I, Detective

by Anthony North

  A moment later, Marmaduke Grey walked in. 'I must apologise for my behaviour, Perkins,' he said, 'but I had to get to the bottom of this.'

  'I don't understand,' said Mr Buckminster.

  'It's quite simple,' said Marmaduke. 'Even American law enforcement isn't quite that trigger happy. So I deduce that there were four outlaws who robbed the train, and one of them was determined to kill the others to keep all the money for himself.’ He smiled. 'And the fourth outlaw is you.'

  Mr Buckminster looked overawed. Finally, he said: 'And how did I end up here?'

  'I planted the address in the apartment for you to find.'

  'But Marmaduke,' I remonstrated, 'I could have been killed.'

  'Not after I removed the bullets from his gun when I asked him to explain it to me.'

  We both noticed a change in the situation at that point. Hames Buckminster seemed to be about to pounce. And it was at that point that Marmaduke drew his little Derringer from his pocket.

  Mr Buckminster sneered. 'And what do you think you can do with that little thing.'

  'A great deal more than you can do with yours,' answered Marmaduke. 'After all, I have bullets in mine.'

  A SHOT IN THE DARK

  In deciding to write about the adventures of my good friend Marmaduke Grey, I feel somewhat overawed. How does one express, in words, such absolute genius when my own mind is inferior to the task? Of course, this is not to denigrate my own abilities. Simply that, next to him, we are all inferior.

  We heard about the case whilst relaxing in Marmaduke's apartment. 'What do you think about the case, Perkins?' he asked as he sat there, pipe in one hand, newspaper in the other.

  A quick glance at the paper and I had the basic facts. The previous night a shot had been heard in a street not too far from us. Police had immediately been on the scene, found the body of one Henry Baxter and arrested a suspicious gentleman close by.

  'It seems an open and shut case to me,' I offered. To which Marmaduke Grey showed intense irritation and rushed for his coat and hat.

  'I'm not quite sure what you intend to discover here,' said the Inspector of Police a short time later. Marmaduke had summoned him to the scene of the crime and rushed there himself in a Hansom cab.

  'What do you make of it, Perkins?' he asked.

  I looked up and down the street. Scrutinised the ground. 'There is nothing out of the ordinary, Marmaduke,' I said.

  'Quite,' replied the great detective. 'But don't you think the lack of blood a little suspicious?'

  I had to admit when he pointed it out it was a little strange. I turned to the Inspector of Police: 'And the man was shot here, at close range?'

  'He was not,' interrupted Marmaduke Grey. 'There would be a pool of blood. No, gentlemen, he was shot elsewhere and placed here to distract the investigation.'

  Marmaduke Grey was always irritated when he had to wait. And as we sat in the police station waiting for the suspect to be brought to us, his irritation was rather worse than normal.

  'The fools,' he said, 'how could they ever have thought they had the killer? Goodness, they don't even have the gun.'

  I offered, on their behalf: 'They were of the opinion he had thrown it away, or placed it down a nearby sewer, where it was carried off by the drains.'

  'My dear Perkins, supposition can never replace evidence. And without evidence you have no basis upon which to suppose.'

  'But isn't such supposition the whole purpose of investigation?' I asked. After all, Marmaduke had forever told me of the importance of imagination in solving a mystery.

  'Absolutely,' he said. 'But only if you have a mind fit for the task.'

  He sneered as the Inspector of Police brought the suspect to him.

  Marmaduke looked him up and down. Finally, he said: 'And you are?'

  The man looked frightened. Finally, he said: 'My name is Rupert Anders, and I am innocent.'

  'Of course you are,' said Marmaduke, his irritation continuing. 'But if I am to prove that, we need your help to solve the case.'

  This was, of course, a surprise to me. ‘But Marmaduke,' I interrupted, 'if you are right and the man is innocent, then he will also be in the dark regarding the motive of the crime.'

  'In that, you are absolutely right. But for the murderer to have a suspect in place, he must have put him there. And in working out how that occurred, we can work back to the murderer, and from there intuit the motive.'

  I had to admit, it was a strange way of going about the case, but strangeness was a factor you had to get used to when working with Marmaduke Grey.

  To me, his interview with Rupert Anders had been of no use. But it was clear, to Marmaduke, that the interview held the solution.

  'A normal street, you will agree,' said Marmaduke as we exited the Hansom into the commercial area of the London district.

  'Absolutely,' I agreed.

  ‘And Mr Anders? Did he seem a normal man having a normal day?'

  'He did, indeed,' I agreed.

  'So what can you deduce from that?'

  I offered a blank stare.

  'But it is so obvious,' said Marmaduke. ‘The murder was an abnormal aberration in an otherwise normal situation.'

  We entered the shop a couple of minutes later.

  'You will recall that Mr Anders came into this shop in search of a particular item.' He looked the contents of the shop up and down. 'Aha!' he said, excitedly. He held just such an item in his hand.

  'But according to Mr Anders, the shopkeeper hadn't the item in question.'

  'Exactly,' said Marmaduke. 'But he did advice where such an item could be found.'

  I was beginning to understand. The shopkeeper had directed Mr Anders to the scene of the murder.

  'Our suspect was quite clear that the shopkeeper was overexcited and anxious. And if you recall, some time earlier, he had bumped into a gentleman in the street who was questioning passers-by in order to ascertain the location of a gentleman he suspected of having an assignation with his wife.'

  'Good grief,' I said, 'you mean to say you think the gentleman found him.'

  'I do. And that gentleman was the shopkeeper. And during the argument that followed, the shopkeeper shot the gentleman dead. And after the fact, he thought on his feet - directed Mr Anders to a specific location where he placed the body and fired a shot as Mr Anders approached.'

  His speech complete, Marmaduke Grey burst through the curtains to the back of the shop, whereupon we found the shopkeeper dead in a chair, a bullet hole through his temple, and a revolver on the floor by his feet.

  'Ah, the consequence of the normal man descending into crime. Guilt, my dear Perkins, the greatest detective of all.'

  HARD COP, SOFT COP

  A MINISTERIAL AFFAIR

  Detective Sergeant Jordan entered the room with an air of expectancy. It seemed as if he’d been a copper all his life, but although he enjoyed it, he knew that, at thirty five, he should be an Inspector by now. He knew, of course, what the problem was – he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut or tow the line. And with a new user-friendly police service – NOT force – he knew he was seen as a dinosaur.

  He turned his balding head to take in the room – called over the Alsatian which sat, peacefully, by a large leather settee. ‘Hello, chum,’ he said, stroking it affectionately. ‘I wonder if you know your master’s dead.’

  Jordan certainly knew he was. And it was his job to find out why. And he well knew that if he got this right, he’d be one step closer to that mythical Inspector.

  Sir Keith Masters had been found, dead, on the road below his balcony that morning. Jordan’s initial reaction on hearing the news had been that it was suicide, even though there was no evidence of psychological problems before hand. But even this conclusion would be an embarrassment for Sir Keith was – had – been a junior Minister at the Ministry of Defence.

  Murder had obviously to be considered, and it was to check out this possibility that he stood in Sir Keith’s study, the balcony vi
sible through the open french windows.

  He had been in the room, alone, for ten minutes, having found no sign of struggle or break-in, when the door opened, the Alsatian ran out, and in walked DS Tina Thompson.

  Jordan scowled. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said.

  Tina Thompson pushed back her long, auburn hair and her piercing brown eyes fixed on him. They had only worked together once before, and she’d wished it would never happen again. But the DCI had wanted her on the case, for he just didn’t trust Jordan’s tact. Telling him straight, Jordan paced the room. ‘Typical,’ he said, ‘bloody typical.’

  ‘Well I don’t like it any better than you do.’

  A silence followed, finally interrupted by Tina, saying: ‘So have you found anything?’

  ‘It’s as clean as a whistle.’

  Opening the french windows, Tina Thompson walked out onto the balcony, looked down, winced, and looked over the road. Momentarily distracted from the case in hand, she said: ‘Oh, isn’t that lovely.’

  Jordan followed her gaze, took in the Siamese cat sitting on the balcony opposite, and swore. ‘We do have a case to solve, you know.’

  Tina Thompson considered herself part of the new, caring police service. Just ten years in the job following her degree, she was on the fast track, not long, she knew, from her inspector. She hated coppers like Jordan and wished they would just disappear. The Met quite simply had no room for them any more. Rather, the future had to be caring, or all that would happen is the circle of crime would go on spinning round and round.

  ‘Not if we lock the sods up,’ said Jordan as they left Sir Keith’s flat and got into his car.

  Their destination was Sir Keith’s London constituency office. Walking into the office, Matthew Perkins was already waiting for them. Sir Keith’s constituency agent, both Jordan and Tina immediately noticed his shiftiness and realised he had something to hide.

  The interview was standard: ‘Did Sir Keith have any problems?’ ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?’ ‘And where were you between midnight and six o’clock this morning?’

  The answers were nothing more than they’d expected. ‘But he’s hiding something,’ said Jordan.

  Tina agreed, adding: ‘Of course. He’s having an affair with Sir Keith’s housekeeper.’

  Jordan whistled. ‘And how do you know that?’ he asked.

  ‘Because as we entered the office he slipped something quickly into his desk drawer. And when you were distracting him, I took a look.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘A snapshot of him arm in arm with the woman who let me into the flat this morning.’

  Jordan hated smart coppers, especially if they were female. It wasn’t that he was anti-feminist. Just old-fashioned.

  ‘So that puts him in the frame,’ he said as they got back into his car, heading back to Sir Keith’s flat.

  Tina sighed. ‘We can’t say that. Not yet. But it’s certainly suspicious that he didn’t want us to know.’

  ‘Well I go on hunches, love. And I’m telling you, it’s him.’

  ‘Don’t call me love.’

  ‘And they should hang him. Hang ‘em all. That’s what I say.’

  ‘Yea, yea, yea,’ said Tina, sitting back in her seat, wishing the day would end.

  Jennifer Armstrong was maybe forty five, her good looks just beginning to disappear under a profusion of wrinkles. Tina immediately noticed two things about her as she sat in front of them. First, she just didn’t seem the housekeeper sort. And second, she had been crying a lot, and even now, was forcing herself to hold back the tears. It was midway through the interview that Jordan dropped the bombshell:

  ‘And what did Sir Keith think about your affair with Matthew Perkins?’

  Ms Armstrong was clearly rattled by this, and Tina just couldn’t get it out of her head that she thought it had nothing to do with the case. And it was then that her own intuition struck – a much more fundamental thing, she knew, than Jordan’s animal-like hunches. Excusing herself from the interview, she wandered about the flat, looking for the tell-tale signs she was sure she would find.

  ‘Well I don’t think that added anything to the investigation,’ said Jordan when they left.

  ‘I disagree,’ said Tina, feeling rather smug, and determined to show Jordan up for the dinosaur he was.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jordan, ‘and why’s that?’

  ‘She was far too upset, so I looked round the flat. There was no sign of Sir Keith having any woman friends visiting him. He’s not gay, so that’s unusual for a man in his position. But I did notice that Jennifer Armstrong’s room had not been slept in for God knows how long.’

  ‘So what are you getting at?’

  Is he dumb, or what, thought Tina. ‘That they slept together, of course.’

  Jordan whistled. He had a nasty habit of doing that, thought Tina. ‘So we’ve got a motive,’ he said.

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘But which one did it?’

  ‘That’s what we have to find out.’ Which was rather like stating the obvious.

  The rest of the day was spent at the station, making calls and confirming that Sir Keith AND Matthew Perkins were lovers of Ms Armstrong. The following day they would have to find out who pushed him off the balcony. Tina Thompson spent most of the night mulling on the matter.

  The next morning she entered Sir Keith’s flat. Jordan was sat on the settee, stroking the Alsatian as it sat, patiently, next to him. ‘If only you could talk,’ he said, prompting Tina Thompson to question his hands-on technique.

  Jennifer Armstrong entered the study, then. ‘What is it this time?’ she said, irritated.

  Tina was about to put the question delicately, when Jordan interrupted and said: ‘So you’ve been playing around. All I want to know is who pushed him? You or Perkins?’

  Jennifer Armstrong broke down at that point. Tina Thompson had had enough and needed some fresh air. She opened the french windows and walked out onto the balcony. Embarrassed by Ms Armstrong’s tears, Jordan joined her, and as Tina flashed him a look that could kill, said: ‘I know, I know, I’m not good at tact.’

  ‘Well we’ll never find out which of them did it, now, will we?’ said Tina, walking back into the study.

  Jordan looked over the road as he leaned on the balcony. As the Siamese cat appeared once more, he said, ‘your cat’s back.’

  Tina Thompson suddenly stopped in her tracks. ‘What did you say?’ she asked. Whilst at the same moment the Alsatian spotted the cat, growled, and bounded towards the balcony. With a warning of ‘watch out!’ from Tina, Jordan jumped out of the way just before the dog would have sent him spiralling to his death.

  ‘Jordan?’ said Tina as they were about to leave. As he looked round, she held up the dog lead, as if a noose, and tugged. Then, following a trail of expletives, she smiled and followed him out.

  RUN, DADDY, RUN

  Detective Sergeant Jordan had not had a good clear-up rate of late, and it seemed to him he failed whenever DS Thompson was around. 'Tina,' he said as he sat behind his desk. 'I think you're a jinx.'

  'Well thanks a lot, sergeant. I really appreciate that.'

  'No. I mean it. We just don't seem to get anywhere working together. I reckon we should split up.'

  Tina Thompson stared. 'Anyone would think we're lovers or something.' Which Jordan had to admit was a thought.

  Luckily for both of them, the phone rang at that moment. 'Jordan,' he said, the thought still on his mind.

  A weasely voice came from the other end of the line. 'It's Barney,' said the voice, 'I ain't got long. Listen. There's been a kidnap.'

  Jordan was immediately alert. Barney was one of his best snouts. 'Who?' he said.

  'Don't know. All I know is the name is Hartford.'

  The line went dead, then. 'Tina,' said Jordan, 'have we any rich families in the area called Hartford?'

  James Hartford Jr had a distinct hate for his
father, James Snr. Forever following in his coattails, it was his father who had built up a successful business, and forever held him down, refusing to retire to let his son take over, even though he had a serious heart condition. Maybe James Jr should have gone it alone, if he had had the guts to take on the world by himself, that is. But a pampered upbringing had stilted the urges he would have needed to do so. Hence, even though his father looked after him, his inadequacies had produced the obvious enmity he now showed.

  Overweight and pompous in the extreme, father and son sat in James Jr's study waiting for the phone call. And sure enough, it came bang on time. James Jr picked it up. Said: 'Where's my wife? Is she alright? Tell me.'

  The voice was curt on the end of the line. 'Shut up,' it said, 'and put your father on.'

  James Jr appeared irritated by this, but did as he was told.

  James Snr put the receiver to his ear. 'Yes,' he said in his usual businesslike fashion.

  'You got the money?'

  'Yes. It's here, in the bag.'

  'Right. Get in your car in ten minutes and drive to the shopping centre. Wait by the phones by the burger bar. I'll be in touch.'

  James Hartford Snr put down the phone. 'They want me,' he said.

  'Don't be ridiculous,' said his son. 'Your heart condition.'

  He looked at his son. 'Well there isn't much we can do about that, is there? I take it you want your wife back alive?'

  If there is one thing Jordan hated, it was being nice. And as he walked out of the eighth drive of the morning with a clipboard in his hand, he had been nice to excess. 'Well I'm glad that's over. I could have smacked 'em all in the face.'

  Tina Thompson was equally irritated, but mainly with Jordan.

  The Hartford's had been easy to recognise as the possible victims of the kidnap. And they both had the wherewithal to not just turn up. Hence, the charade of door-to-door marketing, just in case the house was being watched.

  'Well it's over now. Just the Hartford’s left. Oh, and Jordan,' she said as they walked down the Hartford's drive, 'do try to continue being nice.'

  The door, when they rang the bell, was answered by James Hartford Jr. 'Yes,' he snapped, irritated. 'What do you want?'