He was visualizing the front-page story that his paper would carry if his theory was correct, and if—a matter of conjecture—his editor had the necessary nerve to make a bold stroke, when a cry of ‘Time, gentlemen, please! All out!’ reminded him of the hour. He got up and went out into a world of mist, broken by the ragged discs of roadside puddles and the streaming lightning of motor buses. He was certain that he had the story, but even if it was proved, he was doubtful whether the policy of his paper would permit him to print it. It had one great fault. It was truth, but it was impossible truth. It rocked the foundations of everything that newspaper readers believed and that newspaper editors helped them to believe. They might believe that Turkish carpet-sellers had the gift of making themselves invisible. They would not believe this.
As it happened, they were not asked to, for the story was never written. As his paper had by now gone away, and as he was nourished by his refreshment and stimulated by his theory, he thought he might put in an extra half hour by testing that theory. So he began to look about for the man he had in mind—a man with white hair and large white hands; otherwise an everyday figure whom nobody would look twice at. He wanted to spring his idea on this man without warning, and he was going to place himself within reach of a man armored in legends of dreadfulness and grue. This might appear to be an act of supreme courage—that one man, with no hope of immediate outside support, should place himself at the mercy of one who was holding a whole parish in terror. But it wasn’t. He didn’t think about the risk. He didn’t think about his duty to his employers or loyalty to his paper. He was moved simply by an instinct to follow a story to its end.
He walked slowly from the tavern and crossed into Fingal Street, making for Deever Market, where he had hope of finding his man. But his journey was shortened. At the corner of Lotus Street he saw him—or a man who looked like him. This street was poorly lit, and he could see little of the man: but he could see white hands. For some twenty paces he stalked him; then drew level with him; and at a point where the arch of a railway crossed the street, he saw that this was his man. He approached him with the current conversational phrase of the district: ‘Well, seen anything of the murderer?’ The man stopped to look sharply at him; then, satisfied that the journalist was not the murderer, said:
‘Eh? No, nor’s anybody else, curse it. Doubt if they ever will.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about them, and I’ve got an idea.’
‘So?’
‘Yes. Came to me all of a sudden. Quarter of an hour ago. And I’d felt that we’d all been blind. It’s been staring us in the face.’
The man turned again to look at him, and the look and the movement held suspicion of this man who seemed to know so much. ‘Oh? Has it? Well, if you’re so sure, why not give us the benefit of it?’
‘I’m going to.’ They walked level, and were nearly at the end of the little street where it meets Deever Market when the journalist turned casually to the man. He put a finger on his arm. ‘Yes, it seems to me quite simple now. But there’s still one point I don’t understand. One little thing I’d like to clear up. I mean the motive. Now, as man to man, tell me, Sergeant Ottermole, just why did you kill all those inoffensive people?’
The sergeant stopped, and the journalist stopped. There was just enough light from the sky, which held the reflected light of the continent of London, to give him a sight of the sergeant’s face, and the sergeant’s face was turned to him with a wide smile of such urbanity and charm that the journalist’s eyes were frozen as they met it. The smile stayed for some seconds. Then said the sergeant, ‘Well, to tell you the truth, Mister Newspaperman, I don’t know. I really don’t know. In fact, I’ve been worried about it myself. But I’ve got an idea—just like you. Everybody knows that we can’t control the workings of our minds. Don’t they? Ideas come into our minds without asking. But everybody’s supposed to be able to control his body. Why? Eh? We get our minds from lord-knows-where—from people who were dead hundreds of years before we were born. Mayn’t we get our bodies in the same way? Our faces—our legs—our heads—they aren’t completely ours. We don’t make ’em. They come to us. And couldn’t ideas come into our bodies like ideas come into our minds? Eh? Can’t ideas live in nerve and muscle as well as in brain? Couldn’t it be that parts of our bodies aren’t really us, and couldn’t ideas come into those parts all of a sudden, like ideas come into…into’—he shot his arms out, showing the great white-gloved hands and hairy wrists; shot them out so swiftly to the journalist’s throat that his eyes never saw them—‘into my hands! ’
The Little House
H. C. Bailey
Henry Christopher Bailey (1878–1961) worked for many years as a journalist for the Daily Telegraph. Like J. S. Fletcher, he wrote historical fiction before concentrating on crime. His principal detective was Reggie Fortune, a doctor associated with the Home Office, who appeared in many short stories as well as in novels. Reggie became one of the most popular detectives of the ‘Golden Age of Murder’ between the two world wars, but Bailey’s star has fallen since then, and his stylistic quirks mean that his work is nowadays an acquired taste. Nevertheless, he remains an interesting and unorthodox writer.
For all his amiability, Reggie is tough-minded, as Bailey made clear: ‘A cruel crime is to him the work of a pestilential creature, and he sees his duty in dealing with such cases as that of a doctor in treating illness. The cause must be discovered and extirpated. There is no more mercy for the cruel criminal than for the germs of disease.’ Bailey’s hatred of cruelty—especially the mistreatment of children—is evident time and again in his detective fiction, and this story is a striking example.
***
Mrs Pemberton always calls it providential. She is not the only one. But when he hears her say so Mr Fortune looks at her with a certain envy. It is one of the few cases which have frightened him.
The hand of providence, Mrs Pemberton is convinced, sent her to Mr Fortune: and she only just caught him. He was, with reluctance, leaving his fire to go to Scotland Yard about the man who died in Kensington Gardens when her card was brought to him. ‘I was to tell you Mrs Warnham sent her, sir,’ the parlourmaid explained.
Mr Fortune went down to receive a little old lady dressed like Queen Victoria. She had a rosy round face and a lot of white hair. Her manner was not royal but very feminine. ‘Mr Fortune! How good of you to help me! Mrs Warnham said you would.’ She clasped his hands. ‘You were so beautiful with her.’
‘Mrs Warnham is too kind—’
‘You saved her dear boy’s life.’
‘I hope it’s nothing like that,’ said Mr Fortune anxiously.
Mrs Pemberton wiped her eyes and the white lilac on her black bonnet shook. ‘No, indeed. My darling Vivian is quite well. But she has lost her kitten, Mr Fortune!’
Mr Fortune controlled his emotions. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m afraid kittens aren’t much in my way.’
Her nice face looked distress. ‘I know. That’s what I said to Mrs Warnham. I told her you wouldn’t want to be bothered with it, you would only laugh at me, like the police.’
‘But I’m not laughing,’ said Reggie.
‘Please don’t.’ Her nice voice was anxious. ‘She said I was to go and tell you I was really troubled and you would listen.’
‘She was quite right.’
‘I am dreadfully troubled.’ She wrung her little hands. ‘You see, it’s the strange way it went and the people next door are so peculiar and I know the police don’t take it seriously. The officer was quite civil and attentive, but he smiled, you know, Mr Fortune, he just smiled at me.’
‘I know,’ said Reggie. ‘They do smile. I’ve felt it myself.’
‘Don’t they,’ Mrs Pemberton sighed. ‘Mrs Warnham said you would understand.’
‘Yes. Yes. She’s very kind. Perhaps if you began at the beginning.’
M
rs Pemberton had difficulty over that. Her nice mind worked on the theory that everybody knew all about her. The facts when patiently extracted and put in order by Reggie took this shape. She was a widow, her only son was a general commanding in India. She lived in Elector’s Gate, one of those streets of big Victorian houses by the park. Her granddaughter Vivian, aged six, had lately come to live with her and brought a grey Persian kitten. With care and pains a garden had been persuaded to bloom behind the house. There Vivian and her kitten were playing when the kitten went over the wall. Vivian scrambled up high enough to look over and saw it in the paved yard of the house next door, saw a little girl run out of that house, snatch up the kitten and run in again. Vivian called to her and was not answered. Vivian came weeping to Mrs Pemberton. Mrs Pemberton put on her bonnet and called at the house next door. She was told that nobody had been out at the back, no kitten had come in, they had no kitten, her granddaughter must have made a mistake. They were not at all nice about it.
‘Who are they?’ said Reggie.
It was Miss Cabot. Miss Cabot and her father lived there. She did not really know them, only to bow to. But they had been there quite a long while, a dozen years or more, very quiet people, perfect neighbours, never the least trouble till this dreadful thing. But of course Mrs Pemberton couldn’t let them take Vivian’s kitten. She went to the police station and complained. And the police wouldn’t take it seriously at all.
Mr Fortune, with her innocent blue eyes upon him, contrived to do that. It has been remarked by the envious that he has great success with old ladies. Mrs Pemberton went away murmuring that he had been so kind. He was left wondering how long she would think so. It did not seem to him a case over which the police would be persuaded to lose much sleep. But it had points which occupied his mind as he drove down to Scotland Yard.
He was late for his appointment. ‘Ye gentlemen of England who sit at home at ease!’ the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department rebuked him. ‘This luncheon habit is growing on you, Fortune!’ He pointed an accusing finger at Reggie’s girth.
‘It wasn’t lunch,’ said Reggie with indignation. ‘I’ve had a most difficult and interestin’ case.’
Lomas sat up. ‘Difficult, was it? Come along then. Avery’s full of ideas about it. What was the cause of death?’
Reggie stared at him. Reggie looked at Inspector Avery and murmured: ‘How are you?’ Reggie stared again at Lomas. ‘Cause of death? Oh, ah. You mean the man found in Kensington Gardens.’
‘That is what I’m talking about,’ said Lomas with some bitterness. ‘That happens to be what we’re here for.’
‘Nothing in it. He died from exposure.’
‘Exposure, sir?’ Inspector Avery was disappointed. ‘Just being out on a spring night?’
‘Takin’ the winds of March,’ Reggie shrugged. ‘He wasn’t a good life. Badly nourished. Rotten heart. Nothing much good about him. Drug habits—and other errors. Who was he?’
‘In the foreign restaurant business, sir. Lots of money. Quite a big man in his own line. Why he should go and lie down in the gardens to die beats me.’
Reggie shrugged again. ‘He just got there and got no farther. No vitality in him. He’d go out at a breath.’
‘You said something about drugs, sir?’
‘Oh, he wasn’t drugged when he died. Probably he had run out of his dope and life wasn’t worth living. And the night frost finished him.’
Lomas lay back. ‘That clears him up, Avery. You can go home to tea.’
But Inspector Avery was not satisfied. ‘Mr Fortune was worried about something, sir?’
‘Yes, yes. Most interesting case. Is Elector’s Gate in your division?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘What do you know about Mrs Pemberton’s Persian kitten?’
Lomas put up his eyeglass. ‘My dear fellow!’ he protested.
Inspector Avery also felt a shock to his dignity. ‘They don’t come to me about kittens, sir.’
‘They come to me,’ said Reggie sadly. ‘It wasn’t you that smiled, then?’
‘Sir?’
‘Mrs Pemberton says she went to the station and they only smiled. Quite sweet but smiling. It hurts her.’
‘I do remember hearing talk of it,’ Inspector Avery admitted. ‘The lady was so pathetic. But they did the usual, sir, sent a sergeant round to the house where the kitten was supposed to have gone in. The lady there said they hadn’t got it. Her little niece did try to catch it, but it got away. We couldn’t do any more.’
Reggie lit a cigar. ‘“Her little niece did try to catch it,”’ he repeated slowly. ‘Now that’s very interesting.’ He gazed at the puzzled inspector through smoke.
‘It might be if I knew anything about it,’ Lomas grumbled. ‘Why this devotion to kittens, Reginald?’
So Reggie told him the story Mrs Pemberton had told.
‘Very, very sad,’ Lomas sighed. ‘But kittens will be cats. What do you want me to do? Leave a card with deep sympathy and regret?’
Reggie shook his head. ‘Not one of our good listeners,’ he said sadly. ‘Didn’t you notice anything? You’re not taking this seriously, Lomas. When Mrs Pemberton called about the kitten, Miss Cabot said no one had been out at the back. When the police called, she said her little niece did try to catch it.’
Lomas put up his eyeglass. ‘Aha! The case looks black indeed!’ said he. ‘Miss Cabot didn’t know about the little niece at first and found out afterwards. A deep, dark woman, Fortune,’ and he smiled.
‘Yes. A facetious force, the police force,’ Reggie nodded. ‘That’s what annoyed Mrs Pemberton. And now do you mind thinking? A dear old lady calls very distressed and says Miss Cabot’s little girl has caught her kitten and Miss Cabot says there wasn’t any little girl and bundles her out. Why so curt? Because there was a little girl and there was a kitten.’ He turned on Inspector Avery. ‘Did your sergeant see the little girl?’
‘No, sir. No occasion. He saw Miss Cabot, who was quite definite the kitten got away.’
‘Yes. Marked anxiety to know nothing about the kitten. Elusive little girl.’
‘My dear Reginald!’ Lomas protested. ‘There’re a dozen obvious explanations. The woman doesn’t like cats. The little girl is a naughty little girl. The woman doesn’t want to be bothered.’
‘No. She doesn’t want to be bothered. That’s what struck me.’
‘I fear your dear Mrs Pemberton is a little fussy, Reginald.’
‘That isn’t your complaint, Lomas,’ Reggie said sharply. ‘Well, well. Sorry I don’t interest you.’ He nodded to Avery and went out.
Avery looked at Lomas with some concern. ‘That’s all right,’ Lomas laughed. ‘Wonderful fellow. But he will see things that aren’t there.’
‘I wish he’d been more interested in that death in the Gardens,’ said Avery sadly.
‘Too ordinary, my dear fellow, too ordinary for Mr Fortune.’
‘This kitten business rather put me off.’ Avery was thoughtful. ‘I suppose we did ought to have seen the little girl.’
‘Good gad!’ said Lomas. ‘You run along home and have a nice quiet night. I don’t want my inspectors seeing things.’
But Inspector Avery did not go home. He had a conscience. He went back to the police station of his division. Mr Fortune is not at Scotland Yard thought to resemble the prim little inspector. But he also has an active conscience. He went to Elector’s Gate.
It is maintained by Superintendent Bell and others of his devoted admirers that he has a queer power of divining the people behind facts, a sort of sixth sense. At this he would jeer. His own account of himself is that he is so ordinary anything which isn’t ordinary disturbs him. From the first he felt the vanishing of the kitten was queer. But the only credit he takes for the case, which they call one of his best, is that he brought to it a perfec
tly open mind. The rest was merely obedience to the rule of scientific inquiry, that one ought to try everything.
What there was to try in Elector’s Gate, he had no notion. He left his car by the park and strolled down that majestically Victorian street. The range of stucco fronts was broken on one side by an opening which led to a dead wall. In this recess two little red brick houses faced each other, neat and prim, hiding behind the solemn mansions of the rest of Elector’s Gate. At one corner of the opening stood Mrs Pemberton’s house. Then Miss Cabot’s next door—Miss Cabot’s was that little house behind it in the recess. Reggie rubbed his chin. So Miss Cabot did not live in the way suggested by an address in Elector’s Gate. Quite a small place, a one or two servant house. Nice and quiet too. No traffic. No neighbours on one side. Retiring folk, the Cabots.
Reggie rang Mrs Pemberton’s bell. He had hardly been shown into her dowdy comfortable drawing-room when she hurried in crying: ‘Dear Mr Fortune! But how good of you! Have you found out anything?’
‘No. I came to see what I could find here.’
‘Oh, but I’m so glad! Such a queer thing has happened. Let me show you.’ She led him away into a little sitting-room and took from a drawer in the writing-table a piece of coarse blue paper. ‘Look! When I came back from you that was lying in the garden.’
Reggie laid it on the table. It was a queer shape, it had a rough black line round the edges.
‘You see! It’s meant for a kitten!’
‘Yes. It’s meant for a kitten,’ said Reggie gravely. ‘Somebody drew a kitten on packing paper—with a piece of coal—and then tore the paper along the line—so as to make a paper kitten. Somebody who’s not very old.’ He shivered a little. ‘Has your little granddaughter seen it?’
Capital Crimes: London Mysteries Page 23