Drex gritted his teeth, exerted all his force, and slammed in his left. It collided with the other’s chin with battering-ram force and the man tottered for a split second on the edge of the pool—then toppled with a mighty splash into the dark and ill-omened depths. With his breathing scarcely accelerated, Quentin Drex straightened, then raced for the brass valve which controlled the inflow and outlet of the water.
With a jerk he twisted the lever, but no movement came from the limp figure of his assailant, which had sunk like a stone.
A grim and mirthless smile twisted the features of the Man with the Scarlet Skull.
‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘The cyanide. It’s saved the hangman a job, at least. The end was swifter than he deserved.’
With a gurgle and a roar the water rushed through the waste pipes.
‘Come, Alpha!’ said Quentin Drex. ‘Thank goodness neither prussic acid nor water can harm you!’
Slowly the automaton’s steel figure came into motion in response to its master’s voice.
The water had no effect on its amazing mechanism, and it was quite impervious even to the shimmering death of the pool.
As it lumbered towards him, Drex stepped forward to the head of the steps.
He placed his hand in the robot’s pocket and pulled out the steel cage.
He flashed his torch on to it. Inside was the skeleton of a rat.
From the distance a clock struck eleven.
‘Time to get back, Alpha!’ said Quentin Drex quietly.
Constable Berry stifled a yawn as he stood on duty beneath the arched portico of that red brick building in Whitehall which houses the C.I.D. of Scotland Yard. He glanced up at the dial of Big Ben, opposite.
It was nearly three a.m., and he sighed regretfully as he resumed his beat of the quadrangle.
‘There might have been a chance of a smoke if it wasn’t for the conference—confound it!’—he mused with another upward glance at the lighted window, behind which the Big Five were in conclave.
Nocturnal conferences were fairly unusual at Scotland Yard, but the circumstances were exceptional this time.
Berry cursed his superiors heartily as he resumed his measured beat, and he dwelt with gloomy satisfaction on their failure to cope with the notorious ‘Hertford Horror.’
‘Be another Jack the Ripper case, I expect!’ he murmured. ‘Old Blacklock won’t ’arf go wild if it is. ’Nother unsolved mystery—’
He broke off suddenly as something fell with a metallic rattle almost at his feet.
‘Hallo! What’s this?’ he demanded, staring wrathfully upwards. Far above him hovered a motionless object, like an enormous grey hawk. For a moment it hung there, then with a low hum of its almost soundless engines, vanished.
‘Gosh!’ said the constable indignantly. ‘Might have brained me.’
He stooped down and picked up a small steel container with a label addressed to Detective-Inspector Blacklock and marked ‘Urgent.’
‘Strewth!’ said Constable Berry, and two minutes later burst into the august presence of the Big Five with his story.
Blacklock stared incredulously at his subordinate and at his chiefs.
‘Extraordinary!’ said the Assistant Commissioner. ‘Careful how you handle that, Blacklock! It might be a bomb!’
‘It is!’ said the Yard man, as he opened the parcel and scanned its contents—two sheets of notepaper in a familiar handwriting.
‘Excuse me a moment, sir,’ he added, ‘but I fancy the Cheriton Case is solved.’
In dead silence he proceeded to read the following missive:
‘My Dear Blacklock,—
Having the utmost confidence in your intelligence, I append the following facts for your guidance and necessary action. I am afraid the murderer of poor Gillie Fletcher and the unfortunate Jem Walker will never be arrested, however.
‘His body will be found in the swimming pool, together with certain interesting piscatorial fauna, both killed by cyanide of potassium.
‘Walker’s body will be found in Lyveden Mortuary. The basic facts of the case are comparatively simple, and I am afraid you have allowed village gossip and the spectacular setting of the crime to obscure the issue.
‘Briefly, my investigations have shown that Gillie Fletcher was murdered by accident, and that Jem Walker was murdered deliberately.
‘The murderer is, of course, Captain Stephen Hawksbee; the motive throughout was his greed and jealousy of his cousin, Sir Charles Cheriton.
‘The man was undoubtedly a monomaniac, and bitterly resented being deprived of what he considered to be his rightful inheritance.
‘As an explorer and big game hunter in South America he was also a keen naturalist, and it was undoubtedly on the Amazon that he first met what the papers picturesquely call the Shimmering Death.
‘Actually you will find hundreds of specimens of this most ferocious of all fish in the swimming pool, but I have taken the precaution of killing them by cyanide.
‘Unfortunately Hawksbee also accidentally fell into the poisoned water.
‘Why the man bred these terrible creatures I cannot conjecture. The fish infest certain regions of Brazil and Paraguay, and in appearance are the size of a very small herring.
‘It is known as the Pirkana, or Tiger fish, and invariably swims in shoals. It is so ferocious that it can strip the flesh off a horse or an ox in a few minutes, and is the most dreaded of all jungle perils by the natives.
‘Perhaps some perverse instinct caused Hawksbee to spawn his devil fish, or perhaps he deliberately cultivated it as a murder weapon. We can never know for certain.
‘One thing, however, is sure, he took advantage of the old legend of the Silver Bride, and might have succeeded in his ambition of murdering Sir Charles and his brother and inheriting the manor.
‘Incidentally, young Tony Cheriton is safe. I rescued him tonight. He was held prisoner in the Greek Temple where Hawksbee had the hiding-place of his terrible pets in a large tank connected with the feed pipe of the pool.
‘The Pirkana are hardly ever satiated, and can sense the presence of flesh at a long distance. Hawksbee used to tempt the shoal back to their tank by raw meat, and it was discreet inquiries at the local tradesmen that first put me on to the solution of the problem.
‘Ostensibly Hawksbee obtained raw meat for his dogs, but I learned later that he had got rid of them months ago.
‘Poor Walker’s dog was the first victim—and then Walker himself, who must have stumbled across the devilish aquarium by accident.
‘He was murdered because he knew too much, and Hawksbee then devised the ingenious idea of arraying Walker’s skeleton in his own clothes so that he should be immune from suspicion.
‘As for poor Fletcher’s tragic end to a drunken frolic, I suspect that the hidden assassin mistook him for Sir Charles. Fletcher and the baronet were both of the same build.
‘I fancy I have disposed of all the Pirkana, but I should make sure, my dear fellow, as I had no time to investigate Hawksbee’s house.
‘His sister is quite innocent of complicity in the crimes. She is, I should say, feeble-minded. Undoubtedly there is insanity in the Hawksbee family, and I do not think he would have ever faced the scaffold.
‘One last point; even I was momentarily deceived by the Silver Bride, but on investigation I discovered it was an optical illusion.
‘The lights from the decorated Chinese lanterns on the trees reflected on water play strange tricks, especially accompanied by the shimmer of a shoal of Pirkana. It gives the impression of a silver bridal dress.
‘A vivid imagination is useful, my dear Blacklock, but is apt to confuse the issue in the science of pure ratiocination and deduction.
‘Yours sincerely,
‘Q. E. D.’
‘And who the devil is Q. E. D.?’ as
ked the Assistant Commissioner later, knowing nothing of Quentin Ellery Drex.
‘Euclid!’ said Nick Blacklock, with a rueful grin. ‘I always hated him at school. The blighter was always right!’
Four Friends and Death
Christopher St John Sprigg
Long after his tragically early death in the Spanish Civil War, Christopher St John Sprigg (1907–1937) was remembered, primarily as a Marxist poet and commentator. He used the pen-name Christopher Caudwell for his serious writing, while his lively detective fiction appeared under his own name. Whereas several of the writers whose stories appear in this book were highly experienced sailors with a deep knowledge of sea lore, Sprigg’s particular expertise lay in the field of aeronautics, and his other publications included The Airship: Its Design, History, Operation and Future and Fly with Me: An Elementary Textbook on the Art of Piloting.
Recent years have seen a revival of interest in Sprigg’s engaging mysteries, fuelled by the republication in 2015 of Death of an Airman (1934) as a British Library Crime Classic. His career as a published crime author lasted a mere five years, and he only wrote a handful of short stories, one of which, ‘Death at 8.30’, is an impossible crime puzzle included in the British Library anthology Miraculous Mysteries. This story, which illustrates his all-too-brief enthusiasm for the classic mystery, first appeared in The 20-Story Magazine in March 1935.
The small yacht floated motionless, mirrored in the calm waters of Vigo Harbour. Her split headsail, tattered pennant, and stove-in dinghy were mute evidence of the storms that had battered the ketch in the Bay of Biscay, three days out from Falmouth.
In the saloon the four amateur yachtsmen were celebrating their successful completion of the trip by a glass each of excellent cognac, which washed down a meal of tinned salmon, tinned peaches, and coffee extract prepared by Dr Garrett, a well-meaning but indifferent cook.
‘Cheerio!’ said Dr Garrett, lifting his glass. ‘Cheerio!’ answered Hopkins, Leathart, and Pickering.
Pickering’s greeting seemed particularly hearty, yet immediately after drinking the brandy he gave a moan, flung out his arms, and fell prone.
There was a sudden silence in the cabin. Leathart’s rubicund face turned pale; he touched Pickering’s livid features with a trembling hand, then helplessly loosened his collar.
Hopkins’ eyes gleamed behind their pebble glasses, but he made no move. Garrett, with the expert indifference of the medical man, stepped forward, grasped the fallen man’s wrist a moment, and then rolled back his eyelid.
‘Dead,’ he pronounced solemnly, straightening himself.
‘Good heavens!’ stammered Leathart incredulously. ‘What, why—Has he had a heart attack? Pickering dead! I can’t somehow—’
His voice trailed off into silence as he stared at the limp form of that prosperous banker, their host; a moment ago apparently in the prime of life and now stricken down as if by a physical blow.
Leathart was going to say, ‘I can’t somehow cotton on to it…’ but there was no evading the ghastly reality, the deadness of that inert mass, which had a moment before been living flesh, joking and laughing.
Hopkins still said nothing. His eyes moved from Leathart to Dr Garrett who was busy about the body. Now he was prising open the mouth…
Even at a death, Leathart couldn’t help thinking, Hopkins is the same Hopkins; the famous novelist, the remorseless psychological observer, noting, watching, and never showing his hand.
His personality had grated a little on Leathart when they had first met; it was alien to the breezy openness of the Yorkshire Turf commission agent; but they had been brought together by a common love of the sea, and in the ten years that followed Leathart had grown to respect Hopkins’ qualities. A good man in an emergency!
Dr Garrett now stood up, and covered the face of the dead man with his handkerchief. He wiped his hands slowly on a table napkin, gazing into space, his saturnine face expressionless, and said;
‘No, it’s not a heart attack. He’s been poisoned.’
‘Poisoned, Garrett?’ exclaimed Leathart. ‘Oh, come! It’s impossible!’
‘Poisoned!’ repeated Hopkins; saying it slowly; almost as if (Leathart thought) he was savouring the phrase on his tongue. But that must be imagination. Just Hopkins’ manner. For Pickering had been his friend…
‘Hydrocyanic acid,’ said Garrett, still gazing away from them. ‘Prussic acid, as the layman calls it. No post-mortem is necessary; it’s the most easily detected of poisons.
‘I can smell it on his lips and see its traces on his face.’ He lifted up the glass of brandy. ‘And here is the way it was given him.’
The full horror of this now struck Leathart. He found himself unable to do more than bleat a few inarticulate sounds.
‘Well,’ said Dr Garrett, with a trace of impatience, ‘what are we going to do about it?’
‘Yes, what are we going to do about it?’ repeated Hopkins, looking at Leathart queerly, almost as if he were amused by this appalling tragedy. But this again could only be Leathart’s imagination.
Another long silence followed. The wind had risen and a gentle breeze lapped the ripples softly against the hull; somewhere abeam a siren hooted, as a ship manoeuvred in mid-harbour.
After the buffeting of the Bay, the tension of the incessant pitching and rolling and rattle of the rigging, the scene was a peaceful one; and the faces of the three living men in the cabin might have been those of men calmly resting after a strenuous voyage.
But actually, behind each expressionless face, the thoughts were racing; and it was perhaps natural that Hopkins’ mind, used to reflection on complex trains of events, should come to a decision first.
‘It would be foolish,’ he said quietly, peering for a moment at the dead form, then, his eyes flickering away, at Leathart, ‘it would be foolish to deny the obvious implications of this distressing event.
‘Poor Pickering has either killed himself or been poisoned. I think we must all agree that it is highly unlikely that he killed himself. No one could be more cheery than Pickering has been during the last two or three days.
‘In any event it is inconceivable that a man, however depressed, would kill himself, without a word, in the presence of three guests. Therefore he has been poisoned.
‘Poisoned,’ repeated Hopkins, his gaze moving to Garrett, ‘by one of us.’
Leathart gave a gasp, or it may have been a sigh; but said nothing. Garrett nodded gravely.
‘I am afraid you’re right, Hopkins. So here we are, moored in the middle of Vigo Harbour, and one of us a murderer.’
His lean, delicate fingers played thoughtfully with an extinguished cigar stub in front of him. ‘It’s not as if we were three casual acquaintances. We’ve known each other now for ten years, and we’ve been shipmates together twenty or thirty times.
‘We all know what that means: it means we know each other’s characters as intimately as it is possible for men to know them. The best and the worst of them.’
‘By God, you’re right!’ exclaimed Leathart gruffly. ‘And, say what you like, I simply can’t believe one of us poisoned Pickering!’ In spite of himself, his eyes rested again on the dead man with horror.
‘Nonetheless,’ Hopkins reminded him coldly, ‘one of us did.’
‘Yes, one of us did,’ went on Garrett. ‘We don’t know why. Now Pickering was also a friend. We haven’t known him as we’ve known each other, but we’ve run into him off and on.
‘We’ve chartered his yacht once or twice; and, now, here we are sat; and he’s dead, murdered by one of us.
‘Sooner or later we’ve got to turn the thing over to the police. I don’t know anything about Spanish police procedure, but even if it’s as fair as the English—which I doubt—there’s the language, which we don’t know; that alone will make things infernally unpleasant.
�
��We three have pulled through plenty of emergencies alone, and it seems to me that we ought to see if we can’t get on top of this one.’
‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ said Hopkins with a trace of irritation.
‘I’m suggesting that we hold a little court of inquiry of our own before we turn the matter over to the police.’
‘And give sentence?’ asked the novelist sardonically.
‘We may or may not do that,’ answered Garrett slowly. ‘Before we decide we must hear what the law calls the mitigating circumstances. After all, we’re friends…’
‘I see. In other words, let the murderer spill the beans, and if he’s got a good excuse we might help him to escape?’
‘And why not?’ asked Garrett defensively. ‘I may be wrong, but it does seem to me that there are circumstances in which murder might be excusable.’
‘You’re right,’ boomed Leathart, so unexpectedly that the others jumped.
‘Blackmail, for instance!’
‘Blackmail, Leathart?’ queried Hopkins, a surprised note in his voice.
‘And what,’ he went on suavely, ‘makes you think our dear friend Pickering was a blackmailer?’
There was no answer.
‘Supposing that after due consideration this court does not find the circumstances justify a recommendation to mercy?’
‘Then,’ said Garrett soberly, ‘I should like to offer to any friend of mine, however guilty, the decent way out.’
‘I see. Leave him alone with a revolver, eh?’
‘Well, have you any suggestion to make?’ countered Garrett. The tension of the atmosphere had frayed his temper a little.
‘I have none. I thoroughly agree with you.’
‘Yes, and I, too,’ said Leathart.
‘Carried, then!’ exclaimed Hopkins. ‘It seems to me that our brains will work a little more clearly without the fourth member of the party.’
Leathart shuddered, and it was Hopkins and Garrett between them who carried the limp form into the forecabin and laid it on one of the bunks.
‘The police will complain of our moving the body,’ Hopkins reminded his assistant.
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