Six Were Present: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “I burnt them,” replied Dewey. “I did not choose that anyone but myself should ever see them.”

  “You mean you destroyed written evidence as well as never warned us of what you practically knew your mother intended—your plain duty.”

  “Is it a son’s plain duty to denounce his mother?” asked Dewey in return. “Or for a daughter her mother? Rosamund did not think so. Never mind that. Will you read this?” As he spoke he put a letter on the table before Nixon. “It is from Mrs Outers asking you to hand over to me the African medicine bag belonging to her husband.”

  “Can’t do that,” Nixon said briskly. “It’ll be an important exhibit at the inquest for one thing. Besides, national importance. A new uranium field. Just what we want.”

  “Bigger and better bombs,” Dewey commented in his impassive way. “Exactly. That’s why.”

  “What do you mean?” Nixon asked suspiciously.

  “It may be of public interest,” Bobby interposed, “but at present it is private property. Now the investigation is closed, there is no power to interfere. What does Mrs Outers want done with it?”

  “Weighted, taken out to sea a hundred miles or more, and dropped overboard,” replied Dewey.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Nixon, dismayed.

  “Oh, well,” said Bobby approvingly; and to this day he is half-inclined to believe that he saw a quiver pass through it as it lay on the table next to the crutch, as though it—or its master—had heard and understood, and that for a moment, a moment and no more, there hovered above it the semblance, or, rather, the caricature, of a human face.

  Anyhow, however that may be, there the medicine bag lies, many many fathoms deep, and there presumably will lie till sea and land shall pass away and only eternity remain.

  THE END

  “Death on the Up-Lift”

  An Introductory Note

  “DEATH ON the Up-Lift”, described as “a problem in detection”, was the contribution of Ernest Robertson Punshon to a series of “original plays for broadcasting written by members of the Detection Club” for the British Broadcasting Corporation. For the series, the each contributor elected to set a challenge for his/her best known detective, in Punshon’s case Bobby Owen. Others contributing to the series included the Club’s irascible founder Anthony Berkeley, the poet laureate ‘Nicholas Blake’ (Cecil Day Lewis), H.C. Bailey, Gladys Mitchell and E.C. Bentley, whose novel Trent’s Last Case is regarded by some as marking the beginning of the Golden Age of detective fiction. Unfortunately no recordings of this rare but important series of mysteries appear to have survived, and – most frustratingly – the script of one play is incomplete.

  The Detection Club series was produced by John Cheatle, a stalwart of BBC radio drama, and each play was broadcast in two parts, the first as ‘The Crime’and the second, a few days later, as ‘The Solution’. “Death on the Up-Lift, Part 1” was broadcast on the BBC Home Service on 19 April 1941 and “Part 2” on 24 April 1941.

  Death on the Up-Lift was not Punshon’s only radio mystery. He also wrote The Body in the Heather, a short puzzle play featuring Dr Carteret, a wily coroner who appears to have been created by another member of the Detection Club, Margery Allingham. Carteret is unique in the Golden Age, a “round-robin” sleuth for whom cases were devised not only by Allingham and Punshon but also by John Dickson Carr, Gladys Mitchell, Freeman Wills Crofts and others. Under the title “A Corner in Crime”, two series of Carteret’s cases formed a segment within the popular British wartime radio series Here’s Wishing You Well Again. After the first part of each play, the listeners, mainly members of Britain’s armed services, were invited to send in a solution and compete for a cash prize. The Body in the Heather, broadcast on 2 December 1943, is the only one of Carteret’s cases for which a recording survives, complete with Punshon’s ‘challenge to the listener’. In the first part Carteret conducts an inquest into the shooting of “a person of decidedly shady activities in the London underworld”; in the second Carteret, reflecting on the evidence of the various witnesses, identifies a small but telling inconsistency that identifies the murderer. Three astute soldiers were as quick as Carteret, each winning a prize of ten shillings and sixpence, equivalent to about $75 today.

  Other radio plays by Punshon include The Word, “a fantasy in two dimensions”, broadcast on 3 July 1946, The Elderly Mrs Smith, broadcast on 4 September 1946, Sir John’s Little Bit of Gossip, broadcast on 31 January 1948; and The Poet Answered, broadcast on 25 February 1948. Like other members of the Detection Club, Punshon also made personal appearances and in 1945 he, together with Carr, Dorothy L. Sayers and others took part in the programme Detective Quiz.

  Tony Medawar

  DEATH ON THE UP-LIFT

  CHARACTERS:

  Page.

  First Reception Clerk.

  Second Reception Clerk.

  Liftman.

  Sir John Briggs.

  Stephen Smith.

  Charles Carter.

  Dick Fuller.

  Doctor.

  Detective-Inspector Bobby Owen.

  Chief Inspector Hunt.

  Sergeant Martin.

  The Assistant Commissioner of Police.

  Elsie White.

  Lady (Kathleen) Weedon.

  Mrs. Kate Smith.

  Voices in Hotel Lobby.

  The Scene is the lobby of a fashionable hotel – the Hotel Elegance – in the West End of London. There are heard the usual noises and scraps of dialogue common in such places. ‘Get me a taxi’; ‘I must have a room facing south’; ‘Just got my bill, make you pay through the nose, don’t they?’; ‘Hotel de Luxe, I suppose’; ‘Yes, I shall be staying another night’; ‘I’ve asked at the desk and they say they haven’t got it’; ‘They do you well enough here but I don’t call it any better than any other of the big hotels’; ‘Bring my bag down, will you? Room 483’; and so on and so on. Conspicuous through the various noises is the voice of a page boy, calling ‘Sir John Briggs, Sir John Briggs’ very loudly and clearly. Another voice says, equally clearly: ‘Is that the famous millionaire?’ and a third voice replies: ‘Some one seems to want him very badly’. The page’s voice dies away in the distance, still calling: ‘Sir John Briggs’.

  (The idea is that the page’s voice is loud and these last two sentences spoken very clearly, so that listeners may guess they have significance.)

  (a ’phone bell rings)

  1ST RECEP. CLERK. “Hotel Elegance” speaking. Reception desk. Yes. No. I am so sorry my lord. It is most unfortunate, but we simply have no private suite free at the moment. All occupied. Not likely to be free just yet, I’m afraid, my lord. Yes, most disappointing, but I’m sure your lordship would find the accommodation we could offer very comfortable – I could offer one of our most ideally situated rooms. No, I’m afraid it’s not on the ninth floor but in other respects unique – unique, I assure you. Thank you, my lord, we shall be most pleased to reserve it for you. Most gratified. Thank you. (Hangs up)

  (sound of cups)

  2ND REC. CLERK. Fathead. All the private suites are empty, except Sir John Briggs’s. If the office gets to know you’ve turned down an inquiry for one, you’ll be for it. Not so easy to get off these days, private suites aren’t.

  1ST R.C.. Fathead to you and then some. That was old Lord Meanmines – hasn’t got a bean to bless himself with and wouldn’t spend it if he had. If I told him there was a private suite vacant, he’d say ‘Oh, good’, and that’s the last we should hear of the old skinflint. Now he’s hooked. Put him down for the cheapest room we’ve got. Show him others first of course, but he’ll take the cheapest in the end. Only, mind, not on floor nine.

  2ND R.C.. Why not on nine?

  1ST R.C.. Good lord, man, use your brains, if you’ve got any. Sir John Briggs’s private suite is on nine, isn’t it? Have to be jolly careful who you put on nine. Half of ’em only want a chance to rub up against Briggs and get a Stock Exchange tip – especially just now if it’s true he’s
putting through a fresh deal.

  2ND R.C.. Ruining some more poor devils, I suppose.

  1ST R.C.. Well, that’s business, isn’t it? (’Phone rings) Hotel Elegance speaking. Reception desk. I’m afraid we are very full, but if you will hold the line one minute I’ll see what accommodation we have.

  2ND R.C.. Lashings of it.

  1ST R.C.. No wonder, seeing what the war’s done to the hotel business, Heil Hitler, blast him. Wish I could get at him with my bare hands. Can’t tell clients we’re three parts empty, though. (at ’phone) Hotel Elegance speaking. I find we can just manage – I beg your pardon. Excuse me. Do you mind repeating. I am not sure I heard correctly. I am exceedingly sorry sir, but we have no accommodation – none at all – without private bathroom. We find that all our clients make that a sine qua non. Naturally. No doubt the class of accommodation you require could be found in one of the outlying districts – Bloomsbury, for example. (hangs up) Tommy, what do you think of that? Seems to think this is a Hoxton pub.

  2ND R.C.. We do get some quaint inquiries and that’s a fact.

  (’phone rings)

  1ST R.C.. Reception desk, Hotel Elegance speaking. My God, Tommy, this is the limit.

  2ND R.C.. What do they want now?

  1ST R.C.. I am extremely sorry, sir. The Hotel Elegance is unable to quote lowest terms. The Hotel Elegance’s lowest terms are its highest terms – I mean, its highest terms are – that is to say – no doubt, sir, you will be able to secure the class of accommodation you require in one of the more outlying districts. West Kensington, perhaps. (hangs up) Tommy, did you hear that? Rather a good touch, eh? West Kensington, I mean. Ought to settle him, oughtn’t it?

  2ND R.C.. Is there a West Kensington?

  1ST R.C.. I daresay. Never heard of it, but there might be. (’phone rings) Hotel Elegance speaking. Oh, very gratifying to hear from you again, my lady. The hotel is certainly very full, but it would have to be very full indeed if we could not find accommodation for your ladyship.

  ELSIE WHITE. I. . . . I. . . . beg your pardon. . . . oh, please. . . . my name is White. . . . I mean. . . . Elsie White. . . . I. . . .

  1ST R.C.. One moment, miss, if you please. (at ’phone) Oh, yes, your ladyship, we have very suitable, pleasant accommodation on the third floor. A unique room. Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. It must be on nine? Yes, the view from nine is certainly superb. Most superb. Some of our guests find the lift ascent a little tedious – oh, of course, exactly as your ladyship pleases. I will reserve accommodation on floor nine. Thank you, my lady.

  2ND R.C.. Another of ’em wanting to rub shoulders with Johnny Briggs? Why did you let her have it?

  ELSIE. Oh, excuse me. . . . I’m so sorry. . . . could you please. . . . please. . . .

  1ST R.C.. Just one moment, miss, if you’ll kindly wait. I’ll attend to you in one moment.

  2ND R.C.. Well, why did you?

  1ST R.C.. That was Lady Weedon. Says she’s been in town all day and it’s got late and she doesn’t want to go home in the blackout. So she wants a room. Dining, too.

  2ND R.C.. Who is Lady Weedon?

  1ST R.C.. Good lord, man, do you never read your gossip columns? Better, if you want to keep your job – a reception clerk has got to be au fait. Lady Weedon was Mrs. Briggs till she divorced him over the Billy Jacks scandal. After he left the sea and settled down to owning ships instead of sailing them and before he cornered the metal market. It was his first really big coup. I don’t mean the scandal exactly. I mean the way he ruined Billy Jacks, diddled him out of his business, and got off with Mrs. Jacks as well. One of the smartest things ever done in the city of London where they are born smart. Billy Jacks had to be bound over to keep the peace for six months – he was threatening to murder Sir John. Of course, Sir John was only plain Mr. Briggs then. I expect he’ll be Baron Briggs if this new deal of his comes off.

  PAGE. (in distance) Sir John Briggs. Sir John Briggs.

  2ND R.C.. Paging him again.

  1ST R.C.. Some one does seem to want him pretty badly.

  2ND R.C.. If she divorced him, what’s the big idea? Putting her on the same floor. They’re bound to meet on the corridor or the lift. She won’t like it.

  1ST R.C.. My good ass, that’s her idea. Now she’s a widow and he’s stuffed with money, she’s angling to get him back – him and his millions.

  ELSIE. Please. . . . I’m so sorry. . . . if I’m interrupting. . . . but I must know . . . I must really. . . . I’m so sorry, but it is here where Sir John Briggs is, isn’t it?

  1ST R.C.. What about it if he is?

  ELSIE. I. . . . I want to see him, please.

  1ST R.C.. Have you an appointment?

  ELSIE. No . . . yes. . . . I mean . . . not exactly. . . . will you please let him know I’ve come. Miss White. Elsie White.

  1ST R.C.. All right. Take a seat over there, miss, I’ll let you know.

  ELSIE. Thank you – thank you. God help me.

  1ST R.C.. Tommy, hear that? What’s the matter with her?

  2ND R.C.. Got the wind up all right.

  1ST R.C.. If she were more of a high stepper, I should think she was one of his fancy women he’s chucked.

  2ND R.C.. She’s not such a bad looker. Wouldn’t mind having a date with her myself.

  1ST R.C.. Not Johnny Briggs’s style. He likes ’em – well, more lush like if you see what I mean.

  2ND R.C.. Aren’t you going to send her name up?

  1ST R.C.. Oh, no hurry. Miss Elsie White can wait. No good worrying Johnny Briggs unless you have to. It’s not safe – have your off as soon as look at you.

  2ND R.C.. She said he was expecting her.

  1ST R.C.. I’ve heard that one before. Look at her fidgeting there like a cat on hot bricks. Scared she is. Scared. If we wait a bit, very likely she’ll take herself off.

  2ND R.C.. She does look queer – excited. Been having a spot of drink, do you think?

  1ST R.C.. Might be that. Anyhow, she can wait. She’s no one. Not dressed even. Day clothes. Cheap gloves. Cheap shoes. Imitation pearl beads. You could buy her as she stands for five pounds. She can wait.

  2ND R.C.. Think so?

  1ST R.C.. Sure of it. At this job you soon learn to spot what people really matter. It don’t do to make mistakes and I never do.

  2ND R.C.. Strikes me there’s something rum about her.

  1ST R.C.. They often look a bit nervy when they want to see Sir John Briggs.

  2ND R.C.. Hadn’t we better tell the house dick to keep an eye on her?

  1ST R.C.. Didn’t you know? He’s managed to fall down and twist his ankle. Wilkins has gone off to hospital with him. That reminds me. Wilkins left a message for No. 3 lift.

  PAGE. (in distance) Sir John Briggs. Sir John Briggs.

  1ST R.C.. Hi, boy.

  PAGE. Yessir.

  1ST R.C.. Who is on No.3 lift?

  PAGE. William, sir. Just come on duty for the night shift.

  1ST R.C.. William? What William? There’s half a dozen Williams.

  PAGE. William Johns, sir.

  1ST R.C.. William Johns, eh? Well, why didn’t you say so? Tell him I’ve got a message for him from Mr. Wilkins.

  PAGE. Yessir!

  1ST R.C.. Stand by the lift till he comes down.

  PAGE. Yessir.

  2ND R.C.. What’s the big idea? The office sending that boy round paging Sir John. He’s in his private suite, isn’t he?

  1ST R.C.. Lets people know Sir John is staying here, doesn’t it? Why, I’ve known places send a boy round paging some swell – Lady this or Lord that – just to give the other guests a thrill – not that the Hotel Elegance would ever play a trick like that.

  2ND R.C.. Oh, ye-ah. Correct is our middle name, isn’t it? Why, when I said something in the office about the house dick, I got told off – wanted to know if I meant the hotel’s private detective.

  LIFTMAN. (he speaks very badly, with a strong cockney accent) Beg parding, that there boy was saying as ’ow there’s a messidge
for me from Mr. Wilkins.

  1ST R.C.. That’s right. You’re on No. 3 lift, aren’t you? You’re to run it as an express to floor nine and keep a sharp look out too. The house dick has hurt his foot and Mr. Wilkins has taken him to hospital, and so it’s up to you to stop any one trying to get up to nine unless they have business there. Sir John Briggs has been complaining at people hanging about the corridors and trying to speak to him.

  LIFTMAN. Always complaining of, ’e is, the old swine. ’Ow can I stop ’em? Anyone as wants can nip up the stairs, can’t they? The light’s that bad up there, top floor, what with this ’ere black-out and the lights shaded, you can’t ’ardly see nothink in a manner of spaiking.

  1ST R.C.. There’s a floorman posted on the stairs to stop that. You look after your lift and never mind the rest. Have you got new gloves? Sir John was complaining yesterday that your thumb was sticking out. Said it looked squalid and not the sort of service he expected here.

  LIFTMAN. Weren’t my fault. I put ’em on has issued. Pity some one didn’t do a bit of complaining about ’im. I saw ’im a-kissing of one of the chambermaids yesterday. Wish I had a chance to drop the dirty old blighter down the lift shaft.

  1ST R.C.. Don’t talk like that unless you want the sack. The office wouldn’t like to hear of its No. 1 guest going squash.

  2ND R.C.. Squash! Squash! I bet they would put it on the bill, though.

  LIFTMAN. Wouldn’t be ’ard a do. Lummy, I like to think of it.

  1ST R.C.. Did you report the girl?

  LIFTMAN. Wasn’t her fault.

  1ST R.C.. It’s always a girl’s fault when she’s kissed – if she’s a pretty girl, that is.

  2ND R.C.. Suppose she isn’t pretty?

  1ST R.C.. Then it’s her bit o’ luck. You get back to your lift, Mr William Johns, and don’t get dropping hotel guests down the lift shaft.

  LIFTMAN. All right. Quick and easy, though, it would be.

  1ST R.C.. Look out, there’s Lady Weedon just come in. Oh, Lady Weedon, such a pleasure to us all to see you again, if I may say so. I hope you will like your room. On floor nine, as you said. We are extraordinarily full, but I’ve transferred another guest to floor six. I shall have to say there was a mistake in the booking, I suppose. For such a valued visitor as Lady Weedon, we are always willing to do our best and you so specially said you wished accommodation on floor nine.