The Piccadilly Murder

by Anthony Berkeley

  MARY GOOLE.

  P.S. In any case, I’m going to disappear, so catch me who can.

  “My God!” said Mouse soberly as he put it down. “So Lynn—— This’ll be rotten for Judy.”

  “It’s very—unexpected,” said Mr. Chitterwick slowly.

  “And all those cunning ideas of yours. All baseless!”

  “The tendency is always to overelaborate,” said Mr. Chitterwick in a mechanical voice, staring at his plate. “It is so difficult to remember that the probable is always the simple.”

  There was a silence. Mouse took up his spoon and began automatically to eat his porridge. “Who’s going to break it to Judy?” he mumbled. “That’s what I want to know.”

  Mr. Chitterwick seemed to come to a sudden decision. He jumped to his feet. “I will.”

  “Not this minute?” said Mouse, looking up in surprise.

  “Why not?” asked Mr. Chitterwick. “She’s got to be told some time. And procrastination can be just as dangerous as overelaboration.” But he hesitated.

  “She may be asleep. Surely it isn’t necessary to wake her up.”

  “I won’t wake her,” promised Mr. Chitterwick, seeming to accept this as a compromise. “If she doesn’t answer my tap I will come down again.”

  In two minutes he was back, and in answer to Mouse’s raised eyebrows shook his head. “She must be asleep,” he said.

  Breakfast proceeded in gloomy silence. Mouse was evidently quite overwhelmed by the shock, and Mr. Chitterwick wore the preoccupied air of one whose prophecies have come to disaster. Hardly a word was spoken.

  In the middle of the toast-and-marmalade stage Mr. Chitterwick came to sudden and most unexpected life. He astonished his companions by smiting the table with his clenched fist and speaking loudly and clearly. “I don’t believe it!” vociferated Mr. Chitterwick.

  “What?” asked Mouse in wonder.

  “That letter.”

  “What!”

  “It’s too elaborate. It’s quite unnecessarily elaborate. It contains a detailed confession—incredible elaboration! Mouse, I—I believe this may be very serious.”

  “What may?”

  “That letter,” said Mr. Chitterwick, rather incoherently. “Miss Goole . . . Things——”

  “Do you mean—you don’t mean the letter may be a fake?”

  “We must go at once,” said Mr. Chitterwick, jumping up once more. “At once. What is the postmark, I wonder?” he added, scrabbling among the envelopes on the table. “Ah! London, S.W.4. Yes, we must go this minute. Are you ready?”

  “Absolutely. But where are we going?”

  “Why,” said Mr. Chitterwick, in surprise, “to Dorsetshire.”

  “Right-o,” said Mouse. “Lead on.” He had not the faintest idea why they were going or what it was that seemed to be so perturbing Mr. Chitterwick, but that gentleman was clearly in no fit state to be questioned, and what he said was good enough for Mouse.

  “Telling Judy nothing?” was all he ventured on the way to the garage.

  Mr. Chitterwick appeared to jerk himself out of a trance, and it was a second or two before he answered. “Telling Mrs. Sinclair nothing,” he said then with decision, and added, “but calling for those photographs on the way.”

  Once again the nose of the patient Bentley was headed for Dorsetshire.

  At the photographic shop, however, a surprise awaited Mr. Chitterwick. “The photographs, sir?” said the shopman in surprise. “But I gave them to your messenger not above ten minutes ago; almost directly after we opened.”

  “My messenger?” repeated Mr. Chitterwick. He did not seem very surprised. Mouse, on the other hand, listened with open mouth.

  “He asked for them in your name,” said the shopman defensively, scenting trouble.

  “Can you describe him?” asked Mr. Chitterwick.

  “Well,” said the shopman vaguely, “he seemed quite a respectable man. I hope I’ve done nothing wrong, sir?”

  “Did he remind you of anyone?”

  “Remind me? No, sir. You don’t mean——?”

  “He was no messenger of mine,” said Mr. Chitterwick ruefully. “I suppose you gave him everything? The films as well as the prints and the enlargements?”

  “I’m afraid I did, sir. I’m very sorry, I’m sure, but I had no reason to doubt he was from you. ‘The photographs for Mr. Chitterwick,’ he said; so, of course, I handed them over.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Chitterwick, turning away. “I quite see it wasn’t your fault. I should have warned you. But I never . . . It was careless of me. Good morning.”

  “Wait a minute, though, sir,” exclaimed the shopman excitedly. “Seeing how important you said it was last night, I did duplicates of those two enlargements on spec. I thought they might come in handy for you some time.”

  “And you didn’t hand the duplicates over?” asked Mr. Chitterwick, no less excitedly.

  “They’re in the next room, this very minute,” said the shopman.

  Mr. Chitterwick with difficulty refrained from falling on his neck.

  While the shopman was getting them Mr. Chitterwick turned to Mouse. “Do you mind—er—starting up your engine? We mustn’t waste a moment now.”

  “She’ll start the minute we’re in the car,” said Mouse in some surprise.

  Mr. Chitterwick contrived to look both embarrassed and mysterious. Embarrassed because he was implying a lie, and mysterious because that is what he wanted to look. “Still, I’d prefer to have the engine running as I come out of the shop, and the car perhaps even on the move.”

  “Good Lord! You don’t mean there’s likely to be any—violence?” “One never knows,” said Mr. Chitterwick darkly. Mouse went.

  Mr. Chitterwick waited for the photographs, examined them carefully, paid for them, and hurried out of the shop. One half of a second after he crossed the threshold the car was in motion, with Mr. Chitterwick scrambling in an undignified way on to the running board. Mouse might not have many powers in the way of constructive thought, but he could obey orders.

  “Dorsetshire?” he asked laconically.

  Mr. Chitterwick nodded. “And—er—step on the gas, Mouse—that is the right term, isn’t it?”

  “Something pretty serious?”

  “Perhaps a life,” said Mr. Chitterwick drily.

  Mouse stepped.

  It was not until they were clear of London traffic that Mr. Chitterwick spoke again. “Thank God I acted then and there on my suspicions about that letter.”

  “You’re sure it’s a fake, then?” muttered Mouse, shaving past a lorry.

  Mr. Chitterwick gazed at the speedometer needle creeping up from sixty toward seventy, and never saw it at all. “I’m convinced of it. That matter of the photographs quite settles it.”

  “Nippy bit of work, that.”

  “Very nippy,” agreed Mr. Chitterwick ruefully. He had been caught napping by that very nippiness.

  “But how the devil did he know where we’d left them?”

  “We’re dealing with brains,” Mr. Chitterwick sighed. “Remarkable brains.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have given that cowboy credit for it all,” said Mouse, and there was a note of distinct admiration in his voice.

  They drove another forty miles in silence. Mouse, who was on his mettle to break all previous records into fragments, had no time for talk; Mr. Chitterwick no breath.

  The latter took advantage of the town of Basingstoke to put a question. “Mouse, think hard. I want you to give me a list of all the places near Riversmead where somebody could be concealed: empty houses, disused mines, caves, anything.”

  “That’s rather a large order. Do you mean, any place where someone could hide?”

  “No! Any place where someone could be hidden.”

  Mouse whistl
ed. “Phew! You mean, he’s got hold of Miss Goole and forced her to write that letter?”

  “Something like that. Think, please. It’s deadly important.”

  Mouse thought for a few moments. “Well,” he said with a short laugh. “I can name a couple of dozen on the spur of the moment. That part of the country’s honeycombed with all kinds of caves and quarries and things. It’d take a week to search them all.”

  “In that case,” said Mr. Chitterwick, his good-humoured face setting in grim lines, “in that case we must resort to direct methods. We must tackle Benson himself.”

  “I’m game,” said Mouse with enthusiasm.

  In the intervals when the needle slipped below the sixty mark they discussed details. As it was not a matter of a sporting contest all such hindrances as Queensbury rules were to be considered shelved. The object was to get the truth out of Benson, and get it quick. Both Mouse and Mr. Chitterwick being small men, each of them scarcely a match for Benson, it was decided to call in the under keeper as well, a young man of sturdy physique and a favourite of Mouse’s. Against the three of them Benson could hardly stand a chance.

  Hardly another word was spoken before they reached Riversmead. Mouse glanced at his watch as they turned in at the gates. The hundred and thirty-three miles from London had been covered in exactly two hours and forty minutes.

  Greggs, the under keeper, happened luckily to be exchanging a few words with the head keeper outside the lodge. Mouse stopped the car and picked him up, explaining the situation briefly as they proceeded up the drive. Greggs, an intelligent young fellow, seemed to understand what was required of him and grinned in anticipation.

  The rest may be briefly told. Greggs was put out at a convenient spot near a clearing in the woods which lined the drive, and Mr. Chitterwick with him; Mouse went on up to the house to collect Benson if he were there. In a surprisingly short space of time he returned with him. Benson seemed to scent something amiss as he saw the other two grimly waiting for him under the trees, hesitated a moment, and turned tail. Mouse, however, who had kept well behind him, produced a cudgel which he flourished threateningly. Benson hesitated again, and Greggs had time to get up to him and deal him a tremendous buffet on the ear. Benson was lifted clean off his feet.

  He lay where he had fallen, crying out indignantly and asking what they thought they were doing.

  “Where is Miss Goole, you scoundrel?” demanded Mr. Chitterwick, glistening with fury.

  “Miss Goole?” snarled the other. “Never heard of her. You three get to hell out of this, will you?”

  “Hit him, Greggs,” cried Mr. Chitterwick, almost beside himself. “Have no mercy on him.”

  But Mr. Benson, it appeared, preferred to lie down.

  “Hit him, Greggs, hit him,” implored Mr. Chitterwick. “This is no time for the niceties.”

  Greggs paused for a moment, then darted to the side of the clearing and with a mighty wrench tore off a thick hazel shoot. “I’ll make the swine talk,” he muttered between his teeth, and began to lay on with all his strength.

  “Where is Miss Goole?” Mr. Chitterwick repeated shrilly.

  Half a dozen strokes on the scrambling body was enough.

  “Stop! I’ll tell you.” Greggs stood by watchfully. “In the ice house,” said Benson sullenly. “Is she alive?”

  “Course she is.”

  “The ice house?” queried Mouse.

  “I think I know what he means, Your Grace,” said Greggs. “It’s an underground room where they used to keep the ice in summer, I’ve heard say, though it’s not been used now for years. But there’s a good door on it yet. It’s near here. Shall we go and see, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, and bring that fellow along with us. If she’s not there we’ll borrow an idea from his own country and have a little private lynching party. I’d just love to string him up.”

  But such extreme measures proved to be unnecessary. Miss Goole was in the ice house. Moreover, she was not at all pleased to be rescued. Her manner was ungrateful in the extreme. As for Mr. Chitterwick, she characterized him without hesitation as a Nosy Parker.

  A few questions, however, brought about a change of attitude. Miss Goole had been under the impression that a warrant was out for her arrest and that kind Mr. Benson was thoughtfully rescuing her from that indignity; though she admitted that Jimmy, as she called him, was not generally noted for such altruism.

  “Then you knew each other before?” asked Mr. Chitterwick mildly.

  “Know Jimmy the Rube? I should say I did. Why, we’ve worked together over there.” In the reaction of the moment Miss Goole was evidently disposed to be communicative.

  “I see,” said Mr. Chitterwick, as though the news were hardly a surprise to him.

  “But I’ve not been in with him on this lay,” said Miss Goole, suddenly recollecting herself.

  “You dam’ little liar!” remarked Mr. Benson discourteously. “You know perfectly well you——”

  “Put him in there, Greggs, and lock him in,” said Mr. Chitterwick suddenly. “I’ll see him later.” With a neatly directed kick Greggs propelled Mr. Benson in the required direction and slammed the door on him.

  “Jimmy always had a white liver,” observed Miss Goole with disdain. She looked curiously at Mr. Chitterwick. “Has he squealed?”

  “Not yet, but he’s going to,” said Mr. Chitterwick grimly. “And so,” he added, “are you.”

  “Me?” said Miss Goole in high surprise. “Whatcha mean? I know nothing about this business. I was after the old lady’s diamonds, that’s all. You can’t mix me up with anything else.”

  “What about that letter of yours this morning?” frowned Mouse.

  “Letter?” echoed Miss Goole, this time in real surprise. “What letter? I don’t know anything about a letter.”

  “Perhaps you’d leave this to me, Mouse,” suggested Mr. Chitterwick, with such diffidence that Mouse looked thoroughly abashed. He turned to Miss Goole and spoke very mildly. “You’ve been doing a little blackmail recently, haven’t you?”

  A look of distinct alarm passed swiftly across Miss Goole’s face. “What are you getting at?” she asked, a shade too shrilly. “This is Greek to me.”

  “I thought you had,” observed Mr. Chitterwick with gentle satisfaction, as if she had answered with a simple affirmative. “I thought so. Now, listen to me, young woman. That man Benson, of course, I have no option but to hand straight over to the police. With you I think I have an option. At any rate, if you’ll undertake to tell me the exact truth as you know it and answer any questions I put to you, I’ll undertake that your name shall not figure in my report to Scotland Yard. It may be wrong of me, but I’ll promise that.”

  Miss Goole looked at him curiously. “What are you? You don’t look like a busy to me.”

  “Never mind what I am,” returned Mr. Chitterwick with dignity. “I’ll give you five minutes to decide on your answer. Greggs, please see that she does not run away.” He drew Mouse a little aside, while Miss Goole gazed after them with calculating eyes.

  “Well, we’ve got’em,” observed Mouse with much satisfaction, as soon as they were out of earshot. “So friend Benson’s a professional criminal, is he? A jolly sort of relation for the Sinclairs.”

  “I rather fancied that might turn out to be the case,” murmured Mr. Chitterwick, who seemed to have become somewhat distrait again now that the excitement was over.

  “ ‘Jimmy the Rube,’ ” meditated Mouse. “Rather suits him, doesn’t it? That’s the line he was playing when he arrived yesterday, of course. But he overdid it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mr. Chitterwick absently. “Over-elaboration, as I said, has been the mistake in this crime all the time.”

  “And yet it seemed simple enough till you began to look into it. By the way, Chitterwick, I know it isn’t my affair, but surely we must ha
nd the Goole over to the police too. Accessory, you know, and all that.”

  “Well, she has been an accessory after the fact,” admitted Mr. Chitterwick. “But only fortuitously. I mean, so far as guilty knowledge is concerned.”

  Mouse looked puzzled. “After the fact? And before it.”

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Chitterwick said, shaking his head with decision. “No, no. Not before it.”

  “But if she was the accomplice, and——”

  “She wasn’t the accomplice!”

  Mouse stared at him. “She wasn’t? But——”

  “There was no accomplice.”

  For a moment Mouse looked completely bewildered. Then his face cleared. “Oh, I see. There never was an accomplice. All those cunning theories of yours about the waitress crash, do they? Well, that simplifies matters. We’ve got the murderer, anyhow.”

  “You mean Benson?” said Mr. Chitterwick, looking rather uncomfortable.

  “Well, of course.”

  Mr. Chitterwick cleared his throat. “He isn’t the murderer,” he said huskily.

  “Hi, you two,” came Miss Goole’s voice. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ll come across with what I know.” Neither of them took any notice of her.

  “Not—the murderer?” stammered Mouse.

  “No.” Mr. Chitterwick seemed to be speaking with the greatest reluctance, as if he had to drag the words out of himself. “He was just the unconscious tool of the real criminal. Though afterward, of course, he must have known that murder had been committed.”

  “Then who—who is the real criminal? Not— Lynn?”

  Mr. Chitterwick shook his head, his eyes on the ground. “No, not Lynn.” He fidgeted miserably with his foot against a root. “Mouse, I fear this is going to be a great shock for you. A terrible shock. But I think you had better know at once.”