“It’s ’ard on your missis not ’aving an ’ome of ’er own. That’s your auntie’s ’ouse you live in ain’t it, and Clarrie must get fed up lookin’ after the old lady.
“Now the point is, can you put up the needful?
“Five ’undred pounds it’d be, but a fair share o’ the profits to you, plus bonus, and the flat rent free. What abaht it?”
“Oh, come orf it,” groaned Joe Copland. “What’s the use o’ talking like that? I haven’t got five hundred quid.”
“Sorry to disturb you gents. Got to shut that there window. It’s a cold wind.”
The barman, with a long pole, fumbled at the sloping fanlight at the top of the window. Joe Copland said irritably:
“Here, let me do it. If you’d a ha’porth of sense you’d fix up two running cords, one to open and one to shut the thing.”
Glancing round at Joe, Tom Brandon saw that he was staring miserably up at the window. Then Joe caught Tom’s eye and grinned. “That window only wants a couple of eyelet holes and some cord,” he said. “What flats some blokes are. Good night all.”
Some blokes are fools, too, thought Tom Brandon soberly. Egging that chap on to get £500…and Auntie with a house of her own and Joe her only relation and Clarrie fed up with looking after Auntie. If that isn’t asking for trouble, I don’t know what is.
***
“Well, if it ain’t Clarrie Copland! Morning, Clarrie. You’re an early bird with your shopping.”
“Morning, Mrs Lane. I like to get out early. Along of Auntie, see. I give her her breakfast and leave her in bed while I do the shopping. Don’t like her to be about the house alone, she’s that shaky, poor old girl.”
Constable Brandon heard this conversation beside the greengrocer’s stall in Penny Street. Clarrie Copland? The name rang a bell. Then Brandon remembered the Jolly Sailor a week ago, and the man who hadn’t got five hundred pounds.
Keeping his eyes open for a car reported stolen, Brandon continued on his beat and noticed that Mrs Copland and her friend Mrs Lane were walking just ahead of him, both laden with heavy shopping baskets. The street they were in was a narrow one, with gaunt brick houses on either side, each front door approached by a steep little flight of steps.
“I mustn’t stay, ducks,” said Clarrie Copland, halting at No. 29. “I don’t like leaving Auntie too long.”
She went up the steps and put her basket down on the door step, so clumsily that the oranges piled in it bounced out down the steps into the road.
It was just as Tom was politely handing Clarrie the oranges that he heard a faint scream and a series of heavy thuds inside the house. Clarrie gave a yell.
“Quick, Clarrie, find your key! That must be your auntie a-falling downstairs,” cried Mrs Lane. “Poor old thing, she must a’ tumbled right down the lot. I always said them stairs is a death trap. ’Ere you!” she yelled to Tom Brandon, “there’s an accident, you’d better see to it, she’ll be badly ’urt.”
***
Clarrie, her wits all gone haywire in her agitation, turned her bag upside down to find her latch key, yelling: “Auntie, we’re coming. Are you hurt, Auntie? Drat the thing. I’ve got the fair jitters.”
It was Tom Brandon who picked up the latch key and opened the front door. A steep narrow flight of stairs ran almost straight up from the door; in the space at the bottom was huddled on old lady, her neck twisted, her limbs contorted. Brandon knew at once that she was dead, and that she had died less than a minute ago, for her hands and face were still warm.
Clarrie flopped on her knees beside the body, crying: “Auntie darling, do speak to me, ducks…oh why did she ever come downstairs when I was out? I told her not to.”
“They’re all the same all the old folks. Plain obstinate,” said Mrs Lane. “She do look bad, Clarrie. Got any brandy? Can we get her upstairs?”
“Better not move her until the doctor comes,” said Brandon. “I’ll whistle for my mate, he’s not far away.”
Standing at the front door, he blew his whistle and when another constable came running up, Brandon said tersely, “Surgeon and ambulance. Ring C.O.”
Mrs Lane let out a sudden yell. “Who’s that upstairs? Gawd? There’s someone up there, a thief most likely. Pushed her down. Here, you—”
But Brandon needed no urging. He wanted to go up those stairs to see if there were a concealed booby trap, a string tied across, a faulty stair, a slit in the linoleum.
But there was no string, no faulty stair, and the linoleum was intact, almost new.
He went into the room whence the sound came out—it was obviously the cat which had made the noise, jumping at the door handle, as cats do. It was evidently the old lady’s bedroom, and Brandon had a quick look round. She seemed to have been writing a letter, for a writing block lay on the bed.
As he picked it up, Brandon saw some scribbles on the blotting paper. At some time she had been trying to get a word spelled right. “Sertain.” “Certin”: and then a sentence “Be certain you ring twice.”
Putting the block in his tunic pocket, Brandon quickly inspected the upstairs windows—all fastened and secure. “Ring twice,” he thought. He was remembering how Clarrie Copland had leant against the door post when the wind blew her hat, and she had leant against the bell push.
***
The surgeon and the ambulance had come and gone. Clarrie Copland, weeping noisily, had gone with the body to the mortuary. Chief Inspector Macdonald had arrived from Scotland Yard. He said: “Well, constable?”
Tom Brandon gave his evidence tersely, every bit of it from the Jolly Sailor onwards, but he ended up: “I don’t see how we can get her, sir. She was outside. She only rang the bell.”
“If you suspect a booby trap, constable, it’s up to you to look for it,” replied Macdonald. “You say she fumbled about on the doorstep, by those railings. Let’s have a look…Yes, there’s a small hook here, and a good half-inch clearance under the front door.
“Pick that mat up…I thought so. A neat little hole in the floor boards. They could have run a cord under the boards, with a spring inserted in it so that it would recoil when unhooked—an expanding curtain wire would do that.
“Is there a cupboard under the stairs? Screwed up? It would be. You’ll have to take the linoleum up.”
It was the third step from the top which showed peculiarities. It was quite steady, but the riser had been sawn through across top, bottom and sides; so was the tread of the stair. Macdonald gave the riser a sharp blow; it fell flat on concealed hinges, and the tread of the stair, also hinged, fell in.
“The stiff linoleum probably kept its shape and the old lady noticed nothing until her foot slipped,” said Macdonald. “Now go and unscrew the door of the cupboard under the stairs and you’ll see how they worked it. As you know, Joe Copland’s a clever craftsman.”
Tom got the door unscrewed and they went into the cupboard with a torch. Two cords were fastened to the hinged riser, one cord was white and the other green. When Tom pulled the white cord the riser fell flat and the stair tread above it collapsed.
The green cord was run through an eyelet hole screwed into the solid stair immediately above: when Tom pulled the green cord the riser went back into place, lifting the tread into the horizontal again.
“Neat and simple,” said Macdonald. “The principle is the same as two cords fixed to open or close a window or sloping fanlight. The cords were led under the boards and came up by the front door and were hitched to that hook.”
Tom gaped. “The window in that pub,” he gasped. “Was that what made him think of it?”
***
“Would this be relevant, sir?” asked Macdonald’s CID sergeant.
“This” was a letter, still in its addressed envelope, though it had not been posted—“Dear Aggie. I think you’d better come. I’m worried, but I don’t like to writ
e about it. Come between nine and ten Thursday morning. She’s out shopping then. And be certain to ring twice. I don’t answer the door as a rule, being bad on my legs, but if you ring twice I shall know and come down. With love from Alice. P.S.—Remember, ring twice.”
“And Alice gave it to Clarrie to post,” said Macdonald, “and Clarrie opened it and read it, and made arrangements accordingly. Well, I think she deserves what she gets. Hullo, what’s that? A double ring? Is this Joe Copland come home to dinner, doing a victory peal?”
Brandon opened the front door and saw Joe’s face when the latter saw the rolled back linoleum, the open cupboard door and the collapsed stair. Joe said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Cotton Wool and Cutlets
Henry Wade
Henry Wade was the pen-name adopted by Henry Lancelot Aubrey-Fletcher (1887–1969). He was a man of many accomplishments. Educated at Eton and Oxford, he joined the Grenadier Guards, and fought in both world wars, being awarded the Distinguished Service Order and the Croix de Guerre. He played cricket for Buckinghamshire, the county of which he became High Sheriff in 1925 and Lord Lieutenant from 1954–61. He was also a gifted crime writer, whom Dorothy L. Sayers described as “one of the best and the soundest”; his first novel appeared in 1926.
Although John Poole of Scotland Yard was his main police detective, Wade also created an interesting second string character, Police Constable John Bragg. Bragg’s debut came in the short story collection Here Comes the Copper (1938), in which his cases included murder, blackmail, kidnapping, espionage, robbery, and arson. As the commentator John Cooper noted in an article for the magazine CADS, Bragg “has an excellent memory for detail and his motto is ‘Notice and Remember’. He likes playing his own hand and has a penchant for looking for trouble”. Also in 1938, Bragg appeared in the novel Released for Death, a story about the misadventures of a released convict. He made his final appearance in this story, which was originally published in The 20 Story Magazine in May 1940.
***
“All right, Sergeant Jenner; I’ll come straight along.” Divisional Detective-Inspector Hurst hitched up the telephone receiver and turned to take his bowler hat from a peg near the door of the detectives’ room.
“Get the car, Bragg,” he said to a large young man in a macintosh who had just come in. Both men were inclined to yawn, as they had been called abruptly from their beds. The hour was 7.15 a.m.
Detective-constable John Bragg had been transferred to the South Eastern area of the C.I.D. only two days previously and he was eager to make a good start. He was a young man who had earned something of a name for himself while still a constable, for he had an excellent memory for details—the kind of details which, apparently trivial in themselves, may form the key-piece of a jig-saw puzzle. And he had used that memory to such good effect that it had won him a transfer to the C.I.D. But he had another characteristic which did not always commend him to his immediate superiors.
“Now look here, Bragg,” said Inspector Hurst, as the car turned into a nearly empty street, “you’re going to work under me a good bit while you are in S.E. I’ve heard something about you, and I want you to get this clear.
“You’ve got brains, or you wouldn’t be where you are, but they tell me you’re fond of playing your own hand. I’m not standing for that.
“Use your brains as much as you like; I’ll be glad of their help; but work under me and report to me…everything. If not, I’ll break you. Is that clear?”
Bragg was flushing with anger. How grossly unfair to plant a speech like that on him, right at the start of a new job! That would be Chief-Inspector Holby’s doing…But was it unfair? Perhaps…
“Yes, sir; I understand,” he said, wise enough not to make a speech.
He was driving the police car and Inspector Hurst was beside him. The senior officer was probably glad to have got his homily off his chest, as he went on in a less formal voice:
“This job we’re going to…nothing to it probably. The usual ‘head in the gas oven’ suicide. But they have to be looked into. A draper in a small way, name of Bransome, got a shop off Lewisham High Street and a house—where we’re going—in Panton Road, off Blackheath. About forty-five, I gather, married, no children; that’s all Sergeant Jenner could tell me. Turn right here.”
Before long they were in Panton Road, and a small crowd told them which was Bransome’s house. A uniformed constable was trying his best to disperse the crowd, but death is an unfailing draw. He saluted at sight of Inspector Hurst’s warrant card.
“Sergeant’s inside, sir. Doctor there, too.”
Hurst nodded and walked up to the front door. It was a small house, detached, with two empty flower beds in front; a path at one side evidently led to a larger garden at the back, and there was a glimpse of several trees—leafless, because it was February.
The narrow hall showed a parlour on the right, a staircase, a passage leading to the back. Hurst followed this and found himself in a fairly large room which looked as if it served as a living-room.
Some sort of a meal was on the square table in the centre, an armchair stood on each side of the fire, a newspaper was flung down in one corner and a heap of sewing lay on another chair. It was not a tidy room.
A uniformed police-sergeant was talking to a small stout man in plain clothes.
“Ah, Hurst, glad you’ve come so quickly,” said the police-surgeon. “I want my breakfast.”
He turned and walked into the small kitchen-scullery which led off the living-room. Here the smell of gas, which had been just noticeable on entering the house, was still strong.
On the floor lay the body of a man in a blue serge suit and black shoes, his head still in the gas-oven which stood on one side of the window.
“Dead enough, so I left him for you,” said Dr Bellerby. No sign of violence. Of course I’ll do a P.M. as soon as you can let me have the body but unless there’s any sign of a drug or poison in the stomach it’ll be a case of simple carbon monoxide poisoning—suicide, so far as I’m concerned. You may find something to point the other way.”
“Thank you. Doctor,” said Inspector Hurst. “What sort of time do you think?”
Dr Bellerby shrugged his shoulders.
“Between eight and twelve hours ago, I should say.” He glanced at his watch, “Call it between 9 p.m. and midnight, if you like.”
“Have you seen the wife, sir?”
“Yes, she’s upstairs. I told her to lie down and rest. I thought you’d like her to be out of the way for a bit. Slightly hysterical but not really bad. She’ll be able to talk when you want her.”
“All right, thank you, sir. I won’t keep you any longer now. I’ll send this along to the hospital mortuary within an hour.”
When the doctor was gone Hurst knelt down beside the body, studying the position; then, with the help of Bragg, he pulled it out of the oven and himself crawled into a similar position, head well inside, shoulders jammed up against the entrance.
“He could have done that all right himself;” he said, scrambling to his feet and brushing his clothes.
“What about doors and windows, Jenner?”
“All shut, sir; but not stuck up in any way; no newspaper pasted over the cracks as they often do. But then, with his head inside the oven, that wouldn’t really be necessary.”
“Evidently not,” said Hurst, glancing at the dead man. “Who found him?”
“Mrs Bransome, sir. Says she woke and smelt gas; came down and found him, then rushed out screaming.”
Hurst nodded.
“Doors locked?”
“So she says; she unlocked the front door to run out. This back door”—he indicated a door at his side—“is still locked. Window latched. Window in living-room not latched…but I should say they were a careless couple—untidy, too.”
“So I noticed. I’ll have a w
ord with Mrs Bransome. Any other women in the house?”
“A girl of sorts; comes every morning at seven Mrs Bransome lets her in. She arrived today soon after Mrs Bransome ran out. I stopped her doing any tidying-up. A neighbour brought in a cup of tea and some food for Mrs Bransome. She’s gone—the neighbour—but the girl’s upstairs somewhere now.”
“Get her to ask Mrs Bransome if she can come down and see me—in the front room. Bragg, have a look round in here and in the sitting-room, but don’t disturb anything and don’t touch anything that may have prints; we must take them as matter of form.
“Don’t bother to wait after you’ve told the girl, Sergeant Jenner: I’ll take charge now. Leave that constable at the gate, though, and perhaps you’ll arrange for an ambulance to come along.”
As soon as his chief had gone, Bragg got to work. Standing in the middle of the little kitchen, he made a quick sketch of the room in his notebook, marking the position of doors, window, oven, sink, furnace, cupboard, table, and other details.
He noticed that both the handle to the oven door and its gas tap would take a fingerprint and even the naked eye could see that there were signs of the characteristic ridges. Apart from the body, there seemed nothing else of interest in the room.
Then he went into the living-room and did the same there. He drew neatly and quickly, the result of his training as a detective. Having got his outline of the room, and its principal features, he started to look round for any details that might be significant.
Nothing leaped to the eye, so he started to memorise the lot. The supper table was his first objective. It was laid for two people, and Bragg noticed again the tidiness of this household; although a dish of tinned pears had been the second supper course, the plates of the first course had not been taken off the table, but merely pushed to one side.
On one of the plates was a cutlet bone; on the other, two. Beside one plate was a glass from which beer had evidently been drunk, while an empty bottle stood in front of it. These, no doubt, would also be checked over for fingerprints.
The Long Arm of the Law Page 12