Quick Curtain

by Alan Melville

  “What did you ask him?”

  “I asked him if Gwen Astle, the musical-comedy actress, spent the night with him last night. Answer yes or no, I said, and write clearly in block capitals.”

  “Ass!” said Mr. Wilson. “Blithering, unadulterated ass. Still, I don’t suppose he had anything to do with it.”

  “He doesn’t sound as though he had the least interest in the affair,” said Derek. “Well, Martha?”

  “A gentleman to see the master,” said Martha.

  “What’s his name?” asked Mr. Wilson.

  “Gent called Jenkinson, sir.”

  “Jenkinson?”

  “That’s what he said, sir,” said Martha, standing her ground firmly.

  “There was a fellow I knew at school,” said Derek, “who always made a habit of putting garden worms in the house tutor’s bed on the last day of term. But his name was Jackson. He—”

  “Shut up!” said Mr. Wilson. “Right, Martha. Show him in here.”

  Mr. Jenkinson, shown up, proved to be Herbert and none other.

  “God bless my soul!” said Mr. Wilson. “I’d forgotten all about sending for you, Herbert. Didn’t recognize the description. That woman called you Jenkinson or something.”

  “That’s me, sir,” said Herbert, sitting respectfully on the extreme edge of a chair. “Herbert Jenkinson, sir. You didn’t think I’d just been christened Herbert and it left at that?”

  “No,” said Mr. Wilson. “But if you’d just said plain Herbert to Martha I’d have known at once who you were. I was beginning to think it was a Fresh Development.”

  “I did, sir,” said Herbert in an apologetic manner. “When your maid asked me my name I said to her, ‘Just call me Herbert,’ and she says to me, ‘I’m not in the mood for freshness this morning, me lad.’ Quite sharp, she was, sir. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

  “Hilary Foster’s revolver,” said Mr. Wilson.

  For the first time since the Wilsons had made Herbert’s acquaintance, he looked slightly flustered.

  “Revolver, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes. Why did you change Hilary Foster’s revolver just before he went on in the second act?”

  “Here…Mr. Wilson—what are you getting at, sir?”

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Wilson. “Why did you?”

  “Because I was told to,” said Herbert.

  “Who by,” asked Mr. Wilson, forgetting his prepositions.

  “Mr. Douglas, sir.”

  “But I went to Mr. Douglas’s office yesterday and asked him if he’d given instructions for the revolver to be changed. He said no, he hadn’t. What d’you make of that?”

  “It’s…he’s mistaken, sir. Honest to God he is. He must have forgotten. I got the instructions sent backstage to me at the end of the dress rehearsal.”

  “What d’you mean—sent backstage? Mr. Douglas didn’t come and tell you himself?”

  “No, sir. The boss always sits in the stalls during a dress rehearsal, sir. He has a secretary alongside of him, sir, and she makes a note of all the things he wants altered and it gets sent up to me when the rehearsal’s finished. There was about fifteen or twenty things he had me change before the first night. This blood—blooming revolver was one of them. I can remember what he said on the note—clear as anything, sir. ‘Change Foster’s revolver to something that looks like a revolver.’ That’s what it said, sir, and that’s what I did.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Wilson. “It’s a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

  “I should think it is, sir. Funny—it never struck me that way until last night. I went all sweaty at the idea, sir. I mean—me planting a new revolver just a few minutes before Mr. Baker was shot. I thought to myself, ‘It’s a ruddy good job this didn’t come out at the inquest.’”

  “It ought to have been out at the inquest, Herbert,” said Mr. Wilson.

  “I know, sir. But somehow I never connected—”

  “Where did you get the new revolver from?”

  “Hamilton and Innes, gunsmiths, Upper Kent Street. They supply all firearms and that kind of thing for our shows.”

  “And…the ammunition?”

  “Ammunition, sir? There wasn’t no ammunition, sir. Good God, sir, you’re not trying to plant this on me, are you?”

  “No,” said Mr. Wilson. “Certainly not. Ninety-nine out of a hundred other men in my position would, though. You change a dummy revolver for a pukka one fifteen minutes or so before a man is shot—seemingly with the revolver you’ve just provided. You say you were acting on orders given you by Mr. Douglas, and Mr. Douglas flatly denies this. It’s your word against his, Herbert.”

  “What are you going to do, Mr. Wilson?” said Herbert.

  “Nothing at all. I’d arrest you on the spot, I think, if I weren’t so damned positive that Brandon Baker wasn’t shot by the revolver held by Hilary Foster at all.”

  “What, sir?”

  “I don’t believe Hilary Foster had anything to do with it. I believe he was made to think he had killed Baker. Just as I made you think just now that you were responsible for the death of Brandon Baker. But I’m too fond of another little theory of my own to waste time trying to find out whether it’s Douglas B. Douglas or you that’s lying. By the way, were there other people in the theatre at this rehearsal?”

  “Yes, sir. Any amount. Newspaper men, and a whole lot of the boss’s friends, and Mr Watcyns and Mr. Carlsson, the authors of the show, and a whole crowd more.”

  “Who handed you the note of the things Mr. Douglas wanted changing?”

  “One of the theatre pages, sir.”

  “And this secretary who took down Mr. Douglas’s instructions. Can I get hold of her anywhere?”

  “Yes, sir. She works at Mr. Douglas’s office when he’s not at the theatre.”

  “I’ll look her up,” said Mr. Wilson.

  “So will I,” said Derek. “If D.B.D. chooses his secretaries from the same formula as he picks his chorus, she ought to be worth looking up.”

  “Right, Herbert,” said Mr. Wilson. “That’s all for the present. And cheer up. After all, I haven’t arrested you.”

  “No, sir,” said Herbert. “Thanks very much, sir.”

  “Oh…Herbert!” said Mr. Wilson.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You don’t happen to know anyone called Craile, do you?”

  “Craile, sir?”

  “Yes. C-r-a-i-l-e. Craile. A friend of Miss Astle’s, it might be.”

  “No, sir. Never heard of anyone of that name. I never thought it was the name of a person before, as a matter of fact.”

  “It is,” said Derek. “Maj.-Gen. Arthur Craile, M.C. His vocabulary—”

  “Quiet,” said Mr. Wilson shortly. “What did you think it was the name of, Herbert?”

  “Why, a place, sir, of course,” said Herbert. “Craile’s the place where Mr. Watcyns goes for his hinspiration, as he calls it. He wrote nearly all of Blue Music there, sir. It’s a village up in Buckinghamshire, I think, sir. He goes and stays at a pub up there for the peace and quiet and—”

  “Herbert,” said Mr. Wilson, “God bless you. If you gave my one and only child here a kettleful of arsenic and made him transparent with bullet-holes, I wouldn’t arrest you even then. You’ve set us on the trail at last. Didn’t I offer you a peerage once? Make it a couple of peerages! And now get out.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Herbert, rather dazed. “’Morning, sir.”

  “Good morning,” said Mr. Wilson. “Derek, the gazetteer. Wasting the whole morning ringing up Crailes when all the time it’s a village in Buckinghamshire! Found it?”

  “Keep calm,” said Derek. “Craile. Vill. Six miles fr. Aylesbury. R.S. : P.O. Eliz. ruins. Early-cl. Wed. Pop. six-six-seven.”

  “What does R.S. : P.O. mean?” asked Mr
. Wilson.

  “Rural scenery perfectly odious,” said Derek. “Alternatively, it’s a snappy way of telling one that Craile is fitted with all modem conveniences, including a railway station and a post office.”

  “Yoicks!” said Mr. Wilson. “Get me a first-class return ticket to Craile, Derek.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I’m going there. Not for the benefit of my health. Not to swell the pop. to six-six-eight. Not to gaze at the Eliz. ruins. But to find Gwen Astle. And, unless I’m pretty far mistaken, Ivor Watcyns.”

  “Just a minute,” said Derek. “Not so fast, old man. You know, if you suddenly barge into Craile, people’ll start talking.”

  “That’s what I want,” said Mr. Wilson. “I want Gwen Astle to start talking and not to stop until I ask her.”

  “No. No. But you’ll ruin the whole thing. Famous Detective Arrives Mysteriously in Old-World Village. You know what’ll happen. They’ll have the red carpet and the local brass band out to meet you, and before you’re there the birds—to mix a metaphor—will have folded their tents and crept silently away.”

  “I thought of going disguised as an artist,” said Mr. Wilson. “Or an author in search of local colour.”

  “With feet like those—impossible,” said Derek. “You’re a policeman, and Willie Clarkson himself couldn’t make you look anything but a policeman. But if I went…”

  “You?” said Mr. Wilson with a snort.

  “Why not? If you go, you’ll have everybody within twenty miles chattering. Nobody knows me. I can go and have a preliminary skirmish, anyway. As an ordinary common or garden hiker.”

  “A hiker?” said Mr. Wilson.

  “That’s what I said. Wandering rough-shod o’er Bucks. Stopping at Craile overnight to give the Eliz. ruins the once-over. Perfectly simple.”

  “You couldn’t persuade anyone you’re a hiker,” said Mr. Wilson. “If I can’t disguise myself as a painter, it’s no use you trying to make people believe you’re a hiker. You’ve got quite respectable legs, for one thing.”

  “Give me half an hour,” said Derek. “I’ll show you.”

  Mr. Wilson, junr., put on his hat and went out on a shopping expedition with five pounds in his notecase. After a bit of meandering, he hit exactly the right kind of emporium. G. Daniels, Cyclists’ and Hikers’ Outfitters. Camp Requisites at Bargain Prices. Step Inside and Look Round. No Obligation to Purchase. Mr. Wilson, junr., stepped inside and looked round. He also purchased, though (as Mr. Daniels had promised) not under any obligation to do so.

  “Good morning,” said Mr. Wilson, junr., “A pair of shorts, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brief argument re waist and buttock measurements now follows.

  “And a khaki shirt, please. With a zip fastener.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Remarkable range of zip-fastened shirts produced. Mr. Wilson, junr., slightly carried away, rejects such a prosaic idea as khaki and selects material of royal-blue colour and emery-paper texture.

  “And a haversack, please. And a saucepan, I think.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “One of those oilskin capes, I think. Yes, the yellow one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And a beret.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How much is all that?” asked Mr. Wilson, junr., fluttering his fiver.

  “Um…three…seven-and-six…fifteen-and-six…sixteen-and-ten…twenty-two-and-three…twenty-three shillings, sir.”

  “Good Lord,” said Derek. “Is that all?”

  “Call it twenty-two-and-six, sir, for cash down,” said Mr. Daniels.

  “In that case,” said Derek, in a flash of genius, “I’ll take a bicycle.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Daniels, washing his hands vigorously with invisible soap.

  “And I’d like to change here,” said Derek, “and put the things I’m wearing just now inside the haversack. May I?”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Daniels once again. “This way, sir.”

  Mr. Wilson, junr., came “this way” and made a transformation scene inside two minutes that would have put any pantomime to shame. The sun was shining fairly strongly outside the shop, but Mr. Wilson, junr., ignored it altogether and girt himself in the oilskin cape. It put, he thought, a final touch of authenticity to the ensemble. Mr. Daniels seemed satisfied rather than ashamed at what he and his emporium had accomplished, and arranged Mr. Wilson, junr., and his haversack, more or less tidily on the bicycle.

  “Going a cycling tour, sir?” inquired Mr. Daniels pleasantly.

  “No,” said Mr. Wilson, junr. “Swimming the Channel.”

  He reached the Wilson family seat with a minute of his half-hour to spare. He felt that, with the exception of the two occasions when he had parted company with the cycle at corners, the whole proceeding was a particularly neat bit of work.

  “My God!” said Mr. Wilson, senr.

  “Tricky, don’t you think?” asked Derek. “Beret on the small side. Shirt slightly itchy. Otherwise O.K. Right. Give me five pounds, will you. I’m off. The wanderlust has claimed me. A bar of chocolate and an orange and I’m all set for Craile, Bucks., pop. six-six-seven. I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

  “In that rig-out anything might happen,” said Mr. Wilson. “Cheerio!”

  “Cheerio,” said Derek. “Now, which way does Bucks lie, anyway?”

  As the gazetteer had been good enough to point out, Craile lies about six miles from Aylesbury in the county of Bucks. Nothing wrong with that; six miles from Aylesbury in the county of Bucks is just about as sensible a place to lie as any. The snag about it is that Aylesbury in the county of Bucks lies itself a good many miles from London. Especially on a bicycle. Mr. Wilson, junr., set off with a light heart and haversack.

  At Willesden the heart was still much the same weight as before, but something had happened to the haversack. At Edgware, Mr. Wilson, junr., dismounted, bought an orange, and asked several policemen several questions. A little further on, Mr. Wilson, junr., threw away the haversack into a passing pond and was extremely surprised to see that it floated. A mile or two more and Mr. Wilson, junr., developed acute shooting pains in the behind. Another half-mile, and he had a brief but animated argument with a four-ton lorry which seemed to be carrying not only several hundred sheep to the slaughter, but also a quantity of bedroom furniture to the sales. There is a sort of discrepancy between a four-ton lorry and a pedal-cycle that makes a meeting of the two rather one-sided. Mr. Wilson, junr., picked himself off the highway, dusted himself carefully, and decided that this was the last straw.

  The humorous side of the escapade, which had been fairly well developed at the start, had now completely evaporated. He lifted his right leg carefully and lowered himself tenderly on to the saddle. Like the haversack, something had happened to the saddle. To a tender behind, it now felt much more like an idea of the Spanish Inquisition than a well-shaped piece of leather. Mr. Wilson, junr., pedalled grimly on.

  Arriving with a sigh of relief at Watford, he purchased a single ticket to Craile for self and cycle and sat down on an upturned milkchurn to wait for the next sensibly directed train. It came in an hour. Mr. Wilson, junr., parked the wretched machine in the luggage van and himself in the corner seat of a third-class smoker, stretched his legs, lit a cigarette, and felt a little more at ease with the world.

  This state of affairs was not allowed to last for long, as it happened, for a couple of heavily built females bounced into the carriage just as the train was leaving, sat down on the opposite cushions, and started to talk in a pointed way about modern hikers who hiked by rail. After ten minutes of this, Mr. Wilson, junr., not unnaturally took the dialogue to refer to himself, and changed his carriage at the next station. He reached Craile at a quarter to five, after one of the most regr
ettable days in his young life.

  A deceptive little place, Craile. The gazetteer put down the pop. as 667, you remember. It may be quite right, of course; but coming into Craile for the first time you would be forgiven at once for assuming that the gazetteer had made a mistake and put in a 6 too many. Or, if the figure was correct, that something ought to be done at once about the over-crowding in rural areas. Or, again, if 667 was not a misprint, that there had been a surprising emigration to the Colonies on the part of the younger Crailers since the taking of the last census.

  Take, for instance, the Main (and only) Street of Craile. There are not more than a dozen houses on each side of its meandering and rut-ridden route. Well, allow for the fact that Craile may be very fond of children, and give each of the funny little cottages six inhabitants apiece. And that’s only a hundred and forty-four all told. The rest may be crowded inside the big house at the very end of the village, but, as a matter of fact, they aren’t; old Lady Bunsen and her servant Sarah and her spaniel Agnes are the only folk up there. They may be, then, living at “Craile Arms”, half-way along the Main Street on the side opposite the pump (water, not petrol, thank God). But if they are, surely it’s a bit unfair to include inn-dwellers in a census. And that’s absurd, anyway; there cannot possibly be four hundred guests packed inside that little hostelry, with its one entrance for the bar part, and its other entrance for the hotel part, its bay windows stacked with geraniums and lace curtains and its odd attic windows poking out of the roof every yard or so. Mr. Wilson, junr., hoped that it was impossible, anyway, for he very much wanted a bed for the night.