by Ellery Queen
“Well, it occurred to me four or five years ago that there was a marvelous way of justifying stamp collecting to myself and that was by writing a book about stamps. You must have heard of Rowland Hill, the fellow who started the whole thing off?”
“The Penny Post?”
Messiter nodded. “1840—the world’s first postage stamps, the One-Penny Black and the Twopence Blue. My idea was not to write a biography of Hill—that’s been done several times over by cleverer writers than I am—but to analyze the way his idea caught on. The response of the Victorian public was absolutely phenomenal, you know. It’s all in the newspapers of the period. I went to the Newspaper Library at Colindale to do my research. I spent weeks over it.”
Messiter’s voice conveyed not fatigue at the memory, but excitement. “There was so much to read. Reports of Parliament. Letters to the Editor. Special articles describing the collection and delivery of the mail.” He paused, pointing a finger at Braid. “You’re wondering what this has to do with the room upstairs. I’ll tell you. Whether it was providence or pure good luck I wouldn’t care to say, but one afternoon in that Newspaper Library I turned up The Times for a day in May 1841, and my eye was caught—riveted, I should say—by an announcement in the Personal Column on the front page.”
Messiter’s hand went to his pocket and withdrew his wallet. From it he took a folded piece of paper. “This is what I saw.”
Braid took it from him, a photostat of what was unquestionably a column of old newspaper type. The significant words had been scored round in ballpoint.
A Young Lady, being desirous of covering her dressing-room with cancelled postage stamps, has been so far encouraged in her wish by private friends as to have succeeded in collecting 16,000. These, however, being insufficient, she will be greatly obliged if any good-natured person who may have these otherwise worthless little articles at their disposal, would assist her in her whimsical project. Address to Miss E. D., Mr. Butt’s, Glover, Leadenhall Street.
Braid made the connection instantly.
His throat went dry. He read it again. And again.
“You understand?” said Messiter. “It’s a stamp man’s dream—a room literally papered with Penny Blacks!”
“But this was—”
“1841. Right. More than a century ago. Have you ever looked through a really old newspaper? It’s quite astonishing how easy it is to get caught up in the immediacy of the events. When I read that announcement, I could see that dressing room vividly in my imagination—chintz curtains, gas brackets, brass bedstead, washstand and mirror. I could see Miss E. D. with her paste pot and brush assiduously covering the wall with stamps.
“It was such an exciting idea that it came as a jolt to realize that it all had happened so long ago that Miss E. D. must have died about the turn of the century. And what of her dressing room? That, surely, must have gone, if not in the Blitz, then in the wholesale rebuilding of the City. My impression of Leadenhall Street was that the banks and insurance companies had lined it from end to end with gleaming office buildings five stories high. Even if by some miracle the shop that had been Butt’s the Glover’s had survived, and Miss E.D.’s room had been over the shop, common sense told me that those stamps must long since have been stripped from the walls.”
He paused and lighted a cigar. Braid waited, his heart pounding.
“Yet there was a possibility, remote but tantalizing and irresistible, that someone years ago redecorated the room by papering over the stamps. Any decorator will tell you they sometimes find layer on layer of wallpaper. Imagine peeling back the layers to find thousands of Penny Blacks and Twopence Blues unknown to the world of philately! These days the commonest ones are catalogued at ten pounds or so, but find some rarities—inverted watermarks, special cancellations—and you could be up to five hundred pounds a stamp. Maybe a thousand pounds. Mr. Braid, I don’t exaggerate when I tell you the value of such a room could run to half a million pounds. Half a million for what that young lady in her innocence called ‘worthless little articles’!”
As if he read the thought, Messiter said, “It was my discovery. I went to a lot of trouble. Eventually I found the Post Office Directory for 1845 in the British Library. The list of residents in Leadenhall Street included a glover by the name of Butt.”
“So you got the number of this shop?” Messiter nodded. “And when you came to Leadenhall Street, here it was, practically the last pre-Victorian building this side of Lloyd’s?”
Messiter drew on his cigar, scrutinizing Braid.
“All those stamps,” Braid whispered. “Twenty-seven years I’ve owned this shop and the flat without knowing that in the room upstairs was a fortune. It took you to tell me that.”
“Don’t get the idea it was easy for me,” Messiter pointed out. “Remember I waited practically a year for those French people to move out. That was a test of character, believe me, not knowing what I would find when I took possession.”
Strangely, Braid felt less resentment toward Messiter than the young Victorian woman who had lived in this building, his building, and devised a pastime so sensational in its consequence that his own walls mocked him.
Messiter leaned companionably across the counter. “Don’t look so shattered, chum. I’m not the rat you take me for. Why do you think I’m telling you this?”
Braid shrugged. “I really couldn’t say.”
“Think about it. As your tenant, I did nothing underhanded. When I took the flat, didn’t I raise the matter of redecoration? You said I was free to go ahead whenever I wished. I admit you didn’t know then that the walls were covered with Penny Blacks, but I wasn’t certain myself till I peeled back the old layers of paper. What a moment that was!”
He paused, savoring the recollection. “I’ve had a great year thanks to those stamps. In fact, I’ve set myself up for some time to come. Best of all, I had the unique experience of finding that room.” He flicked ash from the cigar. “I estimate there are still upwards of twenty thousand stamps up there, Mr. Braid. In all justice, they belong to you.”
Braid stared in amazement.
“I’m serious,” Messiter went on. “I’ve made enough to buy a place in the country and write my book. The research is finished. That’s been my plan for years, to earn some time, and I’ve done it. I want no more.”
Frowning, Braid said, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Is it because of the police? You said there was nothing dishonest.”
“And I meant it, but you are right, Mr. Braid. I am a little shaken to hear of your visit from the Inspector.”
“What do you mean?”
Messiter asked obliquely, “When you read your newspaper, do you ever bother with the financial pages?”
Braid gave him a long look. Messiter held his stare.
“If it really has any bearing on this, the answer is no. I don’t have much interest in the stock market. Nor any capital to invest,” he added.
“Just as well in these uncertain times,” Messiter commented. “Blue-chip investments have been hard to find these last few years. That’s why people have been putting their money into other things. Art, for instance. A fine work of art holds its value in real terms even in a fluctuating economy. So do jewelry and antiques. And old postage stamps, Mr. Braid. Lately a lot of money has been invested in old stamps.”
“That I can understand.”
“Then you must also understand that information such as this”—he put his hand on the photostat between them—“is capable of causing flutters of alarm. Over the last year or so I have sold to dealers a number of early English stamps unknown to the market. These people are not fools. Before they buy a valuable stamp, they like to know the history of its ownership. I have had to tell them my story and show them the story in The Times. That’s all right. Generally they need no more convincing. But do you understand the difficulty? It’s the prospect of twenty thousand Penny Blacks and Twopence Blues unknown to the stamp world shortly coming onto the marke
t. Can you imagine the effect?”
“I suppose it will reduce the value of those stamps people already own.”
“Precisely. The rarities will not be so rare. Rumors begin, and it isn’t long before there is a panic and stamp prices tumble.”
“Which is when the sharks move in,” said Braid. “I see it now. The police probably suspect the whole thing is a fraud.”
Messiter gave a nod.
“But you and I know it isn’t a fraud,” Braid went on. “We can show them the room. I still don’t understand why you are giving it up.”
“I told you the reason. I always planned to write my book. And there is something else. It’s right to warn you that there is sure to be publicity over this. Newspapers, television—this is the kind of story they relish, the unknown Victorian girl, the stamps undiscovered for over a century. Mr. Braid, I value my privacy. I don’t care for my name being printed in the newspapers. It will happen, I’m sure, but I don’t intend to be around when it does. That’s why I am telling nobody where I am going. After the whole thing has blown over, I’ll send you a forwarding address, if you would be so kind—”
“Of course, but—”
A customer came in, one of the regulars. Braid gave him a nod and wished he had gone to the kiosk up the street.
Messiter picked up the conversation. “Was it a month’s notice we agreed? I’ll see that my bank settles the rent.” He took the keys of the flat from his pocket and put them on the counter with the photostat. “For you. I won’t need these again.” Putting a hand on Braid’s arm, he added, “Some time we must meet and have a drink to Miss E.D.’s memory.”
He turned and left the shop and the customer asked for 20 Roth-mans. Braid lifted his hand in a belated salute through the shop window and returned to his business. More customers came in. Fridays were always busy with people collecting their cigarettes for the weekend. He was thankful for the activity. It compelled him to adjust by degrees and accept that he was now a rich man. Unlike Messiter, he would not object to the story getting into the press. Some of these customers who had used the shop for years and scarcely acknowledged him as a human being would choke on their toast and marmalade when they saw his name one morning in The Times.
It satisfied him most to recover what he owned. When Messiter had disclosed the secret of the building, it was as if the 27 years of Braid’s tenure were obliterated. The place was full of Miss E. D. That young lady—she would always be young—had in effect asserted her prior claim. He had doubted if he would ever again believe the building was truly his own. But now that her “whimsical project” had been ceded to him, he was going to take pleasure in dismantling the design, stamp by stamp, steadily accumulating a fortune Miss E. D. had never supposed would accrue. Vengeful it might be, but it would exorcise her from the building that belonged to him.
Ten minutes before closing time Inspector Gent entered the shop. As before, he waited for the last customer to leave.
“Sorry to disturb you again, sir. I have that warrant now.”
“You won’t need it,” Braid cheerfully told him. “I have the key. Mr. Messiter was here this morning.” He started to recount the conversation.
“Then I suppose he took out his cutting from The Times,” put in the Inspector.
“You know about that?”
“Do I?” he said caustically. “The man has been round just about every stamp shop north of Birmingham telling the tale of that young woman and the Penny Blacks on her dressing-room wall.”
Braid frowned. “There’s nothing dishonest in that. The story really did appear in The Times, didn’t it?”
“It did, sir. We checked. And this is the address mentioned.” The Inspector eyed him expressionlessly. “The trouble is that the Penny Blacks our friend Messiter has been selling in the north aren’t off any dressing-room wall. He buys them from a dealer in London, common specimens, about ten pounds each one. Then he works on them.”
“Works on them? What do you mean?”
“Penny Blacks are valued according to the plates they were printed from, sir. There are distinctive markings on each of the plates, most particularly in the shape of the guide letters that appear in the corners. The stamps Messiter has been selling are doctored to make them appear rare. He buys a common Plate 6 stamp in London, touches up the guide letters, and sells it to a Manchester dealer as a Plate 11 stamp for seventy-five pounds. As it’s catalogued at more than twice that, the dealer thinks he has a bargain. Messiter picks his victims carefully: generally they aren’t specialists in early English stamps, but almost any dealer is ready to look at a Penny Black in case it’s a rare one.”
Braid shook his head. “I don’t understand this at all. Why should Messiter have needed to resort to forgery? There are twenty thousand stamps upstairs.”
“Have you seen them?”
“No, but the newspaper story—”
“That fools everyone, sir.”
“You said it was genuine.”
“It is. And the idea of a roomful of Penny Blacks excites people’s imagination. They want to believe it. That’s the secret of all the best confidence tricks. Now why do you suppose Messiter had a mortice lock fitted on that room? You thought it was because the contents were worth a fortune? Has it occurred to you as a possibility that he didn’t want anyone to know there was nothing there?”
Braid’s dream disintegrated.
“It stands to reason, doesn’t it,” the Inspector went on, “that the stamps were ripped off the wall generations ago? When Messiter found empty walls, he couldn’t abandon the idea. It had taken a grip on him. That young woman who thought of papering her wall with stamps could never have supposed she would be responsible over a century later for turning a man to crime.”
The Inspector held out his hand. “If I could have that key, sir, I’d like to see the room for myself.” Braid followed the Inspector upstairs and watched him unlock the door. They entered the room.
“I don’t mind admitting I have a sneaking admiration for Messiter,” the Inspector said. “Imagine the poor beggar coming in here at last after going to all the trouble he did to find the place. Look, you can see where he peeled back the wallpaper layer by layer”—gripping a furl of paper, he drew it casually aside—“to find absolutely—” He stopped. “My God!”
The stamps were there, neatly pasted in rows.
Braid said nothing, but the blood slowly drained from his face.
Miss E.D.’s scheme of interior decoration had been more ambitious than anyone expected. She had diligently inked over every stamp with red, purple, or green ink—to form an intricate mosaic of colors. Originally Penny Blacks or Twopence Blues, Plate 6 or Plate 11, they were now as she had described them in The Times—“worthless little articles.”
Ruth Rendell
On the Path
Six victims so far—and there hadn’t been a killing for a week. . .something unusual from one of England’s finest crime writers. . .
There hadn’t been a killing now for a week. The evening paper’s front page was devoted instead to the economic situation and an earthquake in Turkey. But page three kept up the interest in this series of murders. On it were photographs of the six victims, all recognizably belonging to the same type. There, in every case, although details of feature naturally varied, were the same large liquid eyes, full soft mouth, and long dark hair.
Barry’s mother looked up from the paper.
“I don’t like you going out at night.”
“What, me?” said Barry.
“Yes, you. All these murders happened round here. I don’t like you going out after dark. It’s not as if you had to, it’s not as if it was for work.” She got up and began to clear the table, but continued to speak in a low whining tone. “I wouldn’t say a word if you were a big chap. If you were the size of your cousin Ronnie I wouldn’t say a word. A fellow your size doesn’t stand a chance against that maniac.”
“I see,” said Barry. “And whose fault is
it I’m only five feet two? I might just point out that a woman of five feet that marries a bloke only two inches more can’t expect to have giants for kids. Right?”
“I sometimes think you only go roving about at night, doing what you want, to prove you’re as big a man as your cousin Ronnie.”
Barry thrust his face close up to her. “Look, leave off, will you?” He waved the paper at her. “I may not have the height but I’m not in the right category. Has that occurred to you? Has it?”
“All right, all right. I wish you wouldn’t be always shouting.”
In his bedroom Barry put on his new velvet jacket and dabbed cologne on his wrists and neck. He looked spruce and dapper. His mother gave him an apprehensive glance as he passed her on his way to the back door, and returned to her contemplation of the pictures in the newspaper. Six of them in two months. The girlish faces, doe-eyed, diffident, looked back at her or looked aside or stared at distant unknown objects. After a while she folded the paper and switched on the television. Barry, after all, was not in the right category, and that must be her comfort.
He liked to go and look at the places where the bodies of the victims had been found. It brought him a thrill of danger and a sense of satisfaction. The first of them had been strangled very near his home on a path which first passed between draggled allotments, then became an alley plunging between the high brown wall of a convent and the lower red brick wall of a school.
Barry took this route to the livelier part of the town, walking rapidly but without fear and pausing at the point—a puddle of darkness between lamps—where the one they called Pat Leston had died. It seemed to him, as he stood there, that the very atmosphere, damp, dismal, and silent, breathed evil and the horror of the act. He appreciated it, inhaled it, and then passed on to seek, on the waste ground, the common, in a deserted back street of condemned houses, those other murder scenes. After the last killing they had closed the underpass, and Barry found to his disappointment that it was still closed.