Four Days' Wonder

by A. A. Milne

  ‘Probably. When do I see you again? Come up and lunch with me in the City somewhere. Do. Why not?’

  ‘Sorry, darling. I’m lunching with Bertie.’

  Once again that curious tightening of the mouth was visible, which was the instinctive reaction in so many husbands when Bertie’s name was mentioned.

  ‘Must you?’ he asked.

  ‘Afraid so. It’s a date.’

  ‘What I meant was——’

  ‘I know what you meant, darling.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Henry with a shrug. ‘We’ll have supper somewhere after the show if you like.’

  ‘You know you hate it.’

  ‘As a habit. Not on special occasions.’

  ‘Darling, I’ve promised to have supper with O.D.’

  ‘That swine?’

  ‘That one.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Darling, as long as I know that he’s a swine, it’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s he after?’

  ‘Shakespeare at the moment. And a very long way after, I suspect, unless I keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Why choose your birthday of all days?’

  ‘Good Heavens,’ cried Julia, throwing up her arms to them, ‘if I mayn’t begin to arrange to play Juliet for the first time on my thirty-ninth birthday, when may I begin?’

  ‘Oh, I see . . . You’ve got lovely arms.’

  ‘I know. So had Juliet. “Arms, take your last embrace!” Oh, no, that was Romeo. Damn, I’ve upset the milk. Darling, take the tray away before it leaks, and then take yourself away. And we’ll have an early dinner together if you like, but I know you hate that.’

  ‘No, let’s. Somewhere near the theatre. I’ll be back by six. Good-bye, darling.’

  His arms took their last embrace, Julia said: ‘Oh, Henry, not again,’ and felt for the mirror. Henry went out.

  There were three parcels yet unopened. One was a book. John. Not really a birthday present, because he’d promised it to her anyhow. The next—oh, dear! The Ermyntrude child again. Real name: Gladys Walker. Age: nineteen. For nine years Gladys had had a passion for Miss Treherne, and on every birthday she sent the beloved one something of her own making. It was time, thought Julia, that she married some good, strong man and went to live in India.

  The third parcel was registered. Now whoever’s this, wondered Julia. This is rather exciting. Endover. Never heard of it. Who writes like that? Somebody.

  She cut the string and discovered a letter and a box. Should she open the box and see what somebody had sent her, or should she read the letter and see who the somebody was? She lit a cigarette, picked up the mirror and looked at herself again. Was that a spot coming on her chin? Curse all spots. No, nothing. She dropped the mirror on the bed and opened the letter.

  Archibald Fenton. Well! She read the letter. Well! (What was she doing on Sunday?) She opened the box. Well!

  She looked at the watch with ‘J’ in little diamonds for ‘Julia’, and began to think how sweet it was, and how nice of him—(he was the tall thin one, wasn’t he?)—and of course he oughtn’t to do a thing like that really, and she tried to disentangle him in her mind from all the other hundred men who might have given her watches with little diamonds on them, but hadn’t. She found this difficult, because to Julia all men, save her husband, were the same; just men; who said amusing things and complimentary things and paid the waiter and were called ‘Darling’; and if they had characters of their own, as she supposed they had, and souls, and aspirations, somehow she had never found time to explore them, nor they the impulse to reveal them. Perhaps it was because one didn’t at lunch, or at supper, or when dancing, or in a dressing-room, or at cocktail-parties, and these seemed to be the only times which she had. It was easy to know about women, to know one woman at a glance from another, but a dozen men trying to make a good impression were the same man, with nothing but their faces for remembrance.

  All the time that she was thinking this, and playing with the watch, another part of her mind was wondering what it was which had happened before like this. Where had she seen a watch like this? Who else had given her a watch like this? To whom else had Archibald Fenton given a watch like this? Surely somehow, somewhere . . .

  ‘My God!’ said Julia, and picked up the mirror, and looked at herself to see how surprised she was. ‘Clara!’

  ‘Yes, madam?’ said Clara, putting a head hastily in at the door.

  ‘Have you got last night’s paper in the kitchen? And the morning ones, too. Bring them all. Hurry!’

  Three minutes to study the papers, two minutes to make her plans. She was always a quick worker.

  ‘Bertie, is that you?’

  ‘Hallo!’

  ‘Julia. Listen. I want you to be at Scotland Yard at—— I must be quick, that’s all—at half-past eleven, and wait for me.’

  ‘At where?’

  ‘Scotland Yard. S for Scotland, Y for Yard.’

  ‘I say, are you being arrested?’

  ‘Keep the jokes for afterwards, Bertie. This is business. Now listen. Have two cameramen ready. Miss Julia Treherne entering Scotland Yard. Got it?’

  ‘May I ask what it’s all about?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. What time do the evening papers go to press?’

  ‘All day.’

  ‘Of course. Silly of me. Oh, well, that’s all right.’

  ‘You can’t give me an idea of what’s on?’

  ‘Well, listen. This is utterly private until I say. Bertie, it’s the Auburn Lodge murder!’

  ‘Thank God for all his mercies! I’d been wondering if we couldn’t get you into that. My dear, we can work this——’

  ‘No, but listen. I’m not absolutely certain if it’s——’

  ‘You aren’t Jenny, are you?’

  ‘Idiot, Jenny’s eighteen.’

  ‘That’s what made me ask.’

  ‘Sweet of you, angel. Now is that all right? I’ll see you when I come out, and tell you if we can use it.’

  ‘You’re sure you will come out? They haven’t got anything on you?’

  ‘Good Heavens, no, I’m all right. I’m giving important evidence——’

  ‘My dear, this is too marvellous. You’ll be a witness at the trial——’

  ‘Listen, Bertie. Not a word till I tell you. I may be wrong about it all, but I don’t think I am. Now we don’t want a mistake. Is there a main entrance to Scotland Yard, or are there a whole lot of little entrances, or only one or what? And how far can you drive in? I shall come in a taxi, and——’

  ‘None of that. I’ll call for you.’

  ‘Oh, but——’

  ‘I’ll arrange for the photographers now, and decide where to put them—— I rather see you making inquiries of a policeman outside the gates——’

  ‘That’s good, Bertie. Get a big policeman if you can. A big, fair one.’

  ‘I expect we shall have to take what’s provided. And then I’ll come and fetch you, and explain the words and business to you on the way. Eleven-fifteen. That all right?’

  ‘Well, I shall have to hurry. My God, I shall have to hurry.’

  She hooked up the receiver, took one look at herself in the hand-mirror to see if she had altered, and jumped out of bed.

  II

  ‘Now,’ said Inspector Marigold, curling his moustaches symmetrically with both hands, and gazing at the wall in front of him, ‘let’s see where we are. I’m going to run through what’s in my mind, and if there’s anything that isn’t quite straightforward, you say so. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw.

  ‘Right. Now then. The murderer is a short, stout feller of sedentary occupation. We know that because Hatch tells us so. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw.<
br />
  ‘Right. The man who pawned Jenny’s watch was also a short, stout feller, but whether of sedentary occupation or not has not yet transpired. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw.

  ‘Right. For working purposes we may assume that there’s not going to be two short, stout fellers mixed up in the same case. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw.

  ‘Now follow me closely, Bagshaw. I therefore deduce that the murderer is a short, stout feller with a fair moustache, because the short, stout feller who pawned Jenny’s watch had a fair moustache, and we have established, owing to there not being two short, stout fellers in the case, that he is the same short, stout feller as the other one. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw.

  ‘Now then. The man who pawns Jenny’s watch gives his name as William Makepeace Thackeray, thus using the name of a well-known literary classic. The natural deduction is that he himself is a literary man, as being conversant with the literary works of the said William Makepeace Thackeray. Right?’

  ‘Wait a moment there,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw, holding up a large hand. ‘What about me? I knew about Thackeray and I’m not a literary man.’

  ‘You knew about him from information received in the course of duty. That’s different.’

  ‘Ar, that’s different,’ agreed Bagshaw.

  ‘Very well then. On the one hand we see that the man who pawned Jenny’s watch is of literary habits, on the other hand we see that the man who murdered Jane Latour is of sedentary habits. Putting two and two together, we deduce that the murderer is a short, stout feller with a fair moustache of the sedentary occupation of literary work. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw.

  ‘Right. We get further proof of this, if further proof were necessary, by reason of the fact that the murderer may be presumed to move in the same circles as his victim, who was an actress, and as such likely to move in the same circles as a short, stout feller of literary habits. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw.

  ‘Right. We pass on. Leaving aside the question for further consideration whether the girl Jenny is victim or accomplice, we have the fact that two communications have transpired which may be assumed as coming directly or indirectly from the murderer, one, by letter-card from the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury, the other, by female voice, from the neighbourhood of Tunbridge Wells. Furthermore, we have been informed by Doctor Hatch that the murderer was undoubtedly left-handed. So,’ said Inspector Marigold to Sergeant Bagshaw, ‘summing the whole matter up, we come to this conclusion. What we want is a short, stout, left-handed author of fair moustache and literary occupation, who lives in Bloomsbury and has a place in the Tunbridge Wells district where he could take a girl. See what I mean?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw.

  ‘Well,’ said the Inspector, after an interval of silent moustache-curling, ‘now we’ve got to find him.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sergeant Bagshaw again.

  Vague pictures formed themselves in the Sergeant’s mind. He saw himself, disguised down to the boots as a literary man, moving in the literary circles of Bloomsbury, and keeping his eyes open for stoutness, and his ears alert for mention of William Makepeace Thackeray. The prospect did not please him; for, being unaware that the two main schools of fiction were the Beer School and the Gin School, he saw himself condemned to a long course of the barley-water and health-biscuits with which, for some reason, he had always associated literature. One day, p’raps in the British Museum Refreshment Room, he would meet a short, stout feller with a fair moustache, and they would get talking about Thackeray together, and then he would ask the feller to have a barley-water with him, and order two small b-w’s, and the feller would pick his glass up with the left hand, and then at last, he’d KNOW.

  But it was a dreary prospect for an ordinary human being. Sergeant Bagshaw blew out his cheeks in a sigh, and thought wistfully of the Edmonton murderer, who had taken him round gallantly to one Spring Meeting after another, before giving himself up, in sheer embarrassment, at Epsom.

  ‘Show her in,’ said the Inspector down the telephone. The Sergeant came out of his nightmare and looked up.

  ‘Sent round from Scotland Yard,’ explained the Inspector. ‘Julia Treherne, the actress. Something to tell us. Friend of the Latour woman probably.’

  Julia made a beautiful but extravagant entry. The camera-men were down below waiting for her to come out.

  ‘Miss Treherne?’ said the Inspector, rising. ‘Pray take a seat. Er—your husband?’

  ‘Lord, no,’ laughed Julia. ‘This is Bertie Klink.’

  ‘Oh—er——?’

  ‘Come to take care of me. D’you mind?’

  ‘You’re quite safe here, Miss Treherne,’ said Marigold with a gallant bow.

  ‘I’m never safe with a really handsome man, Inspector. Two really handsome men,’ she corrected herself, giving Sergeant Bagshaw a gracious smile.

  The Inspector, feeling a little annoyed at the inclusion of Bagshaw, and wishing to dissociate himself from his inferior, said: ‘Let me see, Miss Treherne, the last time I had the pleasure of seeing you on the stage was in The Bing Boys, I think.’

  Miss Treherne’s smile faded into coldness as she said: ‘Bertie, explain the difference between me and George Robey to the gentleman.’

  Bertie explained. The Inspector coughed officially, and asked Miss Treherne if she would be kind enough to state her business.

  Julia stated nothing. Very slowly she opened her bag; took from it a box; opened the box and produced something in tissue paper; removed the paper and placed a little diamond-studded watch in front of the Inspector. ‘Remind me at lunch to tell you a funny story about a small child at the Zoo,’ she said in a stage whisper to Bertie. ‘I’ve just remembered it.’

  Inspector Marigold had no time in which to wonder why the Zoo. He stared at the watch; then turned it over and stared at the back of it.

  ‘Where did you get this, madam?’ he asked.

  ‘A friend sent it to me to-day. It’s my birthday.’

  ‘Miss Treherne’s thirtieth birthday,’ explained Bertie.

  ‘May I have the name of the friend?’

  ‘Archibald Fenton,’ said Julia with something of an air, for even among the many famous people she knew, Archibald Fenton was not least.

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘What is Mr. Fenton’s occupation?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ said Julia, rather bewildered.

  ‘What does he do for a living?’

  Julia raised her eyebrows at Bertie, who said, with the careful articulation due to a deaf foreigner: ‘He writes.’

  ‘He wrote The Sign of the Cross and Huckleberry Finn,’ explained Julia.

  ‘And The Bride of Lammermoor,’ added Bertie.

  ‘But not,’ said Julia, ‘the poem beginning “There are fairies at the bottom of the garden”.’

  The Inspector and the Sergeant exchanged nods. Then the Inspector, caressing his moustache with trembling fingers, said: ‘Should I be correct, madam, in saying that Mr. Fenton is a short, stout gentleman?’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Not, madam?’ said the Inspector, amazed.

  ‘Well, how would you describe him, Bertie?’ asked Julia, wondering if she could possibly have got them muddled.

  ‘Near enough,’ said Bertie. ‘Short and fat.’

  ‘Ah!’ The Inspector was triumphant.

  ‘Then who’s the tall, thin one?’ whispered Julia, frantically.

  Bertie, misunderstanding her, said behind the back of his hand: ‘One’s an Inspector and the other’s a Sergeant.’

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Julia impatiently.

  ‘And should
I be right in saying, Madam, that he had a fair moustache?’

  Now she remembered him.

  ‘Oh, that one! Yes, that’s right, a fair moustache.’

  ‘And left-handed?’

  Julia wasn’t so sure of that. All she could say for certain was that he shook hands with the right. ‘Well, you know what I mean, Bertie, I’ve never seen him throw or play tennis or anything like that.’

  ‘And now, madam, if you could tell me a little more about the circumstances of the gift. Was it presented to you personally or——’

  ‘Oh no, by post.’

  ‘Did a letter accompany it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘May I see it?’ asked the Inspector, holding out his hand.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Julia, shaking her head, but smiling sweetly at him. ‘It’s rather private, you know.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must insist, madam.’

  ‘What nonsense! I’ve never heard such nonsense. Bertie, have you ever heard such nonsense?’

  ‘I don’t think Mr.——’

  ‘Klink. You know Bertie Klink? Bertie, I thought all the police knew you.’

  ‘I don’t think Mr. Klink’s opinion is going to help us. May I see that letter, madam?’

  With a shrug of her shoulders Julia opened her bag, took out Archibald’s letter, and pushed it down the front of her dress. ‘It’s going to be very uncomfortable down there all through lunch,’ she said reproachfully. ‘I shall probably crinkle every time I swallow, and people will think that I have some most irregular disease. Bertie, you’ll have to explain to them.’

  The Inspector stood up. So did Bertie.

  ‘Bertie,’ said Julia delightedly, ‘he’s going to assault me.’ The Inspector sat down again. So did Bertie.

  ‘I must warn you, madam,’ said Marigold sternly, ‘that your conduct is calculated to defeat the ends of justice——’

  ‘What nonsense!’

  ‘It is essential that I should know from where that letter was written.’

  ‘Well, my dear man, why didn’t you say so? Now I’ve got to—do you mind all looking at the ceiling while Bertie counts ten? It’s really gone down much farther than I meant.’