The Blind Barber (Dr. Gideon Fell series Book 4)

by John Dickson Carr

  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF JOHN DICKSON CARR

  “Very few detective stories baffle me, but Mr. Carr’s always do.” —Agatha Christie

  “No one is so consistently successful as Carr, who combines genuine understanding of and relish for the past with a comparable understanding and relish in matters of detectival trickery.” —The New York Times Book Review

  “An excellent novel of crime and puzzlement.” —The New York Times on To Wake the Dead

  “A superb story written by an expert.” —The New Yorker on The Emperor’s Snuff-Box

  “Mystery fiction at its finest—an enthralling story such as only Carr can conjure up.” —Newsday on The Demoniacs

  “One of the best … Read it for the story or puzzle or period color—but by all means read it.” —The New York Times Book Review on Scandal at High Chimneys

  The Blind Barber

  A Dr. Gideon Fell Mystery

  John Dickson Carr

  Contents

  PART I

  1. Strange Cargo

  2. Indiscretions of Uncle Warpus

  3. Trap for a Film Thief

  4. A Matter of Skulls

  5. Enter the Emerald Elephant

  6. The Missing Body

  7. Into Which Cabin?

  8. Blood Under a Blanket

  9. More Doubts at Morning

  10. Dramatis Personæ

  11. One Who Saw the Blind Barber

  12. Indiscretions of Curtis Warren

  INTERLUDE

  Observations of Dr. Fell

  PART II

  13. Two Mandarins

  14. Can These Things Be?

  15. How Mrs. Perrigord Ordered Champagne, and the Emerald Appeared Again

  16. Danger in Cabin C 46

  17. Bermondsey Carries On

  18. Gold Watches and Disappearance

  19. Indiscretions of Uncle Jules

  20. Disclosure

  21. The Murderer

  22. Exit Nemo

  About the Author

  Introduction

  THIS BOOK IS A farce about murder.

  I feel I should give you fair warning, because this sort of thing hasn’t been common lately. But if your instant reaction is shocked withdrawal, please pause a moment and hear me out.

  If I have one major complaint about the 300-odd mysteries that I read each year as a reviewer, it is that none of them are funny. Oh, I admit Richard S. Prather or Carter Brown can be amusing, but only in the trimmings: it’s the writing that’s funny, rather than the story.

  And I long for the days of Craig Rice and Alice Tilton and Richard Shattuck and Jonathan Latimer when there was a wild cockeyed preposterousness in the events surrounding murder and even in murder itself—and not just in the style of the narrator.

  I suppose this longing dates me. It’s a 1930ish attitude. There was a fine film late in the Depression, starring Carole Lombard and written by Ben Hecht, called Nothing Sacred. It was a rowdy comedy about a (supposed) cancer victim. The “nothing-sacred” approach seems out of place today; now we take things more seriously, especially death.

  But death and laughter are old friends. The medieval Totentanz is comic; and the macabre poet Thomas Lovell Beddoes christened his major tragedy Death’s Jest Book. As Duncan sinks in his gore, the drunken porter rises with merry and improper quips. And the murders of real life seldom lack their element of comedy. One of the most terrible days in the annals of American murder opened on a scorching morning with a man named John Vinnicum Morse eating warmed-over mutton soup for breakfast.

  I suspect that many readers—particularly the new young readers of mysteries—may relish a more generous ration of comedy-in-murder than publishers have been giving them; this series hopes to bring you, from time to time, Alan Green, Richard Shattuck and other prime practitioners of the criminally absurd, starting now with John Dickson Carr.

  There’s a strong comic element in many of Carr’s books. It’s most prevalent in the cases of Sir Henry Merivale, by “Carter Dickson” (and I realize with a sudden shock that it’s almost ten years since H. M. has appeared in a new book); but it turns up frequently in Dr. Gideon Fell’s cases, too—as in the noble drinking sequences in The Case of the Constant Suicides.

  But these are intrusions, like the porter. Just once did Carr set himself to write an all-out farce (with murder as the intrusion). And, being the incomparable technician that he is, he produced something unique.

  Wisely, he kept Dr. Fell out of the merry maelstrom and made him act, for once, as a pure armchair detective, in the manner of the Baroness Orczy’s Old Man in the Corner. Then he threaded through his fantastic plot a careful set of clues for a faultless formal problem in detection.

  Unlike almost all other comedies of terrors, The Blind Barber is a detective story, in the strictest sense. But never was a reader more bedeviled with distractions from detection. Who observes clues while he’s wiping his laughter-streaming eyes?

  I hope you enjoy the challenge … and the fun.

  ANTHONY BOUCHER

  Part I

  1

  Strange Cargo

  WHEN THE LINER QUEEN Victoria left New York bound for Southampton and Cherbourg, it was said that two fairly well-known people were aboard, and it was whispered that a highly notorious third person was aboard also. Moreover, there was a fourth—but inconspicuous—person who will take rather a large part in this rowdy and topsy-turvy chronicle. Although he did not know it, this young man had in his luggage something more valuable than the marionettes of M. Fortinbras or the emerald elephant of Lord Sturton, which partly explains why there were puzzles and high carnival in the sedate bosom of the Queen Victoria, and monkey business not altogether according to the customary pattern.

  No more dignified ship than the Queen Victoria flies the house-flag of any British line. She is what is sometimes described as a “family” boat: which means that no hilarity is permitted in her state-room after 11 P.M., and all the cross-ocean changes in time are punctiliously observed—so that the bar always closes three-quarters of an hour before you expect it, and makes you swear. Melancholy passengers sit in her glazed writing-room and seem to be composing letters to the relatives of the deceased. In the heavily-ornamented lounge there is soft conversation, not so loud as the creaking of woodwork when the green swell lifts and glitters past the portholes; and knitting is in progress before some electric lights arranged to represent a fire. There is a semblance of gaiety when a serious-minded orchestra plays in the gallery of the dining-saloon at lunch and dinner. But there was one east-bound crossing, in the spring of last year, which Commander Sir Hector Whistler will never forget. Under his professional bluff camaraderie Captain Whistler possesses the most pyrotechnic temper of any skipper who had forsaken sail for steam, and the richness of his language is the admiration of junior officers. When, therefore—

  The Queen Victoria was to dock at Southampton on the afternoon of May 18th, after the weirdest voyage she had ever made. On the morning of the next day Mr. Henry Morgan was ringing the bell of Dr. Fell’s new house at No. 1 Adelphi Terrace. Henry Morgan, it may be remembered, was that eminent writer of detective stories who took his own profession with unbecoming levity, and who had made Dr. Fell’s acquaintance during the case of the Eight of Swords. On this particular morning—when there was a smokey sun on the river and the quiet gardens below Adelphi Terrace—Morgan’s long, bespectacled, deceptively-melancholy face wore an expression which might have been anger or amusement. But he certainly looked like a man who had been through much; as he had.

  Dr. Fell boomed a welcome, greeted him warmly, and pressed upon
him a tankard of beer. The doctor, his guest saw, was stouter and more red-faced than ever. He bulged out over a deep chair in the embrasure of one of the tall windows overlooking the river. The high room, with its Adam fireplace, had been set to rights since Morgan had seen it some months before, when Dr. and Mrs. Fell moved in. It was still untidy, for that was the doctor’s way; but the five-thousand-odd books had been crammed somehow into their oak shelves, and the litter of junk had found place in corners and nooks. Dr. Fell has an old-fashioned weakness for junk, especially for bright pictures of the hunting-print or Dickens variety, and scenes showing people getting out of stage-coaches and holding up mugs of beer before country inns. He also likes carved porcelain tankards with pewter lids, curious book-ends, ash-trays filched from pubs, statuettes of monk or devil, and other childish things which, nevertheless—in the sombre room with the oak bookshelves, with the frayed carpet on the floor—formed a fitting background for his Gargantuan presence. He sat in his chair in the window embrasure, before a broad study table littered with books and papers; there was a grin under his bandit’s moustache, and a twinkle in his eye as he blinked at his visitor over eyeglasses on a broad black ribbon. And when the cigars had been lighted Dr. Fell said:

  “I may be mistaken, my boy, but I seem to detect a professional gleam in your eye.” He wheezed and folded his big hands on the table. “Is there anything on your mind, hey?”

  “There is,” said Morgan grimly. “I have to unfold just about the rummiest story you’ve ever listened to, if you’ve got time to hear it. It’s rather a long one, but I don’t think it’ll bore you. And—if you want any corroboration—I’ve taken the liberty of asking Curt Warren to come round here …”

  “Heh!” said Dr. Fell, rubbing his hands delightedly. “Heh-heh-hehe! This is like old times. Of course I’ve got time. And bring round anybody you like. Replenish that glass again and let’s have the details.”

  Morgan took a deep drink and a deep breath.

  “First,” he said, in the manner of one commencing lecture, “I would direct your attention to a group of people sitting at the captain’s table on the good ship Queen Victoria. Among whom, fortunately or unfortunately, I was one.

  “From the beginning I thought it would be a dull crossing; everybody seemed to be injected with virtue like embalming fluid, and half an hour after the bar had opened there were only two people in it, not counting myself. That was how I made the acquaintance of Valvick and Warren.

  “Captain Thomassen Valvick was a Norwegian ex-skipper who used to command cargo and passenger boats on the North Atlantic route; now retired, and living in a cottage in Baltimore with a wife, a Ford, and nine children. He was as big as a prizefighter, with a sandy moustache, a lot of massive gestures, and a habit of snorting through his nose before he laughed. And he was the most genial soul who ever sat up all night telling incredible yarns, which were all the funnier in his strong squarehead accent, and he never minded if you called him a liar. He had twinkling, pale-blue eyes half-shut up in a lot of wrinkles and a sandy, wrinkled face, and absolutely no sense of dignity. I could see it was going to be an uncomfortable voyage for Captain Sir Hector Whistler.

  “Because, you see, Captain Valvick had known the skipper of the Queen Victoria in the old days before Whistler became the stuffed and stern professional gentleman at the head of the table. There was Whistler—growing stout, with his jaw drawn in like his shoulders, strung with gold braid like a Christmas tree there was Whistler, his eye always on Valvick. He watched Valvick exactly as you’d watch a plate of soup at a ship’s table in heavy weather; but it never kept the old squarehead quiet or muzzled his stories.

  “At first it didn’t matter greatly. We ran into heavy weather immediately and unexpectedly; rain-squalls, and a dizzying combination of pitch-and-roll that drove almost all the passengers to their state-rooms. Those polished lounges and saloons were deserted to the point of ghostliness; the passages creaked like wickerwork being ripped apart, the sea went past with a dip and roar that slung against the bulkhead or pitched you forward on the rise, and navigating a staircase was an adventure. Personally, I like bad weather. I like the wind tearing in when you open a door; I like the smell of white paint and polished brass, which they say is what brings the sea-sickness, when a corridor is writhing and dropping like a lift. But some people don’t care for it. As a result, there were only six of us at the captain’s table: Whistler, Valvick, Margaret Glenn, Warren, Dr. Kyle, and myself. The two near-celebrities we wanted to see were both represented by vacant chairs … They were old Fortinbras, who runs what has become a very swank marionette-theatre, and the Viscount Sturton. Know either one of them?”

  Dr. Fell rumpled his big mop of grey-streaked hair.

  “Fortinbras!” he rumbled. “Haven’t I seen something about it recently in the highbrow magazines? It’s a theatre somewhere in London where the marionettes are nearly life-size and as heavy as real people; he stages classic French drama or something—?”

  “Right,” said Morgan, nodding, “He’s been doing that to amuse himself, or out of a mystic sense of preserving the Higher Arts, for the past ten or twelve years; he’s got a little box of a theatre with bare benches, seating about fifty people, somewhere in Soho. Nobody ever used to go there but all the kids in the foreign colony, who were wild about it. Old Fortinbras’s pièce de résistance was his dramatisation of ‘The Song of Roland,’ in French blank verse. I got all this from Peggy Glenn. She says he took most of the parts himself, thundering out the noble lines from back-stage, while he and an assistant worked the figures. The marionettes’ weight—nearly eight stone, each of ’em stuffed with sawdust and with all the armour, swords and trappings—was supported by a trolley on which the figures were run along, and a complicated set of wires worked their arms and legs. That was very necessary, because what they did mostly was fight; and the kids in the audience would hop up and down and cheer themselves hoarse.

  “The kids, you see, never paid any attention to the lofty sentiments. They probably didn’t even hear them or understand what it was all about. All they knew was that out would stagger the Emperor Charlemagne on the stage, in gold armour and a scarlet cloak, with a sword in one hand and a battle-axe in the other. After him would come bumping and reeling all the nobles of his court, with equally bright clothes and equally lethal weapons. From the other side would come in the Emperor of the Moors and his gang, armed to the eyebrows. Then all the puppets would lean against the air in various overbalanced positions while Charlemagne, with a voice of thunder said, ‘Pry, thee, friend, gadzooks, gramercy, what ho, sirrah!,’ and made a blank-verse speech lasting nearly twenty minutes. It was to the effect that the Moors had no business in France, and had better get to hell out of there—or else. The Emperor of the Moors lifted his sword and replied with a fifteen-minute address whose purport was, ‘Says you!’ And Charlemagne, whooping out his war-cry, up and dots him one with the battle-axe.

  “That was the real beginning, you see. The puppets rose from the stage and sailed at each other like fowls across a cockpit, thrashing their swords and kicking up a battle that nearly brought down the roof. Every so often one of them would be released from the trolley as dead, and would crash down on the stage and raise a fog of dust. In the fog the battle kept on whirling and clashing, and old Fortinbras rushed behind the scenes screaming himself hoarse with noble speeches, until the kids were delirious with excitement. Then down would tumble the curtain; and out would come old Fortinbras, bowing and puffing and wiping the sweat off his face, supremely happy at the cheers of the audience; and he would make a speech about the glory of France which they applauded just as loudly without knowing what he was talking about … He was a happy artist; an appreciated artist.

  “Well, the thing was inevitable. Sooner or later the high-brows would ‘discover’ him, and his art; and somebody did. He became famous overnight, a misunderstood genius whom the British public had shamefully neglected. No kids could get into the place now; it wa
s all top-hats and people who wanted to discuss Corneille and Racine. I gather that the old boy was rather puzzled. Anyhow, he got a thumping offer to exhibit his various classic dramas in America, and it was one long triumphal tour …”

  Morgan drew a deep breath.

  “All this, as I say, I got from Miss Glenn, who is—and has been long before the thing grew popular—a sort of secretary and general manager for the foggy old boy. She’s some sort of relation of his on her mother’s side. Her father was a country parson or schoolmaster or something; and when he died, she came to London and nearly starved until old Jules took her in. She’s devilish good-looking, and seems prim and stiffish until you realise how much devilment there is in her, or until she’s had a few drinks; then she’s a glittering holy terror.

  “Peggy Glenn, then, made the next member of our group, and was closely followed by my friend, Curtis Warren.

  “You’ll like Curt. He’s a harum-scarum sort, the favourite nephew of a certain Great Personage in the present American Government … ”

  “What personage?” inquired Dr. Fell. “I don’t know of any Warren who is—”

  Morgan coughed.

  “It’s on his mother’s side,” he replied. “That has a good deal to do with my story; so we’ll say for the moment only a Great Personage, not far from F. D. himself. This Great Personage, by the way, is the most dignified and pompous figure in politics; the glossiest Top-Hat, the neatest Trouser-Press, the prince of unsplit infinitives and undamaged etiquette … Anyhow, he pulled some wires (you’re not supposed to be able to do this) and landed Curt a berth in the Consular Service. It isn’t a very good berth; some God-forsaken hole out in Palestine or somewhere, but Curt was coming over for a holiday round Europe before he took over the heavy labour of stamping invoices or what-not. His hobby, by the way, is the making of amateur moving-pictures. He’s wealthy, and I gather he’s got not only a full-sized camera, but also a sound apparatus of the sort the news-reel men carry.