The Long Arm of the Law

by Martin Edwards

  “So the whole story of secret poisoning was pretty quickly exploded,” concluded Reggie, “and I felt a shocking fool ever to have been taken in by a madman’s yarn. But you have no idea, Arthur, how rational a monomaniac of this sort can be, and how often evidence lends itself to his tale. Would not anyone have been suspicious under the circumstances I have told you? We found out subsequently that Grimsby’s wife had been accidentally poisoned by a dose of oxalic acid, taken by mistake for Epsom salts, and he had been accused of causing her death. He was acquitted, but the thing weighed so much on his mind that it sent him off his head. He was reasonable enough in every other way, but on the subject of poisoning—well, you know what mischief he brought about. As fate would have it, Mr Darrell happened to dabble in chemistry, and that cupboard full of chemicals probably started Grimsby’s suspicions. He managed to obtain a key of it, and he knew all that it contained. Of course, he imagined Mr Darrell’s nightly visits to it. After all, the worst sufferer was poor Violet, who was really ill from some nasty stuff he mixed with her food, under the impression, of course, that he had found Mr Darrell’s poison, and would try its effect upon a third person. But she’s all right now, thank Heaven, and Grimsby, I believe, is in the county asylum, where he fancies everybody is trying to poison him.”

  The Silence of PC Hirley

  Edgar Wallace

  A recent biography of Edgar Wallace by Neil Clark is titled Stranger than Fiction, and there could be no more appropriate description of the life of such a remarkable man. Rising from humble beginnings, Wallace (1875–1932) found fame and fortune as a novelist and playwright, becoming the most widely read author in the world. He is primarily remembered as a writer of countless extravagant and occasionally (having been very quickly written) slapdash thrillers and tales of adventure, but his vast output—which included poetry, and a history of the First World War—included formal detective stories.

  Wallace’s most memorable sleuth was Mr J.G. Reeder, who was not a policeman but a mild-mannered civil servant from the Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions. His police detectives included “the Elk”, who appeared in books such as The Fellowship of the Frog (1925), which that stern critic Julian Symons described as “preposterous but enjoyable”, and “the Sooper”, a laconic cop otherwise known as Superintendent Minter. This short story, from a series featuring P.C. Lee written in 1909, was recently dramatised on BBC Radio 4, illustrating the truth that interest in Wallace has never completely faded.

  ***

  “The art of bein’ a policeman,” said P.C. Lee, thoughtfully, “is to keep your mouth shut at the right moment. Nothin’ upsets a chap who wants to argue the point like remainin’ silent, an’ lookin’ him over like a prize pig. It frightens him, because he thinks you’re goin’ to say somethin’ that most likely you never thought of, an’ havin’, so to speak, a guilty conscience, he’s ready to put thoughts into your head which you don’t harbour.

  “There was a young constable in R Division, when I was down that way, that made a point of never sayin’ anythin’ when he was on duty. If people asked him the way to so-an’-so, he used to point; if they asked him the time, he showed ’em his watch; an’ it got about in Deptford that he wasn’t quite right in his head; an’ all the nuts gave him a wide berth, because he didn’t look like a chap who was soft, but more resemblin’ a lunatic of the dangerous sort.

  “By continuin’ to do the deaf an’ dumb act he got more convictions than any other chap in the division.

  “He’d be standin’ at the corner of the street doin’ nothin’ in particular, when, for want of a more beautiful sight, he’d look at some young man standin’ idly about.

  “For a bit, the young chap wouldn’t take no notice, then as P.C. Hirley went on lookin’—havin’ nothin’ better to do—the young chap would shuffle about very uneasy, an’ at last, not able to stand it any longer, over he’d come to the Worm—we used to call him the Hirley Worm—an’ say:

  “‘I s’pose you’re lookin’ at my boots?’

  “P.C. Hirley would say nothin’.

  “‘They are army boots, I’ll admit,’ the feller would say, ‘but I bought ’em off a militia-man.’

  “Still, P.C. Hirley only looked at the boots.

  “‘If you thinks I’m a deserter,’ the chap would go on, very agitated, ‘you’re jolly well mistook.’

  “But P.C. Hirley kept mum.

  “‘All right,’ at last the chap would say, ‘it’s a cop; I’ll go quietly. I deserted from the West Kents last Christmas time owin’ to a row with my girl.’

  “An’ all that P.C. Hirley did was to say nothin’ but run the chap in.

  “Some of our fellers thought he must be a hypnotist, he had such a way of influencin’ people, but I put it down to the fact that a silent man is a very terrifyin’ thing. Hirley is a Divisional Inspector now, an’ all the fellers under him are in mortal terror for fear he’ll be sayin’ somethin’ to them that he’s never likely to say.

  “But Hirley didn’t get his promotion for not talkin’, as you know. But the finest instance of his silence was in connection with the Kensin’ton mystery, which you may remember.

  “It was ten years ago, when we got a portrait an’ description of the man Pilsnert, one of the most famous blackmailers in the world.

  “He’d been to America, but suddenly reappeared in England, an’ by all accounts was goin’ stronger than ever.

  “Anyway, the C.I.D. got the tip that he was workin’ his ‘speciality.’

  “This was to get some woman who had a bit of a past, known only to a few people, an’ make her pay up, threatenin’ to tell her husband or her son, as the case may be, all about what happened at Brighton in ’91, so to speak.

  “So, in consequence of information received, we began to look for Pilsnert on our ground, but unfortunately we stuck too close to Nottin’ Dale, thinkin’ he’d be in hidin’ in the poorer part.

  “Our superintendent, Mr Carylon, as nice a gentleman as ever breathed, knowin’ that I was well acquainted with all the toughs of Nottin’ Dale district, sent for me, an’ I went to his house. As a matter of fact, it was a beautiful little flat that he’d taken when he married. It was, as I say, a beautiful little flat, full of taste an’ artistic feelin’, with lots of photographs of Mrs Carylon as Ophelia, and Desdemona (she used to be quite a tip-top actress), an’ very beautiful pictures they were, for Mrs Carylon was one of the loveliest women I’ve ever seen.

  “‘Come in, Lee,’ ses the super, ‘only don’t make a noise, my wife is very seedy, an’ has been in bed for three days with some sort of rheumatism.’

  “Then he asked me a few questions about my people, an’ I told him all that I knew.

  “‘You’ll have to keep an eye open for Pilsnert,’ he ses. ‘Up at the Yard they’re just frantic to get him. He’s been blackmailin’ the Countess of Cursax an’ somebody else. We know all about the countess’s case, because she’s come straight to the police an’ told ’em; but the other poor creature hasn’t had the courage, an’ we can’t find out who she is—except the countess has told the Yard that she is sure there is somebody else.’

  “I left him, determined to get some of my own bright boys to work.

  “That night I was on duty in Ladbroke Gardens. A stiflin’ hot summer’s night it was in June, an’ my clothes fairly stuck to me.

  “I was walkin’ very slowly up towards Kensin’ton Park Road when a cab drove up, almost abreast of me, an’ a young gentleman in evenin’ dress jumped out. I couldn’t see his face, but he was a slight built youth of about 17 or 18, as near as I could judge, an’ he stepped back a pace as he saw me, hesitated for a moment, then handin’ the cabby his fare, he walked up the steps of a house an’ opened the door with a latch-key.

  “I gave him ‘Good-night,’ as he passed; but beyond a nod he said nothin’.

  “Somehow, I knew
he was a stranger in these parts, for although I wasn’t exactly acquainted with everybody who lived in the gardens, yet I knew instinctively that he was a new-comer.

  “The cab drove off, an’ I walked on to the corner, met the sergeant, told him nothin’ had happened, an’ started to walk back along the way I’d come.

  “As I reached the house where I’d seen the young fellow go in, I looked up carelessly, an’ to my astonishment the door was wide open.

  “‘Hullo,’ ses I. ‘What’s up?’

  “I put the light of my lantern into the hall, an’ it was empty.

  “I waited a little, thinkin’, perhaps, the young chap had gone out to post a letter; but nobody appeared, so I walked up the steps an’ knocked.

  “I knocked three or four times without gettin’ an answer, an’ then I stepped inside.

  “I stepped back quick enough, for from a room above came a most awful yell, that absolutely froze my blood.

  “Up the stairs I sprang, three at a time.

  “There was a door open on the landin’, an’ I ran into the room.

  “It was pitch dark, but puttin’ my lantern over it I saw it was a sort of study.

  “The first thing I saw was a man’s body all huddled up in a corner of the room.

  “I flashed my lantern on him, an’ I saw that he was dead. Dead he was, with a bullet-hole in the middle of his forehead.

  “I jumped downstairs, three at a time, an’ blew my whistle, an’ in a few minutes up ran P.C. Hirley—we’d both been transferred to this division—an’ I told him in a few words what was wrong, an’ sent him peltin’ for a doctor.

  “He hadn’t been gone long before the sergeant came, an’ another constable, an’ together we made an inspection of the house.

  “It was a curious house, believe me, for it was half furnished, an’ what furniture there was wouldn’t have fetched £20 in the open market. The best room was the one with the body in it.

  “There appeared to be no servants, nor no accommodation for them, an’ after makin’ an inspection of the house we came back to where we started, an’ had a look at the man who was killed.

  “He was not a pleasant-lookin’ sight—an elderly man, with a face that looked evil even in death. I remembered having seen him before, an’ then it flashed across me that this must be the celebrated Mr Pilsnert.

  “A few minutes later in came Mr Carylon, the super, an’ the moment he saw the body he whistled. We put lights on, an’ all five of us started to systematically search the house all over again.

  “The great mystery was, who was it that yelled when I entered? It couldn’t have been the dead man, because I’d have heard the shot, an’ besides, the doctor said he must have been killed instantly.

  “‘It’s an extraordinary thing,’ said the super, shakin’ his head; ‘the most extraordinary feature of the case. I can understand how the murderer came, an’ how he got away. He was the young man you saw, an’ likely as not the poor girl this scoundrel has been blackmailin’, dressed up as a man. But who was it that shouted?’

  “But this mystery wasn’t the greatest mystery after all; an’ if the story I’m tellin’ you was a proper detective story I’d keep you waitin’ for the solution till the end.

  “But we found out all about it in less than no time. We all went to the front door to reconstruct the scene.

  “‘Stand where you were when you walked into the passage,’ ses the super.

  “So I acted it all over again.

  “I stepped into the hall, took a pace, an’ jumped back, for from the top of the stairs came that awful yell that I had heard.

  “‘Come back,’ ses the super; but I didn’t want any tellin’.

  “‘Now, step forward again.’

  “I carried out the instructions—an’ again came that terrible cry.

  “‘Sounds a bit mechanical,’ ses the super, as cool as ice. ‘We’ll go upstairs again.’

  “On the landin’ was a little cabinet that I’d noticed. The super walked straight to this and pulled open the door, an’ inside was a sort of clockwork arrangement.

  “This was the first time I’d ever seen a phonograph; but the chief knew what it was.

  “‘There’s a loose board in the hall,’ he ses, ‘an’ I daresay an electrical connection. When you step on that you start the machine goin’. Pilsnert expected visitors, an’ wanted to frighten ’em.’

  “Satisfied with this explanation—it was a true one, we found—we went upstairs to search the room.

  “‘Keep all the papers together,’ ses the super, ‘an’ don’t disturb ’em more than you can help.’

  “I saw Hirley examinin’ a bundle, saw him frown as he glanced at ’em, then, to my amazement, I saw him slip the letters up his sleeve.

  “I gasped, because he was the straightest man I know; but I said nothin’.

  “Well, to cut a long story short, we found nothin’ that would indicate who the murderer was. We found the cabby who drove the young ‘man’ to the house, an’ he could give us no information either; an’ the Ladbroke Gardens murder is a mystery to this day.

  “But that ain’t the only mystery.

  “Sometime after this Hirley was specially promoted for a very fine capture of burglars in Kensin’ton, an’ went out of the district. I didn’t see him again till a lot of us went down to Tilbury to see off Mr and Mrs Carylon to South America. The super had got a very good appointment in the foreign department of the C.I.D. at Buenos Ayres.

  “After the ship had sailed, Hirley—Divisional Inspector he was then—ses to me:

  “‘Nice woman, Mrs Carylon.’

  “‘Yes,’ I ses.

  “‘A little wild as a young girl,’ he ses.

  “‘Was she?’ I ses in surprise. I’d never heard of it.

  “‘Do you remember the night Pilsnert was killed?’ he ses.

  “‘I do,’ I ses.

  “‘Well,’ ses Hirley, slowly, ‘she was ill in bed, unable to move.’

  “‘She was, now I come to think of it,’ I ses, an’ waited for him to go on.

  “‘That’s all,’ he ses, an’ what he meant is a mystery to me to this day.”

  The Mystery of a Midsummer Night

  George R. Sims

  George Robert Sims (1848–1922) was a campaigning journalist and author who enjoyed considerable popular success as a dramatist. He is not to be confused with the novelist and antiquarian bookseller George Sims (1923–99), two of whose novels have been published in the British Library’s series of Classic Thrillers. George R. Sims’ fate was to be best remembered for writing the monologue that begins “It was Christmas Day in the workhouse”, but his prolific output included memoirs, poetry, satire, thirty plays, and novels. He also invented a tonic supposed to prevent baldness.

  Crime, notably the Whitechapel murders, fascinated Sims. He was an early Ripperologist who seems to have believed that Jack the Ripper bore him a physical resemblance. His most popular detective, Dorcas Dene, was an early example of the fictional female sleuth, although she was by no means the first. The stories he wrote about Detective Inspector Chance for The Sketch were much less well-known. Aiming to create an impression of verisimilitude, Sims claimed that Chance’s “qualities are freely admitted at Scotland Yard. In the stories selected from his various adventures and experiences, the incidents of which I have gathered from his own memoranda, and in the course of conversation with him, fictitious names are used, although every case dealt with is part of the criminal history of recent times.” This story was based on the Road Hill House murder case.

  ***

  I was trying to persuade my friend Detective Inspector Chance to write his reminiscences.

  “I have often thought of doing what you suggest,” he said. “In fact a year or two ago I got a young journalist friend of mine to put one
of my cases into story form. But he had not gone far with it before I found that it came out too much like a novelette, and not like a detective’s way of putting things. So the story was left unfinished. You can read it, if you care to.”

  The famous detective took a manuscript from his desk and handed it to me.

  At eight o’clock on a bright June morning the inhabitants of the West Country village of Farley Royal had gathered together in little groups to discuss the amazing happening that had come to disturb the rural peace in which they passed their uneventful lives.

  Half-an-hour previously the Squire, Mr Deane West, had been seen driving through the village in his pony chaise. It had passed from lip to lip that he was on his way to Brentbridge, the nearest town, to obtain the assistance of the police in unravelling a mystery.

  In the hush of the midsummer night the Squire’s youngest son, Eric, a bright little fellow of four, had been stolen from his father’s house, taken from the cot in which he lay asleep by the side of his nurse’s bed.

  No one in the house had heard a sound. The nurse had not missed her charge until she woke at six in the morning. Then she saw that the boy was gone, and that a blanket was missing from his cot.

  The Squire, when he was informed of the disappearance of little Eric, at once concluded that it was an act of revenge on the part of some evil-doer against whom in his capacity as a Justice of the Peace he had been severe.

  His boy had been stolen “to spite him.”

  It was with this idea that Squire West had hurried off to place the matter in the hands of the Superintendent at Brentbridge Police Station.

  But long before the Squire returned the mystery of his child’s fate had been solved.

  Some of the villagers and servants, searching the grounds of the house, had discovered bloodstains on the floor of an old disused outhouse that had a vault beneath it. The discovery caused the searchers to examine the vault. There the body of the child had been discovered. The throat was cruelly gashed. The lifeless little form was wrapped in the missing blanket. When the Superintendent from Brentbridge arrived with a couple of officers, it was only to learn that he had no longer to search for little Eric West, but to discover the author of a cruel and apparently purposeless crime.