“It was,” agreed Arnold Castle, with conviction. “All the good it did him in the end! Do you know, Sally, I think I’m a little afraid of you! It’s rather alarming to contemplate—er—having a detective in the family—er—”
Miss Cardiff blushed a little.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “There’ll be times when I’ll be grateful for a good old Watson.”
DETECTIVE: LUCY MOTT
BURGLARS MUST DINE
E. Phillips Oppenheim
KNOWN BY READERS and especially his publishers as “The Prince of Storytellers,” Edward Phillips Oppenheim (1866–1946) was a prolific author who gave his readers exactly what they hoped for: thrilling, fast-paced stories that afforded them a glimpse of the lives of the rich and famous. He was the right man for the job, as his bestselling books made him both fabulously rich and happy to enjoy every shilling of that wealth.
In addition to his 115 novels (including five under the pseudonym Anthony Partridge), Oppenheim produced hundreds of short stories that were published in top magazines for top dollar, all of them being collected in forty-four volumes. His staggering output was achieved by dictating to a secretary (whom he then allowed to edit his work and send it off, commonly not bothering to review it)—but not past the cocktail hour, which frequently meant a party for a hundred or more people aboard the yacht on which he lived.
Leaving school at an early age to work in his father’s leather business, he worked all day and then wrote until late at night. He had thirty books published by the time he turned forty and sold the leather business to devote himself full time to writing novels of international intrigue, mystery, and crime. The plot-driven stories feature beautiful, glamorous, mainly vacuous young women, while the men are often heroic, though there is little to distinguish them from one another.
Oppenheim’s most important book is The Great Impersonation (1920), a Haycraft-Queen cornerstone title in which a disgraced English aristocrat overcomes his alcoholism when England needs him to outwit the Germans as the First World War looms. It was filmed three times, all with the same title as the book: in 1921, as a silent starring James Kirkwood; in 1935, starring Edmund Lowe and Valerie Hobson; and in 1942, updating the story line to focus on events leading to World War II, starring Ralph Bellamy and Evelyn Ankers.
Lucy Mott meets “Violet Joe,” the male protagonist in the series, in a story titled “Ask Miss Mott,” originally published in the February 9, 1935, issue of Collier’s Magazine. It was substantially revised and given a new title, “Burglars Must Dine,” when it was collected in book form in Ask Miss Mott (London, Hodder & Stoughton, 1936); the story published here is taken from the book.
Burglars Must Dine
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
MISS LUCY MOTT’S first client in the secondary profession which she had so recently adopted made his appearance in sufficiently unusual and alarming fashion.
There was a crash of glass behind her chair, the swinging up of a sash, and a stooping figure sprang lightly into the room. Not only was this unceremonious entrance in itself terrifying—all the more so as Miss Mott’s little office was situated on the sixth floor of a block of apartments—but the intruder entered wearing a narrow, black mask over the upper part of his face.
Miss Mott swung round in her chair and gasped in amazement. It was, however, an astonishing but undeniable fact. A burglar, who would appear to have descended from the clouds, had pushed open her window, entered her office and was now crossing the room towards her in haste. Her hand shot out for the telephone.
“Don’t touch that, please,” the newcomer said.
Miss Mott, new to such adventures, made the fatal mistake of hesitating to parley.
“Why not?” she demanded. “How dare you! What do you want?”
She realized then that she had already lost valuable time. She turned once more towards the telephone, but she was too late. There was a grip upon her arm, not exactly painful but exceedingly firm. She was conscious at that moment of only two things. The first was the compelling power of those flashing eyes through the slits of the mask, the second a fragrant perfume of violets.
“A moment, if you please,” the newcomer said. “I owe you an explanation. You shall have it. Please leave the telephone alone. You will only cause trouble if you use it.”
Miss Mott remained silent, a condition of mental inactivity for which the ease and confidence of the man’s tone were alike responsible.
“There’s nothing to be alarmed at, I can assure you,” he went on. “I am in the same profession as you, only at the other end. Honor among thieves, you know. What a horrid draft! Will you promise me not to use the telephone if I go back and close the window?”
“What do you mean by saying that I am in the same profession as you?” she demanded.
“You’re Miss Mott, aren’t you?” he said. “Niece of my old friend Superintendent Wragge of Scotland Yard. You have conducted for some years a correspondence column in a woman’s magazine entitled ‘Home Talks,’ and you have been so successful that you have started a little Information Bureau of your own. You see, I know all about you! May I close the window?”
“I shall catch my death of cold if you don’t,” Miss Mott said.
“Will you promise not to use the telephone?”
“I suppose so,” she said grudgingly.
He recrossed the room, looked regretfully at the broken pane and drew the curtain over it. When he returned he was binding a handkerchief around his finger.
“You had better explain what you are doing here,” she said. “Honest people don’t wear masks during business hours or break through windows. And perhaps you will tell me while you are about it where on earth you came from?”
“May I sit down?” he asked.
She indicated the clients’ chair drawn up to the side of her desk. He took it at once, moving it, she noticed, a trifle nearer to the table so that he was within reach of the telephone. He removed his black Homburg hat with a word of apology and placed it on the floor by his side.
“Well,” he said, “I came up by the fire escape, if you want to know.”
“By the fire escape,” she repeated wonderingly.
“And if you want to know more still I have not come far. I have come from the floor below.”
“The bridge club?”
He nodded. “Yes, the Hyacinth Bridge Club.”
“Have you been stealing things from there?” she asked.
He drew a package which was protruding from his pocket—an oblong parcel securely wrapped up in brown paper.
“Quite right,” he said. “I committed a theft. It was not such an easy affair as I had hoped either.”
Lucy Mott shrunk a little away from the parcel. Somehow or other it had a sinister appearance. “What is it?” she asked. “I don’t like the looks of it.”
He patted it with his hand and sighed. “You are quite right,” he said. “It is a messy affair, more vicious than any atomic bomb that was ever made. Harmless enough to look at, but a very incriminating weapon to use or to have found in one’s possession.”
“Then why did you steal it?”
He smiled. “Well, that’s another matter. The thing is—I want to get rid of it for a few hours. May I leave it in your charge?”
“Certainly not,” Lucy replied coldly. “I am not a receiver of stolen property.”
“But this,” he pleaded, “is an unusual affair. I can assure you, Miss Mott, that notwithstanding my appearance and actions I am not a criminal. I dabble in irregularities but I also have leanings towards philanthropy. On the present occasion I have stolen this compromising and, I have to admit, dangerous package to save the reputation, perhaps the life, of a very charming and popular lady whose disappearance would be regretted by all of her friends.”
Miss Mott looked at him severely. The curious
part of the whole affair was that she felt herself inclined to believe him.
“I am still, however,” he went on slowly, “only half-way through the job. I need your help to conclude the affair. I do not know whether you have as yet formulated your scale of charges, but if you are not prohibitive I should like, for a suitable fee, to engage you for the rest of the evening.”
“What would be the nature of the services you require from me?” Lucy asked gently.
“I should like to ask your permission to leave your office and descend to the elevator as though I had been an ordinary caller,” he said. “Furthermore, I should like you to relieve me of this package for the time being, place it in that brief case,” he added, pointing across the room, “take it home with you while you change your clothes, and bring it back to a rendezvous, which we have yet to fix upon, where you will dine with me tonight.”
Curiosity grew in Lucy Mott and amazement shone out of her eyes. “I suppose you are real?” she said. “This is not some sort of a dream?” she added hastily.
“I am an actual human being,” he assured her, stretching out his hand. “Would you like to feel my fingers to be sure of it?”
“Certainly not,” she said. “I have felt them round my arm and I expect I shall have a bruise there tomorrow. You climb through my window wearing a mask, you smash a perfectly good pane of glass to get at the fastening, you confess to have committed a burglary, and you have the impertinence to ask me to take care of the proceeds and dine with you—a perfect stranger—tonight. By the way, what is your name?”
“Ah,” he said. “That is a problem.”
“Well, you must have one, you know,” she said. “You seem to be taking it for granted that I am as eccentric a person as you are. But you can’t expect a young woman to dine with a man whose name she doesn’t even know.”
“My name is Joseph,” he said.
“Joseph who?” she asked.
“Joseph of Arimathea, if you like,” he answered carelessly.
“So when I arrive at the restaurant where you propose to entertain me tonight,” she said, “I am to ask for Mr. Arimathea!”
“You won’t need to ask for anyone,” he said. “I shall be sitting there waiting for you.”
“Wearing that atrocious thing?” she asked, pointing to the mask.
“Not likely,” he said. “You will see me as I present myself sometimes. Later, when we are better acquainted, you may discover that my appearance often varies according to my health—and the circumstances.”
Lucy sat upright in her chair. “Listen, Mr. Joseph,” she said, “we are wasting time. Supposing you tell me what is in that package.”
“Something with which you would not like to be found,” he said.
“The usual stuff, I suppose? Letters?”
“Nothing of the sort. I cannot at present divulge to anyone the contents of this package. I only want you to keep it for me until this evening. If I could find any way of destroying it here I would do so. There isn’t any means, however. I have to rely on you.”
“Why not take it away yourself?”
“Because,” he explained, “if I have been rightly informed, the elevator does not mount as high as this, and on my way out, therefore, I shall have to pass the door of the Hyacinth Club. If my escapade of this evening has been discovered they might be waiting for me.”
“The police?”
“Possibly the police,” he admitted, “although sometimes these affairs are not fought out with the police.”
“Where exactly did you steal the package from?” she insisted.
“Have you ever been inside the Hyacinth Club?” he enquired.
“Never.”
“There is a small room, very much like what we call in golf clubs a locker room, with steel cupboards where members can keep their parcels or some of them even a change of clothes. It is rather a convenience for members living a little way out-of-town. Through influential friends in a different branch of the profession I obtained a master key and stole this packet from one of those lockers.”
“How interesting!” Miss Mott exclaimed. “And afterwards?”
“Afterwards I crawled out of the window, risked a short drop on to a small balcony and from there by the fire escape I ascended to your apartment.”
“And why was I chosen for this honor?”
“To tell you the truth,” he explained, “I had managed to enter the club without being seen by taking the tradesmen’s elevator, but I knew that my luck would not hold. Besides, the hall porter is on duty now.”
“And did you wear that mask all the time that you were in the club?”
“I put it on when I began to climb the fire escape,” he said. “I should be ashamed of it if I were really working professionally. It is old-fashioned. The new cut has long flaps!”
“You seem to me to be very talkative,” she said.
“So far,” he said, “I seem to have talked too much without having made much progress. What I want you to promise, if you will be so kind, is that in your capacity as a helper of men and women you will slip into an evening gown at eight o’clock—black would suit you very well, I think, with your perfect hair and your perfect complexion—and with the package which I propose to leave with you in a brief case, meet me at some not too well-known restaurant, say Mario’s, at half-past eight.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I never dine out.”
“My dear Miss Mott,” he said, “is it not true that you have embarked upon a career of adventure, that you have committed yourself professionally to become the helper of anyone in difficulties?”
“I suppose it is more or less true.”
“You are the Miss Mott, the one Miss Mott, who advises her clients in all cases of difficulty and who teaches people how to live their lives to the best advantage. It is your ambition to penetrate into every nook and cranny of the world of human beings. I have heard all about you, you see! How can you lead the life adventurous if you refuse to dine with a humble and, you must believe me, not vicious criminal?
“There is much that you still have to learn concerning my profession. I will be your instructor. I will show you how to circumvent the efforts of the more dangerous members of my craft. Besides, I shall probably, by dinner-time, be in a position to satisfy your curiosity regarding the contents of the package.”
“You are really going to leave it with me—to trust me with it?” she asked.
“I should trust you with most things in life,” he said.
“I think,” she said, “that you are mad!”
“And I,” he said, “think that you are terribly attractive. That little dash of color—anger, I’m afraid—becomes you, and I wish I could believe that I were the first to tell you that your eyes are marvellous. At half-past eight, then, I shall be waiting for you in the hall of Mario’s. Don’t be surprised if at first you fail to recognize me. I have many personalities.
“I promise you one thing, however. I will not present myself in the guise of a bespectacled clergyman from somewhere in the northern counties. Nothing so amateurish as that. At half-past eight then!”
He rose to his feet, picked up his hat and moved towards the door.
“I will not be there,” she declared positively.
“I shall hope for the best,” he said, as, with his back towards her, he removed his mask and disappeared.
About an hour after the departure of her strange visitor, Lucy Mott, carrying a small brief case in which she had cautiously placed the fateful package, descended the two flights of stairs and arrived at the elevator terminus. Her heart gave a little jump as she glanced towards the entrance to the Hyacinth Club.
A police sergeant and a constable were standing on either side of the door and from inside came the sound of voices. The constable as soon as he saw her descend the stairs carrying t
he brief case, stepped forward. The sergeant, however, touched him on the arm, whispered a word in his ear and saluted Miss Mott.
She paused at the entrance to the elevator. “Is there anything wrong here, Sergeant?” she asked.
“A little trouble, Miss Mott,” he said. “We shall know the exact nature of it later on.”
He was obviously disinclined to say more. The elevator boy took her case and Miss Lucy Mott was transported to the ground floor. She stepped into a taxicab and was driven home. The thrill of her afternoon adventure had passed, leaving behind it a dull sort of depression which she could not shake off.
More than once she was inclined to return to her apartment, and hand over her brief case to the sergeant with a full explanation of how she obtained possession of its contents. She had lost her confidence in that debonnair malefactor, and her cheeks burned when she reflected how easily she had fallen victim to his wiles. Nevertheless, she told herself with a certain grim satisfaction, the end was not yet.
Lucy Mott’s visitor kept his word to the letter. Even before the swing doors of the restaurant could be opened to receive her he was moving across the little reception lounge with the welcoming smile of a host upon his lips.
She accepted his hand dolefully. “I only came,” she said, “because I was curious.”
“And you will remain,” he said, as they descended the stairs towards the bar, “because you are going to have a delightful dinner.”
“What have you been doing to yourself?” she asked, as they took their places at a small table in the bar.
“I just went through the usual routine,” he said. “Bath, a light evening shave, and a change into decent clothes.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You look about fifteen years older than I expected to find you, and although you have been frightfully clever about it I don’t believe that those lines in your face are natural. Those gray streaks in your hair too make me suspicious.”
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 112