“But, man, he’s split three infinitives!”
I suppose I looked foolish. The truth was I had never even heard of a split infinitive, and had no idea what he was talking about.
He tried to make me see how impossible it was for a man like the Professor to split three infinitives in one letter.
“He might possibly have done it once,” Venn said, “writing in a hurry, or under some strain; but to do it three times in ten lines is absolutely impossible, I tell you—it’s like a devout Catholic making three mistakes in writing out the Hail Mary.”
“Impossible or not, he did it,” I pointed out.
Venn nodded. “That’s what I don’t like,” he said. “He must have meant something by it.”
The next minute he jumped so high he nearly hit the ceiling and I really thought for a minute he had taken leave of his senses. “By Heaven,” he cried, “I’ve got it. Innfin! That’s the place where he spent that week-end. I’m sure it is. I never did like the sound of the Saunders crowd much; a lot too flash and friendly all of a sudden. That’s clever if you like.”
“What’s all this about?” I asked.
“Look. The Professor writes ten lines and splits three infinitives, a thing he couldn’t do; simply, couldn’t, I tell you, in a normal way. It must mean something. Well, take it at its face value. Split the word infinitive itself, what do you get? Infin—itive. A week ago Overbatch went down with some people called Saunders to a place in Essex, and the name of that place was Innfin. Does that begin to sound like anything to you?”
I wasn’t convinced, and Venn saw it.
“Well, anyway I’m going down there straightaway,” he said, “you don’t know the Professor like I do; I knew he would get himself into trouble sooner or later.”
As it happened I wasn’t too busy at the time (we had the proper sort of organisation at the Yard in those days) and since the thing seemed to me to be about the maddest wild goose chase I had ever heard of, and since most mad things are worth doing, I said I would go too.
***
We went down by car. It was the first time I had ever seen Innfin—what there is of it to see, which isn’t much. We found Innfin House without difficulty, as desolate and dark a looking place as I’ve ever seen.
“And now what?” I asked.
I must say Venn was a tiger once he had got hold of an idea. We spent half the day trying to pick up some sort of line on things, and in the end he routed out a roadman who had noticed a car with all its windows covered drive into the grounds of Innfin House some few days before. This was about half past seven in the evening, the man said, when he was walking down to the village for his pint (that reminds me, once more, if you don’t mind).
Venn said he’d give a good deal to know what was in that car, behind those covered windows. I must say I felt it might be interesting to probe things a little further, and towards half past eight, when it was getting darkish, we thought we would take a preliminary stroll round and see if we could spot anything.
We didn’t get far; no farther, in fact, than a shrubbery just inside the tumbled-down gate, and we both came out of it at express speed with the wickedest looking Alsatian I’ve ever seen kicking up hell behind us. Presently a man came out with a torch to see what the Alsatian was barking at. He didn’t find us, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be any too easy to get near enough to the house to see anything.
When the man had called the dog in and gone back to the house we had a council of war. I was beginning to get interested in Innfin House by now and, of course, I could pull a few strings that Venn knew nothing of. I walked him back to the local pub, more than a mile and a half away, where we had booked a couple of rooms, and told him to order some beer whilst I got busy on the telephone.
***
At nine o’clock sharp next morning a smart little Post Office van pulled into the inn yard with two sets of mechanics’ overalls in it which Venn and I put on whilst the man who had driven it down—one of my men—was talking to us.
At a quarter past nine the telephone bell rang in Innfin House and Captain Saunders, who answered it, was informed that it was the Post Office Engineering Department speaking to him; that the usual periodic inspection of instruments and internal extension wiring was being carried out; and that two engineers would be coming to do it during the morning. It was all cut and dried and pat; and he never thought of smelling a rat; you don’t, somehow, about official things like that.
***
At ten o’clock Venn and I climbed out of the little Post Office van in front of Innfin House and rang the bell. We could see, and hear, our friend the Alsatian in a great kennel placed to one side of the house.
Saunders opened the door himself. He was pleasant but business-like, and we were given to understand that the sooner we got on with our inspection job and finished it the better.
I noticed from the start, and it raised my hopes, that he never left us alone. If we went into a room he followed, and he stayed there all the time we did. I was acting the boss of the outfit. I didn’t know a thing about telephones, of course, but I think I made the inspection bluff look pretty thorough for all that. Luckily they had three extensions, two downstairs and one up, so that there was plenty of excuse to get about a bit.
It was when we went upstairs that the atmosphere changed. If a man is trying to hide something he has got to be a remarkably good actor to appear normal when anyone is ferreting about near his treasure. I kept an eye on Saunders and I thought he wasn’t altogether happy. There was only one room upstairs that we had any excuse for going into, and friend Saunders took darned good care that we didn’t make a blunder and go into any other one.
I played things out for as long as I could, but I could see he was getting impatient and I thought it time to do something.
“How much longer are you going to be?” he asked a bit shortly.
“Finishing now, sir,” I told him. “There’s just the extension wiring along the corridor and then we’re done.”
“Well, buck up and get it over,” he said. “I’m busy.”
There was a long corridor running the full length of the house on the first floor, with four or five bedroom doors leading off it. All these were shut, and I could see no reasonable excuse for getting into them. I sent Venn to the far end of the corridor and bent down, pretending to look at the wiring. Saunders was standing by me, watching a trifle suspiciously, I thought. I raised my arm and waved to Venn; he was on the look-out for the signal and I had coached him in what to do. As soon as he saw me wave he opened his mouth and let fly in good stentorian tones:
“Marten. Marten Overbatch. Marten.”
I was watching Saunders; he went chalky white. If ever a man silently confessed his guilt Saunders did then. But before he could interfere, or Venn call out again, there was a furious hammering at one of the doors and the Professor’s voice called out:
“Claude! Is that you, Claude? I’m in here; locked in.”
***
Ex-Inspector Morton laughed. “That was the end of it, really. Saunders tried to get his automatic out, but I saw him drawing it and hit him first. I got him on the point of the chin and he went down like a log. We soon had Overbatch out, and telephoned to the county police for a van and a couple of men.
“Of course the Professor told us the story that I’ve told you, or most of it, which we didn’t know up till then. He wasn’t a bit upset and went straight back to London to his experiments. He thought it quite natural we should have picked up the clue in the letter. He reckoned that Claude Venn would be coming round to see him soon and that in all probability Mrs Benson would show him the letter. ‘And then, of course,’ he said, ‘I knew you’d twig it.’”
Ex-Inspector Morton laughed again. “Saunders and Co got eighteen months each and recommended for deportation,” he went on, “and I got highly commended by the big wigs at
the Air Ministry. And I might have looked at that letter for a year and never seen a thing wrong with it. Just shows the advantage of an education. That was the neatest clue I’ve ever seen by a long way.”
He pushed his pot forward for its final pint.
The Undoing of Mr Dawes
Gerald Verner
Gerald Verner (1897–1980), born John Robert Stuart Pringle, was a thriller writer in the Edgar Wallace mould. His various pseudonyms included Donald Stuart, under which name he contributed 44 stories to the Sexton Blake Library. Like Wallace, he was an unpretentious entertainer, full of energy and had a flair for marketing. One newspaper carried a photograph of him arriving at Lambeth Pier by motor launch so as to present his publisher with the manuscript of his latest novel. His fan base included the Duke of Windsor, who was presented with a set of fifteen copies of Verner’s books, specially bound in Jubilee blue. In addition to producing 120 novels and many short stories, Verner wrote for the stage, and adapted Agatha Christie’s Towards Zero in 1956.
At one point in his career, Verner was contracted by his publishers to produce one book a month. This prompted another press publicity item, featuring him with his “silent secretary”, the Dictaphone into which he dictated his stories. Interested in police work, in 1935 he published in Ideas London an article called “A Night in the Charge Room”, an account of “strange things that happened at a police station during the ‘still, small hours’”. This story features one of his recurrent cops, Robert Budd, also known as “the Rose-bud”, and first appeared in The Cleverness of Mr Budd (1935), which was dedicated “To Edgar Wallace who still lives in the memory of his friends”.
***
There was nothing about Mr Simon Dawes as he strolled along Piccadilly that bright spring morning to suggest that he was a “fence” or that his leisurely progress was part of the routine of his nefarious business. From his bespatted and beautifully enamelled shoes to the crown of his well brushed fashionable bowler he looked the picture of gentlemanly prosperity, a retired Colonel perhaps or even a member of the House of Lords. His grey moustache was neatly waxed and his rimless monocle glittered with the polish recently received from the handkerchief of fine silk that peeped coyly from the breast pocket of his well-fitting overcoat.
A cigar clenched between his expensive white teeth, he walked sedately along engaged in one of his periodical “pricing” excursions.
There was a jewellers shop near the Burlington Arcade which Mr Dawes had long considered as a possible and profitable enterprise. He had made several small purchases there during the last week and had mentally “priced” the portable contents as being worth something in the neighbourhood of fifty thousand pounds. He could dispose of them through his special channels for say, a quarter of that, and if he paid the man who did the job two thousand, there would be a nice little profit.
Harry Snell had been out of prison a month and was looking round for a fresh outlet for his talents, and Harry was a good worker—and safe. If he was caught he would take his medicine and keep his mouth shut, knowing there would be a nice little present when he came out. Yes, Harry was the fellow, and he would jump at the chance of an easy two thousand.
Mr Dawes smiled complacently but his smile changed to a frown as he saw an enormous man coming ponderously towards him.
Mr Budd caught sight of the resplendent figure walking slowly along the pavement and his sleepy eyes narrowed. For a long time Mr Dawes had occupied a special niche in the fat detective’s mind.
“Fancy meetin’ you,” he murmured, planting himself in the path of that annoyed gentleman, and forcing him to stop. “Where are you goin’ this bright mornin’ all dressed up like a shop walker?”
Mr Dawes surveyed him coldly. He disliked this stout and lazy-looking man intensely, a dislike which had its genesis in a certain amount of fear.
“Is there any law against a gentleman taking a morning stroll?” he asked sarcastically.
“If there was it wouldn’t apply to you, Dawes,” said Mr Budd. “You may be many things but a gentleman isn’t one of ’em. Combining a little business with pleasure are you?” He looked slowly about him. “Which is it, Lewstien’s the furriers or Stirlin’s the jewellers you’ve got your peepers on?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the immaculate Mr Dawes drew himself up haughtily. “You’ve no right to speak like that, Budd, you’ve nothing against me, and if I reported you to the Commissioner he’d have your coat off your back.”
“You bein’ a particular friend of his, of course,” murmured the “Rose-bud” yawning; “brother officers durin’ the War, I suppose. Or was that the time you were in Portland?”
The other’s eyes gleamed with hatred. That part of his life was a memory which he tried very hard to forget.
“You’re too clever,” he snarled, “and I’m not going to listen to your insults. I’ve no wish to be seen talking to a policeman—”
“Might get you in bad with your criminal pals, eh?” said Mr Budd, nodding sympathetically. “They might think you was puttin’ up a squeak.”
“You speak a language I don’t understand,” snapped Mr Dawes angrily, and turned abruptly away.
The “Rose-bud” watched him sorrowfully until he was out of sight, and then, retracing his steps, with a little sigh he entered Stirlin’s, the jewellers.
The coup was thrown a week later, and an elated little man met Mr Dawes in an obscure public house off the High Street, Deptford.
“Easy as kiss yer ’and, Guv’nor,” said Harry Snell, triumphantly. “I’ve posted you the stuff, according to instructions, in a registered packet.”
Mr Dawes nodded.
“I’ll check it over,” he said, “and forward you the balance of the money in treasury notes addressed in Kettering, Post Restante, Charing Cross.”
He bought the little thief a drink and took his departure with an inward glow of satisfaction. As he had anticipated, the thing had been easy, and he had netted a nice little sum to add to his already swollen bank account.
A thin, long-faced man, who had been lounging gloomily against the wall on the other side of the road, saw him come out of the grimy saloon bar and followed at a respectful distance.
Mr Dawes lived in a very select block of flats near Oxford Circus, and with his letters and early tea on the following morning arrived a large, square, registered parcel. He refrained from opening this until he had locked himself in his study, and then surveyed the glittering contents with pleasure. Very carefully he checked each item and found that the list he had made had been strictly adhered to.
There was a concealed wall-safe which he had put in with his own hands—a neat piece of work since it was impossible to guess its existence—and into this Mr Dawes carefully put the proceeds of Harry Snell’s robbery.
He had barely settled down to his morning paper when his manservant announced a caller.
“Superintendent Budd, eh?” Mr Dawes frowned. “Good gracious, Martin, what can the police wish to see me about? Have I inadvertently committed some crime?” He chuckled at his little joke and looked quickly about the room to assure himself that he had left nothing suspicious lying about. “Well, well, I suppose I’d better see him,” he went on. “Show him in.”
The big man came, blinking apologetically.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” he said. “What I call real luxury.”
“What do you want?” asked Mr Dawes impatiently.
The “Rose-bud” yawned and perched himself on the edge of a chair.
“Just come round to see you about this robbery at Stirlin’s,” he said. “I suppose you’ve heard about it?”
“I read the account in the newspapers,” answered Mr Dawes carefully. “Except for that I naturally know nothing about it.”
“Naturally,” agreed the stout man, eyeing the other sleepily. “You wouldn’t know anythin’ a
bout it, of course. Perhaps I’m only wastin’ me time.”
“If you’re under the impression that I’m mixed up with that unfortunate affair, you are,” said Mr Dawes.
The “Rose-bud” sighed.
“I’m very glad to hear you say that, Dawes,” he murmured. “You don’t know what a load that’s taken off my mind.”
Mr Dawes glanced at him suspiciously.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“We’ve had our little squabbles, but I don’t bear you any malice,” went on the fat man, “an’ I wouldn’t like to think you’d handled that stolen jewellery.”
“Well, you needn’t because I haven’t,” snarled the puzzled Mr Dawes. “Of course I haven’t handled it. I know nothing about it. I’ve told you before your ridiculous suspicions of me are unfounded.” His face was the picture of virtuous indignation.
“Yes, yes, I know,” murmured Mr Budd, “you’ve told me that over and over again, Dawes. Well, I suppose I’d better keep me sympathy for poor Harry Snell.”
“Who’s Harry Snell?” demanded Mr Dawes.
“Don’t you know Harry Snell?” The stout Superintendent’s voice and eyebrows expressed his surprise. “Dear me! I thought everybody knew Harry Snell.”
“I’ve never heard of the man in my life,” declared Mr Dawes frankly.
“Most extraordinary,” murmured the detective, “and yet you were havin’ a drink with him at a little pub in Deptford last night.”
“Oh, is that the man,” said Mr Dawes. “What an extraordinary coincidence. I happened to be in Deptford on business and dropped in for a drink. That fellow got into conversation with me and tried to touch me for five shillings. Of course, I didn’t give it to him—”
“Poor Harry,” said Mr Budd shaking his head sadly. “He won’t try and touch anyone else for a dollar.”
“Why?” asked the startled Mr Dawes.
“He was taken to hospital this morning,” answered the stout man. “It’s a very sad case but it just shows that honesty is the best policy.”
The Long Arm of the Law Page 6