The Amazing Test Match Crime

by Adrian Alington

  Sawn-off Carlo shook his head in bewilderment.

  “I always knew them guys was phoney,” he said at last, “but this sure beats everything.”

  “And now, my friends,” the Professor paused to light one of his thin cigars, while behind his great round spectacles his eyes shone with a queer eager light, “as to our future operations. I have devised a novel and interesting scheme which I think will prove to be tolerably lucrative. I propose, in short, that we should kidnap the infant daughter of Socrates F. Grünbaum, the well-known millionaire, who is at present upon a visit to Europe from the United States. Socrates F. Grünbaum is, I understand, devoted to his infant daughter, and would be willing to pay handsomely …”

  The thin precise voice spoke on, outlining details of his plans.

  When at last he had finished, it might have been observed that for the first time in many weeks a smile crossed the morose face of Ralph the Disappointment.

  “Thank Heaven!” he said with emotion. “At last a crime in which I can partake without feeling an outcast among men.”

  ***

  “The Bride lightly swung a tasteful bouquet of the Glebeshire colours and a good time was had by all.”

  From the Glebeshire Clarion

  Wedding Bells

  It was a pretty wedding, which was held that autumn day in the old church of Wattlecombe Ducis.

  Many distinguished cricketers were present, including Sir Timothy and Q,. E. D. Marjoribanks, Norman Blood who officiated as best man, Hugh and Crigh, Truth and Teddy Trimmer, as well as almost all the members of the Glebeshire team, who subsequently formed a guard of honour, the happy pair walking from the church beneath an arch of crossed cricket bats. Only one minor mishap marred the proceedings. Monica’s saintly old father, in his excitement at seeing so many famous cricketers among his congregation, took with him Wisden’s Almanac for 1906 from the Vestry instead of his prayer book, and was forced to return and rectify the mistake before the service could proceed.

  Afterwards the company repaired to the wedding breakfast at the Earthy Peasant. Immense jollity prevailed. Champagne flowed like water. Here again a slight awkwardness occurred. The elder Prestwicks were unused to champagne and became in consequence ruder than ever. A well-known Glebeshire amateur was felt to put the matter in a nutshell when he inquired,

  “I say, couldn’t that peasant put his hand in front of his mouth, when that happens?”

  Nothing, however, was allowed to damp the general high spirits. Great excitement was caused when it was disclosed that among the numerous telegrams of congratulations was one from Lethbridge.

  “Heartiest congratulations,” the great man had written. “Everyone is very fit.”

  Several speeches were made. Sir Timothy, after a protracted review of the cricket season which included references to the burning Donkey Drop Controversy and the activities of the Bad Men, suddenly and unexpectedly proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom. Referring to the latter, he said in felicitous terms,

  “Whatever the Selection Committee may think of his merits, there is no doubt that he has bowled at least one maiden over.”

  A somewhat startled pause greeted this remark. Then it was realized that Sir Timothy had made a joke. The rafters rang.

  Speeches were also made by Joe and Norman as well as by the saintly old vicar.

  “This is a very happy day for me,” said that good old man. “I am proud to see my daughter married to an honest young fellow and an excellent spin-bowler like Joe Prestwick. (Tremendous applause.) Joe has finished up the season with a bowling average of which any wife may be proud. I am sure she will make him a good wife. I like to think of her in the years to come, putting Joe’s bats to bed and afterwards oiling his children. At one time the foolish girl was, for some reason, anxious to marry R. T. Wright who was in the Cambridge eleven of 1902 (a somewhat puzzled silence), but I was able to point out to her that R. T. Wright, though an admirable batsman, died in 1927 and so she was forced to abandon this rather stupid idea and marry Joe Prestwick.” (A further puzzled silence, broken by loud applause at the mention of Joe’s name.)

  The old man then recounted ball by ball the events of the University Match of 1884, and finally sat down amid great cheering.

  Q,. E. D. Marjoribanks then spoke, but as the popular veteran, having consumed a great deal of champagne, appeared to be under the impression that he was attending the annual dinner of the Eastshire C.G., much of what he said was irrelevant.

  Subsequently there was dancing in the village hall. The hall presented a gay scene, cricketers whose names were household words dancing with rustic wenches. Sir Timothy gallantly led off with Mrs. Prestwick senior, but almost immediately found her so rude that he abandoned the attempt. Instead he led her to a seat and told her the story of the epic catch made by B. G. M. Seedways in 1901.

  “It was upon the old cricket ground at Buckstead Wells. You perhaps do not remember it?”

  “Näy, rëckon önt never.”

  “Quite,” said Sir Timothy, “oh, quite. Well, the Gentlemen of Glebeshire were batting and Slogger Peaboom made a tremendous drive. We all thought it was going for six, when we saw Bertie Seedways racing round the boundary. Simply racing. He got there. Bertie Seedways got there, believe it or not, madam, and he jumped up and held it. By gad, he held it. Never saw such a thing in my life.”

  Mrs. Prestwick, who had listened throughout with an expression of bestial stupidity, replied,

  “Ee, thicky wör main gürt, räckon.”

  “Quite,” replied Sir Timothy a little dashed. “Well, if you will excuse me, madam, I see the Vicar beckoning.”

  “I say,” he remarked later to the Vicar, “that old woman is really frightfully rude.”

  “It comes of wringing a bare living from the soil,” replied the Vicar. “Nothing can be done about it.”

  “I suppose not,” replied Sir Timothy. “Well, I think I’ll go home now. Good night, Vicar.”

  The gay festivities went on until long after sunset. The moon shone over Wattlecombe Ducis when at last amid showers of confetti and cries of “Good Luck!” Monica and Joe set off for their simple home, which was appropriately called “Googly Cottage”.

  “Are you happy, spin-bowler o’ mine?” asked Monica as they walked through the starlit evening.

  “Wildly happy, my little Mystery Cricketer,” replied Joe, who was beginning to get the knack of this sort of thing.

  “And you’ll never, never grow tired of your little wife?”

  “Never,” replied Joe ardently. “Besides,” he pointed out sensibly, “it’s not so very long until next cricket season.”

  “And in four years’ time,” added Monica, “the Imperians will be here again. Perhaps,” she added prettily, “by that time we shall have one or more little spin-bowlers tumbling on our simple lawn.”

  “I hope they’ll be left-handed,” said Joe. “It helps.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “Why, of course. You see, if a chap bowls round the wicket …”

  The happy pair walked on, dreaming happily of the future.

  ***

  Let us sing

  In praise of Spring.

  (Hey nonny no, tra-la.)

  Shepherd’s pipe and swallows wing

  As the months their message bring,

  Advertisement’s a gladsome thing.

  (Green grow the public o’).

  On the dove the iris burns,

  And a young man’s fancy turns

  To the royalties he earns.

  (Loud sing ballyhoo.)

  O heaven-sent prophet to th’ untutored mind

  If Sellers come, can Spring be far behind?

  (“Hey nonny no,” Come, Shepherds,

  come,” “An unusually sensitive novel and

  other odd cries.)

  From Ballads of the Seasons, or The Man Who Was Thursday Evening

  Extract From The Diary of Sawn-Off Carlo

  So it seem
s like after all this Test Match crime is okay and hunky-dory, because these English guys are sure phoney, and it seems after me and Ralph and the Big Shot ease off in our airplane, one of these cricketing palookas tries to pull a fast one, and this gets the Imperian guys mad and so the British Empire is almost disrupted after all, and the International bozos hand out the dough and everything is okay and hunkydory.

  But the Big Shot is sore, because he says I can’t shoot good enough to hit the State Building and other old-fashioned cracks, and this is a great big wound to my manly pride, because it is okay ironing out them cricketing palookas, but it is not so good when certain military characters start something and we get the heat. So Ralph the Disappointment says these military characters are certain saps called the Goids, and Ralph the Disappointment says these Goids are well known to one and all to be the cats slumber wear in military guys. So one of these Goids gives me the well-known stream of lead through my fedora, and this is not so good. So we scram and I say I guess we left plentya cadavers among those cricketing palookas, but the Big Shot says I only hit one guy, which was a sap by the name of Trimmer, and it seems this Trimmer guy did not hand in his dinner-pail, but was only a bit sore about the leg, which is not so good.

  So Ralph the Disappointment says he never thinks this crime would be so good because it is well-known to one and all that these English guys are screwy over this ball game, and I too do not think it is so good, because I see no more of Flash Alice and I guess me and that dame coulda gotten together in a big way. Because had that frail swell curves and plentya this and that or had she? Oh, boy, I’m telling you.

  So now the Big Shot is thinking up a new crime, because that guy can’t rest unless he is thinking up a crime. So this crime is to kidnap the little daughter of Socrates F. Grünbaum the millionaire, because the Boss says that it is well known that it is pain and grief to millionaires to have their little daughters kidnapped, and maybe they hand out the dough in a big way. But I guess this crime is not so good, since it is well-known to one and all that us killers get very sentimental about little dolls, especially when these little dolls have curly hair and blue eyes and a good line in childish prattle, because there is nothing makes us guys sentimental in a big way like childish prattle. And especially if this curly headed doll says “Tell me a fairy story, Mr. Stranger” when you are going to start something it is not so good, because we get thinking about our innocent childish days and our dear old mommas and Christmas, and then we get very sentimental indeed. And maybe we take the doll on our knee and pull a few childish cracks while her loving poppa, which is none other than Socrates F. Grünbaum, calls up the cops, and even if the curly headed doll says “Mr. Stranger is such a kind man,” well maybe the dicks don’t believe it. And that is not so good.

  So I think maybe I’ll give the Boss the dead pan and give up crime. I think maybe I’ll be an author, since it is well-known to one and all that any saps who can read fall for tough books, especially if these tough books are written by a guy with a great big hearta gold and in this way I make plentya dough. I am reading in a London newspaper how some literary citizen is making a speech at a literary luncheon, and it seems this literary citizen is some palooka’s book of the month. So I fall to thinking how proud my old momma would be in her bum apoitment house if her loving son is a literary citizen and makes highbrow cracks at luncheon to a lot of other literary bozos. And I guess a guy needn’t go all sissy and give up shooting up other guys because he is a literary character, because it seems there are saps called publishers and other palookas called reviewers. So I guess if I threaten to iron out one or two of these characters I’ll be someone’s book of the month like this other literary citizen, and so I’ll make plentya dough and everything will be okay and hunky-dory.

  So what?

  Footnotes

  1 These dots have no sinister significance. They merely indicate that the ensuing conversation is too dull and unimportant to be reported at length.

  2 See The Vanishing Celebrities. In this simple and unobtrusive fashion books are often advertised.

  Discover books by Adrian Alington published by Bloomsbury Reader at

  www.bloomsbury.com/AdrianAlington

  Rosie Todmarsh

  The Amazing Test Match Crime

  Those Kids from Town Again

  For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.

  This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

  First published in Great Britain in 1939 by Chatto & Windus

  Copyright © 1939 Adrian Alington

  Cover illustration and design © Holly Macdonald

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The moral right of the author is asserted.

  ISBN: 9781448202980

  eISBN: 9781448202652

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