, tomorrow we shall see just how clever I was in 1926.”

  The Times is not the favorite journal of the Notting Hill residents, who feel, possibly with some justification, that football results without quoted pool odds are of small use to a discerning reader. It is therefore understandable that the directors of that august journal refuse to spend huge sums in maintaining posh offices in this section. Despite this logic, it still struck Carruthers as he clumped up the narrow pavement leading to the shabby doorway that they might have spread themselves a bit thicker than this.

  He had to admire the reticence, however, of the eminent newspaper, for, although his advertisement was certain to have at least intrigued journalists, the faded storefront he faced boasted no pack of baying newshounds. In fact, for one instant Carruthers was rather concerned that it might not even boast a day clerk. This fear, however, was unfounded, for as he entered a thin lad with a budding mustache on a virgin upper lip
detached himself from his perusal of a rival newspaper and ambled over to liquidate this undesired interruption as rapidly as possible.

  Presentation of his box receipt brought neither startled gasps nor any indication of inordinate interest. The boy merely took the slip, scratched his head, yawned, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, studied the slip once more, and then dug out a well-filled envelope and handed it over. It was only as Carruthers was leaving that a bowlered figure emerged from an inner office to accost him.

  “Are you the gentleman who rented Box 544?” asked this apparition in a low, suspicious tone of voice.

  He might have done better to get his question in earlier, or to have waited a few seconds longer; instead, he had chosen to place it as both he and his quarry attempted to emerge at the same moment through the narrow doorway. As a result, they found themselves wedged firmly together, breathing into each other’s faces. With a shrug that spun them both into the cobbled street, Carruthers turned to his questioner, a sharp retort upon his lips, but before he could release it belated recognition came.

  “Inspector Painter!” he cried in delight. “Of all people! My, it’s been years, you know! How’ve you been keeping?”

  “Mr. Carruthers! Billy-boy Carruthers! Oh, no! Not you!” The Inspector’s face fell as his eyes dropped to the bulging envelope beneath the other’s arm. “And I had thought—hoped…” His eyes came up; he spoke with sudden decision. “Still! Mr. Carruthers, about that envelope, and that advertisement—”

  “Oh, not here; not here!” Carruthers said impatiently. “My Lord, man, this is a reunion! It’s been absolutely ages! We’ll have to have something for it, you know.”