Settling Scores

by Martin Edwards

  Beef sat back in his chair.

  “There’s several things. I ought really to go down myself. I’m getting old and lazy. Still, you tell your chap to get the manservant to the telephone and I’ll do the talking.”

  Beef thoughtfully poured out a glass of beer while Thackeray did as he was asked.

  “We’re pretty sure that Parkins never went out that night,” he said, with his hand over the receiver. “No other servants lived in the house.”

  Beef nodded, and when at last the manservant was at the other end asked his questions with great deliberation.

  “You remember that night. Did you put the whisky and soda out for Mr. Jayne and Mr. Raymond? You did? Well, how much whisky was there and how much soda?”

  Thackeray, leaning close, could hear the man’s metallic-sounding reply.

  “The siphon was nearly full. The whisky decanter about a third full.”

  “And when Mr. Raymond rang? Did you notice?”

  “Yes. I took particular notice because I was surprised. The siphon was empty. About half the whisky had gone.”

  “They liked it drowned, did they?”

  “No. That struck me as queer at the time. They both liked only a spot of soda.”

  “Then, when you finally took the tray away?”

  “That night, it was. After Mr. Raymond had gone up. The decanter was empty and the new siphon about an inch down.”

  “You stopped there chatting to Mr. Raymond?”

  “I couldn’t help it. He kept questioning me about my family and that. I wanted to get back to my fire.”

  “Thank you, Parkins. You’ve been most helpful. Are you a toxophilite, by the way?”

  “No, sir. I shouldn’t know what to do with a bow and arrows.”

  “Nor should I,” laughed Beef and replaced the receiver.

  “Well?” Thackeray sounded impatient.

  “Clever,” said Beef. “Dead clever. You’ll have to work hard to get the evidence together if you mean to hang him. I can tell you the murderer. At least, I’m pretty sure of it. But you’ll have to get the proof.”

  “Go on,” said Thackeray.

  “Why did Raymond ring for Parkins?” Beef asked. “And insist on keeping him talking for ten minutes or more? There had been a full siphon of soda. It couldn’t all have been used. Why did he squirt it away so that he had an excuse for getting Parkins up to the study if he didn’t want to create an alibi for himself?”

  “He knew when Ledwick would be shot, then?”

  “He knew when Ledwick would die. Let me ask you another question. Do you think that any man with a bow and arrow, any man, mind you, could shoot another through his open mouth at 20 yards’ range in half darkness?

  “If you do you’ve never played darts. You may be able to get a bull once in three darts, but change your length of throw by two feet and you won’t get on the board.

  “These archers practised on targets, not on deer in Sherwood Forest. There was not one of them who could even have hit a man’s head at an unmeasured range. I saw that at once. Ledwick was not shot from the garden. He was poisoned by his very clever brother.

  “All Raymond had to do when he had administered his poison in the whisky was to let Ledwick go to bed and keep Parkins in a closed room far away from the bell. He knew that he would not be disturbed for he had heard the young people’s plans and was aware that Parkins was the only resident servant.

  “So when he had kept Parkins long enough he went up and found his brother neatly stretched out dead. He had his arrow ready and thrust it through the roof of the mouth to the brain so that he could ‘find’ his brother shot from the shrubbery.

  “He had already emptied away the rest of the whisky which contained the poison and washed out the decanter with soda-water. He broke the deck-chair with a couple of kicks—a nice touch that.

  “His alibi was cast-iron. His brother, standing on his balcony with six skilled archers in the grounds, is shot through his notoriously wide open mouth.

  “Who’s going to suspect poison? The cause of death could never be doubted for a moment, he thought, a cause with which he could have no connection. But you go and get a post-mortem and see if I’m not right. There’s something very convincing about a bow and arrow but really, when you come to think of it…”

  “Exactly,” said Thackeray, “when you come to think of it.”

  ‌Four to One—Bar One

  ‌Henry Wade

  Golden Age detective novelists frequently wrote about country houses and the landed gentry, but few of them had first-hand experience of the life of the aristocracy. Major Sir Henry Lancelot Aubrey-Fletcher, 6th Baronet, CVO, DSO (1887–1969) was a distinguished exception to the general rule. A decorated soldier, he served as High Sheriff of Buckinghamshire and later as Lord Lieutenant of that county. In the 1920s, he played cricket for the county as an all-rounder, and enjoyed considerable success. An enthusiastic sportsman, his love of horse racing is evident in several of his stories. All his crime fiction appeared under the pen-name Henry Wade.

  The range of Wade’s work in the genre was impressive. He began with a pleasing courtroom novel, The Verdict of You All (1926) and his output included inverted mysteries (in which we follow the criminal’s activities before seeing whether they lead to his downfall), police procedurals, and classic detection. He showed an admirable determination not to follow a formula, and his deep understanding of police work—not merely investigative procedures but the nature of “office politics” within a police station and the pressures that can lead to corruption—ensured that his mysteries had a touch of authenticity lacking in the work of inferior talents. This story comes from an early collection, Policeman’s Lot (1933), which includes several cases for Wade’s principal detective character, Inspector Poole. But “Four to One—Bar One” is a stand-alone story and although it features horse racing (in particular, betting on races) its bleak tone and focus on violent criminality are quite unusual for Wade and for the period.

  The bookmakers in the half-crown ring at Tattenham Park were preparing for the real business of the day. In a quarter of an hour the runners for the big May Handicap would be out, and of the two horses which would almost certainly start favourite it was well known to the fraternity that one had little more than popular sentiment to justify its position in the market. It should be a good race for the Book.

  All that concerned the bookmakers now was to get as large a share as possible of the business that was going—and on this warm, cheerful day it should be plentiful; each professional had confidence in his own skill in obtaining that share and in keeping a quick enough ear and eye on the run of the market to keep just on the right side of the quoted odds. Each professional, that is, except old Sam Trapps. Sam was getting old and his nerve was leaving him; that meant that either business or money left him too, and he knew that the time was near at hand when he would have to give up the game, or lose the hard-earned savings of a lifetime’s strenuous and fairly honest endeavour.

  Already the early silver punters, having caught, or failed to catch, a glimpse of their favourites in the too exclusive paddock, were beginning to move up and down the line of bookmakers, hoping to catch a favourable early price. A small man in a bowler hat and pince-nez approached Josh Blare, at the top of the line.

  “Er—what is the favourite?” he asked nervously.

  “Any ’orse you like to name, guv’nor. I’ll lay yer five to four against any ’orse on yer programme for the race. Duggie ’imself couldn’t say fairer than that.”

  But the pigeon was not quite as blue as all that. He knew that this generous offer contained a catch somewhere, and he took his 2s. off to the Tote. Josh Blare cursed under his breath.

  “Five ter four the Field,” he yelled, taking up the general cry. “Three ter one bar one.” “’Ere, I lay five ter four Maiden’s Pride. Five ter four Maiden’s Pride. Three to one Jacko. Five to one bar two.”

  There was a general rush of “business” all do
wn the line, backers distributing themselves among their favourite bookies, or moving up and down the line in hopes of snatching a longer price. Most of the money, undoubtedly, was going on the two favourites, as it usually did in the big, popular races, but a certain amount was finding its way on to the longer-priced starters. In particular, a horse named Buzz was being quietly backed in different places at 100 to 7 and 100 to 8. Business was beginning to be brisk.

  Brisk to everyone except Sam Trapps. Old Sam, with his rather bleary eyes and gloomy look, did not impress backers with a feeling of confidence. His old-fashioned suit was too loud for these days, and none too clean; the word “welsher” crept into the minds of the timorous, whilst the knowing hands turned away with a sneer. Business was not coming to old Sam.

  Suddenly the old man was seized with an inspiration. He knew that nothing would bring the punters to him now—nothing but a gamble. He was finished anyhow, but he might have a last run for his money, just to show that there was life in the old dog yet.

  Although the odds on the longer-priced horses had varied considerably (Buzz was down to eights now), and although the bookmakers were kept constantly in touch with the price movements in the bigger rings by their tic-tac men, the two favourites had not budged. “Five to four Maiden’s Pride” and “Three to one Jacko” was still the cry, all the way down the line.

  Now suddenly, above the general uproar, there burst a clear bell-like voice:

  “Six to four Maiden’s Pride; seven to two, Jacko; five to one bar two!”

  “Who’s that—stretchin’ the odds?” snarled Josh Blare to his clerk. “Sam Trapps? The old fool’s balmy. ’Ere, five ter four Maiden’s Pride; three to one Jacko. Five ter four the Field.”

  But old Sam’s wonderful voice, his last remaining asset, had pierced to the brains of the backers. There was a quick movement towards the quoter of more generous odds, and in a minute Sam and his clerk were as busy as ever they had been in their lives.

  “Twelve bob to eight Maiden’s Pride, No. 458. Three-ten to a pound Jacko, No. 459. Three pound to two Maiden’s Pride, No. 460.”

  The clerk’s hand flew; money poured into Sam’s bag.

  The ring could not ignore it; at the critical moment, when all the (comparatively) big money was going on, here was a price-stretcher jumping in and pinching all the business. There was nothing else for it.

  “Six to four Maiden’s Pride. Seven to two Jacko. Six to one Buzz,” ran down the line.

  The crowd in front of Sam Trapps wavered, but Sam did not hesitate.

  “Two to one Maiden’s Pride. Four to one Jacko,” he cried. Then to his clerk again: “Ten bob to five Maiden’s Pride, No. 471; eight poun’ to two Jacko, No. 472. Two bob to one Maiden’s Pride, No. 473. Twen’y bob to ten Maiden’s Pride, No. 474. No, sir, book’s closed on Buzz. Four poun’ to two Maiden’s Pride, No. 475.”

  The ring wavered, started to follow suit, and the next moment the bugle blared from the top of the Grand Stand.

  “They’re off!”

  A few more hurried bets were made, but for the most part “bookies” and backers alike were intent upon getting a view of the race. Along the far side of the course the view was interrupted by trees and by the marquees which lined the back of the free enclosures. As the horses swung round the bend, however, it could be seen that Maiden’s Pride was leading by a couple of lengths; a glance at her ears, however, was enough to tell the tale. A few optimistic bookmakers tried the old trick:

  “Maiden’s Pride wins!” they cried. “Even money Maiden’s Pride. I take six to four Maiden’s Pride.”

  A few mugs rushed into the trap, but there was no money in it.

  Jacko, moving nicely, lay third, whilst Buzz, away out on the far side of the course, level with the bunch, was going well within herself.

  There was a little rush of last-minute bets, mostly among the “bookies” themselves, covering. There was a roar of shouting round and opposite the winning post, and in a second the news flashed down the course; Buzz had won; neither of the favourites was placed. It was a great race for the Book, except perhaps in the half-crown ring, where a great many last-minute bets had been accepted on Buzz in order to make up for the loss of business on the favourites. To one man in that ring, however, the race had brought a small fortune; Sam Trapps’ inspiration had won him more money, probably, than he had won on any single day in the whole course of his career.

  As soon as the “Pay, Pay” was over—not a long job—the bulk of the occupants of the half-crown ring, including the bookmakers, went off to get a drink. At the end of the line, however, Josh Blare, having despatched his clerk for what he wanted, remained in scowling contemplation of his book. It was not a bad book, but it might have been so much better. Presently he shut it with a snap and, with a quick look round, jerked his head at a short, thick-set man who, with two weedy-looking youths, was lounging near the entrance ring. The thick-set man strolled forward, the youths following, but at a snarling word from the former these hangers-on dropped back to their former position. As he approached, Blare made off towards the entrance; the two men’s paths crossed and a whisper passed between them.

  A minute later Sam Trapps, busily engaged in making up his book, heard a husky voice say in his ear:

  “Nice race you’ve ’ad, guv’nor. What’ll it be worth?”

  Sam glanced up quickly and blanched at sight of the face in front of him. Thin-nosed, thick-lipped, with small pig-eyes that crossed one another in a perpetual leer, it was as cruel a face as the imagination of man could produce. Sam knew it well; he knew the short, thick-set body and the long arms that accompanied it. He shuddered. The stand on each side of him was empty, each occupant having gone off for refreshment. The man with the squint approached closer.

  “Fifty, it’s worth,” he said huskily.

  Sam wavered; his nerve was leaving him again. It was rank blackmail, but he knew, only too well, what he was up against.

  With a quick movement the man whisked back his coat-flap and quickly, deliberately, exposed two inches of wicked cold steel.

  “Remember Bert Larkin,” he hissed. “Ten crisps, quick now.”

  With trembling fingers, Sam counted out the money and thrust it into the hand of his tormentor, who quickly disappeared in the returning crowd. Sam wiped his brow, while his clerk eyed him with horrified amazement.

  There was little business on the next race, the crowd not having recovered from the excitement of the big event, but in the last race but one the Book had a really bad turn, a heavily-backed favourite romping home in a common canter. Word passed up the line, however, that John Hallows, a newcomer from the north, had done well, having closed his book early on the favourite and laid off most of what he had accepted.

  Blare, now in a thoroughly bad temper, did a thing that he had rarely done in his life before. Thinking he had a greenhorn to deal with, he repeated his trick. With a jerk of the head he summoned Jake, who lounged forward and lit a cigarette within earshot; a minute later John Hallows found himself accosted by the same cross-eyed villain that had fleeced poor Sam.

  “That’ll be worth twenty, guv’nor,” muttered Jake.

  “Get out of here!” exclaimed Hallows sharply.

  “Remember Bert Larkin.”

  “Joe, fetch that policeman!”

  It was not necessary for Joe, the clerk, to move; Jake had disappeared into the crowd. An easy victory, but John Hallows knew that he had made a dangerous enemy.

  Hallows, as has been said, was a north-countryman. He did not speak in dialect, only a slight broadening of vowels and an occasional “Eh, laad” when he was excited, betraying his origin. He was a man of about thirty-five, short but sturdy, with an intense vitality and a sense of independence, almost of superiority, which amounted to something very near conceit. When the last race was over he packed up his traps, then moved down a place or two to speak to Sam Trapps.

  “Excuse me, mate,” he said, “can I offer you a lift back to town in my b
it of a car? You’ve had a good day, and I think I saw you have a visit from a chap that came to me; maybe there’ll be others after you. You can trust me.”

  Trapps looked at him carefully.

  “I think I can,” he said. “Thank you kindly; I’d like to come with you.”

  They threaded their way through the crowd to a huge cheap car park and presently were packing themselves and their paraphernalia into a grimy but serviceable-looking Morris saloon.

  “Bought her second-hand,” explained Hallows.

  If he had said fifth-hand he would have been nearer the mark; still, the car got from one place to another, and that was about all that Hallows asked of it. On the way to London the two bookmakers—one at the beginning, the other at the end, of what they called “the great game”—compared notes on their experiences, and particularly upon the ever-growing activities of the dangerous “race-gangs” that had become much more daring and dangerous since the War. Hallows explained that it was partly because of their activities—robbery and blackmail, freely supported by violence—that he did all the race-meetings within seventy miles of London by car; he was able to avoid the crowds going to and from the railway stations, and—worse still—the “packed” railway carriages. Sam Trapps warned his young friend in particular of Beauty Jake, the man who had tried his hand on them both that afternoon; Jake, he knew, had a little gang of “knifemen”—youths trained in the pleasant art of handling or throwing a weapon far more deadly and less risky to use than a revolver. Sam believed that Jake worked for a boss, but he did not know who he was. Thanking Sam for his warning, Hallows explained that he had been in the Tanks in the War, had been taught to use a pistol, and meant to take care of himself.

  By the time the car reached Sam’s house in Battersea, the two men were close friends, and Sam parted from his benefactor with many protestations of goodwill and warnings to “take care of hisself.” Waving farewell, John Hallows and his clerk, Joe, drove on to the former’s home in Bermondsey.