by John Rhode
‘I returned early to Inkerman Street that afternoon, and found my uncle half-asleep in his chair, as I had hoped. A little anæsthetic was sufficient to ensure compliance on his part, and I injected the dose I had determined upon. It was immediately apparent that my experiment had failed. His heart grew steadily weaker, and he died within an hour, without recovering consciousness or suffering in any way. The rest you know, Professor, since you have just explained it to us.’
He ceased, and for a moment there was silence. Then suddenly Vere spoke, hoarsely, but with uncontrollable interest. ‘What did you do with the old man’s money?’ she exclaimed.
Isidore turned to her with a smile. ‘Oh, I made sure of that,’ he replied. ‘I told you that I should have all the money I needed in future.’
The Professor nodded and turned to Harold. ‘You hear what this man says,’ he said gravely. ‘I fancy that, in essentials, at all events, he speaks the truth. With you, as being the living individual most nearly affected by his actions, lies the first word as to what course should be taken. A word on the telephone will bring Inspector Hanslet here, I am sure.’
Before Harold could answer, Vere sprang round the desk to Isidore’s side, and stood in front of him, as though to protect him from physical assault.
‘You shan’t touch him!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s been a brute to me, I’ll allow, and you can say he murdered old Samuels if you like. But if anybody ever deserved murdering, it was that old swine. And now you want to hand Isidore over to the police. Oh, you were all jolly glad to know him when you thought he was doing well. I’ll go into the box and tell them everything, how he was encouraged to come here, and what he came for. I’ll make you squirm, all of you, let me tell you that. You make me come here on the promise that I can help to clear Harold, and then surprise me into giving Isidore away. Oh, I’ve been a fool, I know, but I’ll make you pay for it if you touch Isidore, you mark my words.’
The Professor held up his hand in a vain attempt to check the torrent of vituperation, but it was not until Vere’s breath failed her that she ceased.
‘May I ask what is the true relationship between you and this man?’ he enquired mildly.
‘You might have guessed that long ago!’ she replied scornfully. ‘He’s my husband, and whatever he’s done I’m going to stick to him. He did his best for me after all; offered to release me when I had a chance of something better. Oh, yes, he had his own nest to feather, I’ll allow. But he won’t want to get rid of me for a second time, I warrant.’
She turned suddenly to Isidore and caught him by the arm, dragging him from the sofa on which he was still seated.
“We are going out of this house, and I would like to see who’ll stop us,’ she continued menacingly. ‘And if there’s mud to be thrown afterwards, I’ll take precious good care to see where most of it sticks. Oh, we’ll have the whole story out if you interfere with us, never fear!’
She walked swiftly towards the door, her arm closely linked in Isidore’s. Harold made a move as though to intercept them, but April, suddenly awakening from her apparent stupor, stretched out an appealing hand to arrest him.
‘Let them go!’ she said in a clear voice. ‘I couldn’t bear it, Daddy! Daddy dear, don’t let him stop them!’
Harold, irresolute, turned towards her and Vere and her husband gained the door without opposition. Vere turned for a moment as they passed him. ‘Good-bye. Harold,’ she whispered, half-regretfully. ‘We shan’t trouble you again now, never fear.’
The Professor gave no sign, either of assent or dissent. The three left behind in the study heard Vere’s eager fingers fumbling with the lock of the front door, heard the door open and slam behind them. Not till then did the Professor speak.
‘That is the end I hoped for!’ he exclaimed quietly. ‘It is not our business to bring this man to justice, even if a jury would convict upon the evidence we could bring. We have his confession, of course, but a capable defending counsel could dispose of that easily enough. His wife, the only person who could testify to his identity with Samuels’ nephew, could not be put into the box against him. At all events, I am disinclined to risk the experiment, especially as it would mean a most unpleasant ordeal for all concerned. What do you say, Harold?’
‘I am content, if you are, sir,’ said Harold absently, his eyes fixed upon April.
‘And you, my dear?’
‘Oh, Daddy, let them go,’ replied his daughter. ‘It would be too horrible. I never want to see or hear of them again.’
The Professor nodded, then looked at his watch once more. ‘Dear me, it is very late!’ he exclaimed. ‘I told Mary not to announce dinner until I rang. You will stay with us, of course, Harold. Come, let us leave this room.’
Dinner was eaten in silence, and it was not until April had left the two men to their port that Harold found the courage to ask the question which had puzzled him since the dramatic unmasking of Denbigh.
‘But how did you know that Isidore Samuels was Denbigh, sir?’ he enquired, as soon as they were alone.
The Professor smiled. ‘I did not know until he confessed it himself,’ he replied. ‘I deduced the probability of it in this way. As soon as I had reached the conclusion that Isidore Samuels played a dual rôle, I began to consider what his second rôle could be. And here I was greatly struck by one significant fact. In this second rôle, he was obviously concerned not to fasten upon you so much the responsibility of Samuels’ death, but to bring into prominence the facts of your life which would blacken your character in the eyes of your friends. The choice of your rooms as the depository of the body cannot have been wholly chance. Then, when the article in The Weekly Record appeared, it was more than ever obvious that the attack upon your character was part of the mystery.
‘Now, who were your friends, and what advantage could it be to anybody to discredit you in their eyes? Your associates of the Naxos Club were already sufficiently alienated by the raiding of that institution, consequent upon your examination by the police. Further, the light thrown upon your past was of a kind that would hardly shock their sensibilities. There remained only—April and myself.’
Harold gasped. ‘But surely, sir—’
‘Wait,’ said the Professor. ‘It does not take much perspicacity to see that April, although she takes her amusement where she can find it, has only really cared for one man, however unworthy of her he may have proved himself. Now in whose interest was it to degrade that man in her eyes that she must perforce abandon all memory of him? Why was it that Isidore promised to relieve his wife of his presence on the conditions she told you? Obviously because he wanted his freedom. The attempt was being made to entangle you inextricably, and at the same time to persuade April of your utter worthlessness. And if you will forgive me saying so, the attempt nearly succeeded, mainly through your own folly.
‘Now and here I candidly admit my own error. I had at one time thought that Denbigh might make a suitable husband for my girl. He had completely imposed upon me, and I believed that he might persuade her to marry him. You had apparently chosen a different course to the one I had anticipated for you, and I believed that since she must marry somebody that Denbigh would prove a suitable substitute for you. Denbigh probably guessed this, and realised that his principal obstacle was her lingering affection for you. It was only logic, my dear boy, that pointed to Denbigh as being the man most interested in your effacement.
‘The appearance of the newspaper article confirmed this suspicion, which, at first, I confess, I had been inclined to scout. One point about it struck me with great force. My own theories of the disappearance were to some extent borrowed, and my own line of argument employed. If Denbigh had written it, this was explained, for he had listened patiently to my remarks on the subject, and was the only person except April and yourself with whom I had discussed the case.
‘But this, of course, might have been pure coincidence. It was not until the lady we knew as Miss Donaldson produced a definite fact, that
of the strange birthmark, that any conclusive test of my suspicions became practicable. I determined to apply this test and to follow it with a confrontation. At my suggestion April asked Denbigh to tea this afternoon, and on my part I gave appointments to you and Miss Donaldson at definite hours later. Soon after Denbigh’s appearance I devised a scheme whereby his left shoulder should come under April’s observation. I preferred that the exposure of this clue should be left to her discretion. Had she decided to say nothing, to shield him, I should have deferred the revelation of his identity until I had had an opportunity of consulting her wishes.’
‘By Jove, sir, you thought of everything!’ exclaimed Harold.
The Professor smiled. ‘It is, perhaps, fortunate that I did,’ he replied briskly. ‘Now, I imagine that you and April may have a few words to say to one another. If you will take my advice, you will tell her the truth in every detail. Off you go. You will find me in the study if you want me.’
It was not until after midnight that the Professor, who had been dozing in his chair before the fire, opened his eyes and blinked as the handle of the study door turned softly. April ran across the room, and, seating herself on the arm of the chair, put her arms around him and kissed him.
‘Daddy, you’re a clever old darling, and I’ve been a silly fool,’ she whispered.
‘U—m,’ muttered the Professor. ‘And where’s that young scapegrace?’
‘I’m here, sir,’ came Harold’s voice from the doorway.
‘Oh, you are?’ replied the Professor severely. ‘Well, you’ve been a fool, too. See that you don’t do it again.’
THE END
THE PURPLE LINE
As well as over 170 novels and novel-length works of non-fiction, John Street wrote short stories and plays for radio and the stage. His earliest known short story is ‘Gunner Morson, Signaller’, published in March 1918 and written for propaganda purposes. In the story, a signaller saves a group of his countrymen from an unexpected German attack and, consistent with what would become the hallmark of John Street’s detective stories, kills an enemy soldier with a most unusual weapon.
Dr Lancelot Priestley, the detective in the majority of his ‘John Rhode’ mysteries, appeared in only two short stories, ‘The Elusive Bullet’ and ‘The Vanishing Diamond’, as a result of which they are frequently anthologised. We have therefore selected for inclusion alongside The Paddington Mystery Street’s rarely seen final short story ‘The Purple Line’, which was first published in the London Evening Standard on 20 January 1950.
T.M.
INSPECTOR PURLEY picked up the telephone. But the torrent of words which poured into his ears was so turbid that he could make little of it. Something about a wife and a water-butt. ‘I’ll come along at once,’ said Purley. ‘Holly Bungalow, you say? On the Cadford Road? Right!’
He took the police car, in which he drove out of the fair-sized market town of Faythorpe. The villas on the outskirts extended for a short distance, with a scarlet telephone kiosk near the further end.
It was growing dark on a February afternoon, and it was pouring with rain.
About half a mile beyond the kiosk he saw, on the left, a white-painted gate between the trees and standing beside it, a man with a bicycle. The inspector saw ‘Holly Bungalow’ painted on the gate.
As he got out of the car, the man at the gate began gabbling and gesticulating. He was short and stocky. He wore a mackintosh, sodden with wet, and was hatless, with the rain pouring from his hair over his face.
‘Rode at once to the kiosk,’ he was rambling incoherently. ‘That’s where I rang you up from. We’re not on the telephone, you know. I didn’t know what else to do. It’s a dreadful thing. Come, I’ll show you.’
At the back of the bungalow was a verandah, looking out over a lawn and garden surrounded by trees. At the further end of the verandah was a round galvanised water-butt, overflowing with the water pouring into it from a spout in the eaves. Projecting from the top of the butt, and resting against the edge was a pair of inverted high-heeled shoes. ‘It’s my wife!’ the little man exclaimed.
The butt was about five feet high. Beside it was a folding wooden garden chair. Purley climbed on to this, and leaned over the edge of the butt. Within it, completely submerged but for the feet, was a woman, head down and fully clothed
The first problem was how to get her out. He tilted the butt till it fell on its side.
The little man made no attempt to help Purley as he drew the woman out by the legs. She was fairly tall and slim, apparently in the thirties, wearing a dark frock, silk stockings and high-heeled shoes, with no hat.
Purley glanced into the butt. The water had drained out of it, and all it now contained was a layer of slime and a broken ridge-tile, which had at some time presumably fallen into it from the roof.
Purley carried the body into the shelter of the verandah. The little man was quivering like a jelly. ‘You’d better come with me,’ said Purley.
In a dazed fashion the other followed him back to the car. Purley drove to the kiosk, where he telephoned to the police station. Then the two drove back to the bungalow.
They entered by the front door. The bungalow was not large—lounge, dining-room, a couple of bedrooms. The furnishings were well-to-do. In the dining-room, a french window leading on to the verandah was open. On the table were remains of a meal, apparently lunch, with one place only laid. Beside this, a tumbler, a syphon and a bottle of whisky, half full.
As they sat down Purley took out his note-book and headed a page ‘Monday, February 13’. He said: ‘You told me the name was Briston, I think?’
The other nodded. ‘That’s right. I am Henry Briston. My wife’s name was Shirley. She had seemed rather depressed for the last few days.’
‘When did you last see her alive?’
‘About eight o’clock this morning,’ Briston replied. ‘She was in bed then. I got up early, for I was going to Mawnchester to see my brother, and I took her a cup of tea. She seemed quite cheerful then. I got my own breakfast, and while the egg was frying I put a new chart in the barograph yonder.’
He pointed to the instrument on a bracket fixed to the dining-room wall. Purley was familiar with barographs—there was one in the window of the optician’s next door to the police station. The one on the wall was of the conventional type, with a revolving drum driven by clockwork, and a pen at the end of a long needle. The chart stuck round the drum bore out Briston’s words. It ran from Monday to Sunday, ruled in two-hour divisions, the lines an eighth of an inch apart.
The pen had been set at eight o’clock that morning, and filled rather clumsily, for the deep purple oily ink had overflowed and run vertically down the chart. The time was now seven o’clock, and the pen pointed correctly between the six and eight o’clock lines. The graph it had drawn ran horizontally for an eighth of an inch, from eight to ten. After that time it sloped steeply downwards, indicating rapidly falling pressure.
‘And after breakfast?’ Purley asked. ‘You saw her again?’
‘I didn’t see her,’ Briston replied. ‘I called through the door and told her I was going, and she answered me. Then I jumped on my bicycle and rode to the station to catch the 8.50 to Mawnchester.’
‘Was Mrs Briston expecting anyone to call here?’
‘Not that I know of. I met the postman on the road as I was riding to the station. I called out to him if he had anything for me, and he said only a parcel for my wife.’
‘Was that garden chair standing by the water butt when you left home?’
‘I don’t think so. If it was, I didn’t put it there. At this time of year it’s kept folded up in the verandah. I sometimes use it to stand on and look into the butt to see how much water there is. But this morning the butt was empty. During the dry spell we had last week, we used all the water for the greenhouse. It would have taken three or four hours to fill even with the heavy rain today.’
‘Did you put this bottle of whisky on the table here?’<
br />
‘No, I found it there when I came home. Latterly, my wife had taken to drinking rather more than I liked to see. I didn’t clear away my breakfast things before I left this morning. My wife must have done that, and got her own lunch later on.’
‘You went to Mawnchester by the 8.50. What time did you come back?’
‘By the train that gets to Faythorpe at 4.45. The ticket collector will remember that—we had some conversation. I had taken a cheap day ticket, but it wasn’t available for return as early as the 4.45, and I had to pay the full fare. I lunched with my brother in Mawnchester and saw several other people there.’
There came a loud knock. Purley opened the door, to find the divisional surgeon. ‘This way, doctor,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me?’
‘Not very much more than you can see for yourself,’ said the doctor. ‘She’s been dead some hours. Death was due to drowning. There’s a pretty severe contusion on the top of the head. It wouldn’t have been fatal, for the skull isn’t fractured. But you’ll want to account for it, I expect.’
‘Have a look inside the butt,’ said Purley. ‘You see that broken ridge-tile?’
The doctor nodded. ‘Yes, I see it. You found her head downwards in the butt, you say? If, when she dived in, her head had struck the tile, the contusion would be accounted for.’
Purley went back to Faythorpe. Accident, murder, or suicide? The only way she could have fallen headlong into the butt by accident was if she had been clambering about on the roof; such behaviour might surely be ruled out.
Murder? By whom? Her husband’s alibi seemed perfectly good, though, of course, it would have to be checked. And there was this finally convincing point. Nobody, certainly not her puny little husband, could have lifted a struggling victim above his shoulders and plunged her head downwards into the butt.