The Snark was a Boojum

by Gerald Verner

  “Easy!” exploded Major Wintringham-Smythe testily. “My dear sir, there’s nothing easy about any of this. Good heavens! Indiscriminate killing is the hardest kind to track down . . . If we’re up against a homicidal maniac we’re going to have our work cut out, eh, Halliday?”

  “I agree, sir,” said Halliday diplomatically with a warning glance at Gale. “I don’t think Mr. Gale meant easy in that respect . . .”

  I couldn’t help thinking to myself that tact was not one of Simon Gale’s strong points and diplomacy was probably out of the question. He seemed to be looking for an argument.

  “Of course, I didn’t,” cried Gale, waving the idea away with a sweep of his arm. “Only a blither . . .”

  Halliday coughed loudly and came in hastily: “You think there is a motive behind these murders, don’t you sir? I mean a real sensible motive . . .”

  “I don’t see it,” insisted the Deputy Chief Constable holding his ground. “Why all this pantomime stuff—nonsense verses and such like? How does this fit in with anything sensible?”

  “It’s out of sequence,” answered Gale, glaring at him.

  The Deputy Chief Constable frowned. “Out of sequence . . . What’s out of sequence?”

  Halliday also looked puzzled.

  Gale found a match, struck it into flame on his thumb nail, and lit another cigarette. He blew out a cloud of poisonous smoke. “Well, d’you see how the murderer went to a great deal of trouble to keep the analogy of the nonsense verse authentic? The vanishing of Baker—the way Gifford was found, and all the rest of the trimmings . . . Having gone to all this trouble to get the detail right, why did he reverse the order?”

  “Reverse the order?” repeated the Deputy Chief Constable, dropping the pencil he had been playing with, and leaning back in the swivel desk-chair.

  Gale nodded vigorously. “He killed Baker first and then Gifford. If he’d just been following the verses in order he’d have murdered them the other way round, d’you see?”

  Into Halliday’s eyes came a sudden flicker of understanding and interest.

  “I see what you’re getting at, sir,” he said thoughtfully. “If there was a reason for changing the order then there must have been a plan. If you’re just on a killing spree for the fun of it why do that?”

  “Exactly!” exclaimed Gale, grinning at him approvingly. “Hole in one!”

  “I see your point Gale,” conceded the Major, pulling his waistcoat down over his spreading stomach. “But I think it’s slender. Someone who is insane could well be erratic. There is no logic in it.”

  “No, no, no,” Simon Gale shook his head emphatically. “To an insane man the whole thing ’ud have to be done right, d’you see? Having got the idea in his mad head—a sort of idée fixe—it ’ud have to be carried out correctly down to the last detail. That’s how that kind of crazy brain works . . .”

  “Can you suggest a logical reason these murders had to be committed the wrong way round?” asked Halliday.

  Gale ruffled his fingers through his hair and frowned ferociously. “We don’t know enough yet but my first thought would be necessity. It became necessary to kill Baker first beyond the murderer’s control. I’m certain we’ll find a logical reason as information becomes available. Who was Baker? What was Baker doing in Little Bramsham? Why was Baker killed? What was the motive? And why did the murderer think his little plan would have been blown sky high if he’d killed Gifford first? There is some sort of connecting link . . .”

  I could feel his frustration like a negative energy force.

  “What sort of link?” asked the Deputy Chief Constable.

  “It might be anything, d’you see? Not much good trying to conjecture until we have some facts concerning Baker.”

  The Deputy Chief Constable turned his eyes towards Halliday.

  “What is being done about that?”

  We’ve started the usual enquiries, sir,” answered Halliday. “If any more letters arrive for him, I shall be notified at once and I’m having the laundry marks on the clothing we found in his lodgings traced. It won’t be long before we get results.”

  “In the meanwhile,” said the Major, leaning forward and once more picking up his pencil, “there are these people who were at the dinner-party at Hunter’s Meadow . . .”

  “They are being interviewed,” broke in Halliday quickly, “and any alibis checked.”

  “They’re our main suspects at the moment,” went on the Deputy Chief Constable, pressing the butt end of his pencil softly under his lower lip. “Quite obviously the murderer based his whole plan of campaign on what Mr. Gale said that night at dinner. I think we can take that as certain, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t think there’s much doubt about that,” agreed Halliday. “Particularly as Mr. Gale received that postcard . . .”

  “Ah, yes, the first postcard . . . That narrows suspects down to those who knew Mr. Gale was staying there, eh?”

  “Precisely, sir,” agreed Halliday.

  “Therefore,” continued Major Wintringham-Smythe, “the most likely person to be the murderer is someone who was present on that occasion. That’s common sense.” He looked from one to the other as if he expected some sign of approval. If he did, he was disappointed.

  Simon Gale was staring into the now silent gas fire. Halliday had dropped his eyes to his notebook and was scribbling down some sudden thought. Sergeant Lockyer, a picture of official stolidity, was staring straight in front of him, his thin face devoid of any expression whatever. I was wondering how this small group were ever going to solve this ghastly crime. Each behaving in their own way, they seemed incompetent to do so. Was my participation to be rewarded with an exercise in abject failure?

  “Of course we can’t rule out the possibility your Snark analogy leaked out, in which case we have to look further afield.” The Deputy Chief Constable frowned at this idea. “You’ll have to get a move on. The newspapers are going to sensationalise this to the hilt. We’ve got to show we’re getting somewhere or the Chief Constable will insist on calling in the help of Scotland Yard . . .”

  I saw Halliday’s face turn to stone.

  Major Wintringham-Smythe nodded, pleased at the effect of his threat. “You know what Sir Bertram is like, eh? He’s only interested in results.”

  “We’ll get them, sir.”

  The room fell silent as they pondered the prospect of failure and degradation. Suddenly Simon Gale’s voice boomed out:

  “They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; they pursued it with forks and hope; they threatened its life with a railway-share; they charmed it with smiles and soap.”

  I went cold. Smiles and soap? I thought of Zoe Anderson and her family business. Was it possible she was mixed up in this? It suddenly felt like I had walked out of the normal world through a looking glass where everything was turned upside down, bizarre and illogical. But that of course was exactly the environment the Snark wanted to achieve.

  Major Wintringham-Smythe completely misinterpreted what Gale was getting at. The Major’s shiny and well-shaven cheeks flushed with anger. “Really, sir, I do not think this an appropriate occasion for levity . . .”

  Gale looked at him in astonishment. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he cried. “It’s most appropriate, d’you see? That’s Lewis Carroll’s formula for hunting a Snark . . .”

  “I don’t think it will be of much use in catching our particular brand of Snark, Mr. Gale,” remarked Halliday with a sharp look that intimated if he wanted to remain working with the police he’d better tone down his attitude in front of the Deputy Chief Constable.

  “You don’t think so? If you want to catch a Snark think like a Snark?” He leaned forward across the filing cabinet, thrusting out his bearded chin and pointing his words with a stabbing forefinger. “Everything has a pattern, d’you see? There’s one here if we can find it. D’you know what a palimpsest is, hey?”

  We all stared blankly at him.

  “Well
, I’ll tell you. A palimpsest is an old parchment, or something similar, on which the original writing or design has been erased to make room for something else. If you take enough trouble and go about it the right way, you can decipher the original stuff beneath the superimposed material. That’s what we’ve got here. We have to discover the original design beneath all the superimposed stuff . . .”

  The telephone rang with a persistent and urgent shrillness. The Deputy Chief Constable reached out his arm and plucked the receiver from its rest, listened to the voice at the other end, and handed the receiver to Halliday. “It’s Detective Constable Hammond for you.”

  “Halliday here. Oh yes . . .” His face changed as the telephone chattered excitedly and he picked up a pencil to make some notes. “All right, I’ve got that. Yes . . . Well that’s very useful. We can work on that. Stay there and I’ll get back as soon as I can.” Halliday put the receiver slowly and carefully back on its rest. He looked at them with satisfaction. “This morning a letter arrived at the post office for William Baker. The station was notified and the letter was collected by Hammond . . .”

  Gale could contain himself no longer. “For the love of Mike!” he burst out. “Get to the point man! What did it tell you about Baker?”

  “It told us what Baker’s business was.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” cried Gale. “What was his business?”

  “He was a private detective.”

  To the astonishment of Major Wintringham-Smythe, Simon Gale greeted Halliday’s announcement with a loud and delighted whoop of joy. “What price your homicidal maniac now!” he cried. “The beginning of a pattern is beginning to emerge. D’you see a glimpse of what lies beneath the surface? A neat fit, eh? A private eye snooping about Lower Bramsham and somebody was afraid . . .?” He smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Somebody was afraid of what he might find out . . .?”

  I could see the police didn’t approve of Gale’s unrestrained zeal. Nevertheless he was right in my opinion. At last a positive break in this stymied investigation. Someone was afraid of William Baker, who was not at all what he seemed. I could share Gale’s excitement. Vividly there came into my mind again a picture of that fleeting exchange of glances between Ursula Bellman and Jack Weston when their masks had slipped . . . Had William Baker been working for old Joshua Bellman? Did he suspect . . . I paused realising I was getting carried away. Murder is a bit of an extreme way to conceal an affair. And it didn’t explain the death of Franklin Gifford.

  “The same thing struck me the moment I knew Baker’s profession,” said Halliday, nodding slowly. “It doesn’t tell us much. It was only a note asking Baker to contact his office . . .”

  “Who wrote it?” demanded the Deputy Chief Constable.

  “It doesn’t matter two pen’worth of pickled walnuts who wrote it,” interrupted Gale impatiently. “A private eye doesn’t work for himself—somebody’s got to hire him!” he glared at Halliday. “What’s the office address?”

  “16a, Gilder’s Court, Fetter Lane,” Halliday answered, referring to his hastily scribbled notes. “That’s not all . . . A telegram arrived shortly after from a Mr. James Lawson. It was sent from Chancery Lane at 9.55 and read: HOPE YOU ARE ALL RIGHT STOP TELEPHONE TO CONFIRM STOP JAMES.”

  “We’d better contact the City of London police,” said the Deputy Chief Constable. “Ask them to institute enquiries . . .”

  I saw a gleam come into Gale’s eye, as an expression of malignant and unholy joy contorted his face. “Rules, regulations, routine an’ red-tape!” he exclaimed derisively. He cocked an eye at me. “Come along, young feller,” he commanded, flinging the door open. “You and I are going Snark hunting.”

  With that, Gale was on his way.

  I bid a hasty goodbye to Halliday and the Deputy Chief Constable and followed him. As I closed the door I heard Major Wintringham-Smythe round on Halliday. “That fellow’s stark raving mad! I don’t ever want to see him again. For all we know he’s the Snark! It was all his idea in the first place wasn’t it?”

  Gale was waiting for me impatiently on the pavement outside the police station, tugging his beard and scowling.

  “Come on,” he grunted, grabbing me by the arm and striding off down the street at a pace I had trouble keeping up with.

  “Where are we going in such a hurry?” I asked.

  “To catch a train,” he cried.

  I realised at once what was happening. We were going to London to visit Baker’s offices in Gilder’s Court and steal a march on Halliday.

  “We’re going to London right now?”

  “Of course right now!” he answered. “Why would we delay, eh?”

  “That’s all very well,” I protested rather breathlessly, “But I have a job to do. I ought to be at Hunter’s Meadow working on Bellman’s acquisition . . .”

  Gale waved Hunter’s Meadow and Joshua Bellman out of existence with a dismissive gesture that almost knocked over an innocent passerby. “I’ll sort it out,” he growled. “I’ll explain to Bellman when we get back. This is urgent, d’you see? The blessed acquisition can wait . . .”

  I didn’t think Bellman would agree that his acquisition could wait, but arguing with Simon Gale, I had quickly discovered, was a definite waste of time and energy. Of course I felt relieved that Gale was going to put things right with Bellman—I didn’t want to miss anything.

  When we reached Marling Junction we had a twenty minute wait for the next train to London. Gale bought two first class tickets, ignoring my efforts to pay for my own.

  “Do you see a post box anywhere?” he asked me, scanning the area.

  “There’s one outside the entrance. A short way along the wall, on the left.”

  Then he propelled me into the station buffet, where he ordered beer.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said and went off in a hurry.

  When he came back he looked pleased with himself. “The last post goes at five forty-five. Whoever killed Baker intended to kill him, it was premeditated. I’ll bet you all the gold in Klondike that postcard was posted in that box out there, before the departure of the last train. Now assuming he didn’t magic the postcard out of thin air, he had it with him.” He began downing his pint at a single draught and immediately ordered another.

  “William Baker was on the train?” I asked.

  “Well, would you lug a dead weight body up all those steps and along to a waiting room? Yes, young feller, Baker was on the last train, and so was the Snark!”

  “What about the ticket office?” I ventured.

  Gale growled. “Not helpful. Just asked—no one there was on duty Monday night. Halliday can sort that out.” He picked up his beer and took a huge draft.

  I looked at my watch. “We’ve got two minutes,” I said.

  “Now, young feller,” Gale began, finishing his beer, “this is where your firm comes in . . .”

  “My firm?” I demanded.

  “We can’t just walk into Baker’s offices and start demanding answers to questions,” he answered. “We’re not the police . . .”

  I suddenly felt apprehensive. What was Gale up to now?

  “No, we can’t just walk in . . . We need validity . . .”

  “You want us to pretend to be solicitors?” I asked.

  He began walking towards the door of the buffet. “You don’t need to pretend, eh?” he growled. “You are a solicitor!”

  “Well . . . solicitors aren’t police,” I said cautiously following him. “It all rather depends on who we’re talking to . . .”

  “We’ll give it our best shot,” insisted Gale, dismissing any sort of caution.

  The train came in as we reached the platform, announcing its presence by letting off steam with a continuous and eldritch shriek. Gale found an empty compartment and ensconcing himself in a corner by the window, began to roll one of his poisonous cigarettes. I took the seat opposite to him and lit one of my own, as a slight measure against the acri
d clouds of smoke with which he was soon contaminating the air.

  The ear-splitting din from the engine ceased abruptly. The train gave a sudden convulsive jerk forward and stopped again. The engine emitted a series of blasts and the train began to move again, this time more smoothly, sliding out of the station with gathering speed.

  Simon Gale was scowling out of the window with his bushy brows drawn low over his eyes and the fingers of one hand twining in an out of his beard. Apparently he was entirely occupied with his thoughts. Settling back I began to ponder the problem that had bothered me ever since I’d discovered what William Baker’s profession had been. Should I tell Gale what I had seen that night in the saloon bar of the Golden Crust? Normally I wouldn’t have dreamed of disclosing to anyone something of that nature I had inadvertently witnessed. But this was a murder investigation . . .

  I glimpsed in my mind the naked contorted body of William Baker in the dismal waiting room at Farley Halt and the grotesquely dressed up corpse of Franklin Gifford in his flat above the bank, and decided to tell Gale what I had seen.

  “Ursula Bellman, and young Weston? Do you think I missed that one, hey? It was so instantly obvious that a one-eyed sailor with a patch over the other eye could have seen it!” he retorted ungraciously.

  “I thought we were the only . . .”

  “You and that girl, Zoe?” he interjected unkindly. “You’ve been worrying, eh? You think old Bellman hired Baker to keep an eye on his wife? It’s quite possible you’re right. You think Ursula and Weston had a pretty good motive for getting rid of Baker, hey?”

  “That seems a bit extreme,” I ventured.

  Gale leaned forward. “I agree. It doesn’t quite fit, d’you see. What about Gifford, hey?”

  “Exactly,” I responded. “Too simple . . .” Then I thought I saw the answer. “Too obvious,” I said excitedly. “If Bellman had engaged Baker to spy on his wife, and just Baker had been killed, Bellman would have guessed straight away who was responsible. Maybe Gifford was murdered as a cover up to throw everyone off the scent, concealing the real motive . . .”