These Names Make Clues

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Vernon got up from his chair; being very long in the legs, he had a habit of twisting them round one another like a contortionist, and strolled over to the bookcase to remove his “yellow back,” while Macdonald picked up Graham Coombe’s card and studied it. At last he said, “I’ll toss for it. Heads I’ll go, tails I’ll stop at home. May the good Lord send it’s tails.”

  He flicked the coin into the air, and it spun up and down again.

  “Heads,” whooped Vernon. “You’re for it.”

  Macdonald nodded. “I’m for it. I shall go—and look a fool. If I’d refused to go I should have felt one, so Coombe gets his own back either way.”

  Caroline House lay in that quarter of London bounded by Marylebone Road to the north and Oxford Street to the south, a locality in which a few small Regency houses still survive, unexpectedly blocking the ends of the quiet, straight little streets which are now mainly occupied by nursing homes and a few good residential hotels. Caroline Street began at Wigmore Street and looked as though it ought to run right through to Regent’s Park, but at its northern end the low widespread bulk of Caroline House, shaded by a large plane tree and a fine catalpa, stretched a dignified façade across the end of the street. Macdonald had often seen the pleasant stuccoed front, with its elegant pilasters and fine double door, and had wondered to whom it belonged. A nice place to live in, he thought, as he rang the bell on the evening of All Fool’s Day—spacious and quiet, a typical Nash production.

  Relieved of his hat and coat in the outer lobby, he was led into a wide lounge hall, shut off from the entrance lobby by heavy swinging doors, and Graham Coombe came forward to greet him.

  “Nice of you to come,” said the publisher, and when he smiled the wrinkles round his dark eyes puckered up and took on the mischievous aspect which was so unexpected when his face was in repose. Inclined to baldness, his lofty brow gave Coombe the professorial look which had struck Macdonald on first seeing him, and the neat, dark imperial added a look of the foreigner. Coombe looked the very type to occupy a chair of Spanish or Italian literature at one of the older universities—very “soigné,” somewhat given to using his hands in an apt gesture to reinforce his words, and of a melancholy aspect when his face was in repose.

  “This is your nom-de-guerre,” he added, proffering a card to which a pin was attached. “You’re Izaak Walton for the duration of the evening. You can claim your own name and rank later, just as you wish, or retire unknown.”

  “I shall probably be only too glad to conceal my ineptitude, and go home as Izaak,” replied Macdonald. “Thanks for the charitable thought. I admit that your card caused me misgivings, but it seemed only sporting to give you the chance to retaliate. If I’d known who you were, I shouldn’t have been so captious the other evening.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t know, then,” replied Coombe; and Macdonald noticed that his pointed ears twitched a little when he smiled. “My sister’s receiving the victims upstairs. You’ll be announced as Izaak Walton, of course.”

  At the head of the wide stairway Macdonald was taken in hand by a merry-faced young man who led him to the door of the drawing-room and announced him as the author of The Compleat Angler in a fine stentorian voice.

  The lady who received him with a bow and a charming smile was very much like her brother, but without his unexpected puckishness. Macdonald had armed himself for the fray as best he might by acquiring all possible information about those whom he might meet. Miss Susan Augusta Coombe was revealed as a personality by a few lines in Who’s Who. That she was a socialist, humanist and pacifist was indicated by her published works. She had worked for the cause of Women’s Suffrage as a young girl, had nursed in France during the war, and had occupied herself in political and social work since. Her age Macdonald would have guessed as under forty, had he not been better informed. White skinned, with her black hair brushed smoothly back like a man’s, she was clad in a beautifully cut gown of rich black moiré with very full, long skirt. A row of pearls fitted close to the base of her throat, and pearl-button earrings decorated her small ears. The fine dark eyes which smiled at Macdonald as she greeted him were very bright and very observant, and Macdonald found himself thinking that she had the typical look of the convinced pacifist—an aspect both spirited and a little aggressive.

  “Miss Fanny Burney was just advancing a theory that Fascism and Communism are fundamentally the same,” observed Miss Coombe, and Macdonald took a glass of sherry from a tray which was advanced to him. In a very few moments he began to enjoy himself. The preliminary canter of conversation with which the evening was to begin gave him a chance to observe his fellow-guests. It also put him on his own guard. It would be all too easy to give away his identity by a misguarded word showing the attitude of the official to those twin diabolical “isms” which belabour the world of to-day, and that was just what he did not mean to do. Keeping his end up in the conversation, he studied those around him and tried to place them. There were nine people in the room, including Miss Coombe and himself. Of the three women-guests present, one was quite a girl, very fair, dressed in a gown of shot green and gold silk, cut low to the waist at the back. Her hair was dressed in a plaited bun low on the nape of her neck, and a little golden fringe curled on her forehead. So youthful and guileless did she seem to be that Macdonald decided to guess by contraries and to credit her with the production of bloodthirsty thrillers of the gangster type, especially as she was labelled Jane Austen.

  Fanny Burney, who was advancing theories concerning the essentials of Communism and Fascism, was a much older woman, with slightly grizzled red hair, a square face, rather lined and weary, but still comely. A thoughtful type, meditated Macdonald, with a liking for facts and also a slight tendency to instruct. The Historian of the party, he decided. Finally there was Mrs. Gaskell, a beautifully clad woman with crisp fair hair and very blue eyes. Her voice told Macdonald that she was a Scot, and he was pretty certain that Mrs. Gaskell drew the same conclusion concerning himself, despite his efforts to talk ‘London English.’

  Of the men, Thomas Traherne was the most striking, a tall dark young fellow, with the type of good looks which might well indicate a poet, and a fluency of speech which outdid all the other conversationalists. His vocabulary indicated scholarliness and a cosmopolitan upbringing. Samuel Pepys was a man of fifty inclined to stoutness, a bit of a ‘viveur,’ Macdonald judged, and none too well at ease. His fingers showed that he smoked incessantly, and his eyes were restless, but betrayed a disposition to dwell on Jane Austen with marked appreciation. Macdonald promptly disliked him, though admitting to himself that if a girl has a lovely back and displays it to the waist, it was only to be expected that a certain type of man would eye it appreciatively. Remembering Peter Vernon’s assertion that Ashton Vale and Digby Bourne were to be at the party, Macdonald considered the two remaining men. Bourne he picked out because of his physique and deeply-tanned face. The nom-de-guerre of Ben Jonson undoubtedly covered the famous cartographist. This left Laurence Sterne to be identified as Vale—also a man of good physique but grey-haired and almost excessively thin. His shrewd, grey-green eyes met Macdonald’s with a twinkle which seemed to indicate that the Izaak Walton label amused him on account of its aptness.

  A few minutes after Macdonald had entered, two other guests were announced in quick succession. Madame de Sevigné was a handsome, effusive woman in a marvellous gown of gold lamé, with puffed sleeves and a train. Anna Seward was a grey-haired lady with a severe profile and a shingle, who wore a little ermine cape over a beautifully-cut black gown. Her alert eye and quizzical expression made Macdonald suspect the “thriller” writer—with just such an expression of severe impersonal curiosity should the creator of skilful murderers face the world.

  After the entrance of Anna Seward, Graham Coombe entered the room, and the folding doors of the drawing-room were firmly closed by the announcer, who called:

  “Messieurs et Mesdames! The Ceremonarius will now address the Treasure
Seekers.”

  The publisher, his eyes twinkling, took up his stand in the middle of the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you have done us the honour of meeting here this evening for a battle of wits. Each of you will be handed a clue to unravel, which will, when deciphered, lead you on to the next step in the game. In the event of any of you wishing to supplement your personal stores of information, my library is at your service. Clues may lead you to the library, the dining-room, or the entrance lounge, all on the ground floor, where is also the telephone room with guides, timetables and so forth. The phone is, of course, at your disposal. In the small room at the turn of the stairs above this floor an additional store of books will be found, all published by the firm over which I have the honour to preside. In all these rooms you will also find refreshments to assist your labours. Eventually, when the Treasure has been unearthed, a final test will take place. All of you, save two, have had books published by Coombe at one time or another. To the best of my belief you have none of you met one another before.”

  Here he glanced rapidly round the room, and Macdonald fairly chuckled at the guarded expressions on the faces of the guests.

  “During the evening you will have the chance of conversing with and observing one another. At the conclusion of the Treasure Hunt, each guest will be allowed to ask six questions of each fellow guest, and make an attempt to place his or her name and status, direct questions as to name and authorship being barred, You are, by agreement, set upon an evening of detection. I hope that you may derive entertainment from the pursuit.”

  There was an outbreak of laughter and cheerful comment. Laurence Sterne was heard to raise his voice.

  “I take it that it’s part of the game that we all endeavour to conceal our personalities, while being under an obligation to answer questions truthfully when it comes to the final round?”

  “Exactly,” beamed Coombe. “This is a competition. To give away points to your rivals is against the spirit of the game. My sister, the major-domo here, and myself, are at your disposal to answer all legitimate questions. Paper and pencils are provided on the table under the window. I will now present you with your initial clues.”

  As Graham Coombe began to hand out slips of paper, Jane Austen turned to Fanny Burney:

  “Treasure Hunting, or a General Knowledge paper set to the whole school,” laughed Jane. “We can all feel that we’re back at school again, guessing our way through exams. My Science Mistress once told me that my ability in pure guesswork amounted to inspiration. She meant to be crushing, but I took it as a compliment.”

  Fanny Burney studied the speaker with a thoughtful air.

  “An inspired guesser ought to be disqualified on this occasion,” she said severely, and her pedantic voice amused Macdonald. “It’s like trying to be telepathic at bridge,” she went on, “quite improper.”

  “Are you telepathic, Miss Burney?” asked Jane Austen in her most impudent manner. “So am I. Shall we call quits and cancel out?”

  “If you want to practise telepathy, Jane,” began Samuel Pepys, but Miss Austen cut in:

  “I don’t—and I won’t, so don’t be optimistic on my account.”

  She took a slip of paper from Graham Coombe and turned to Macdonald.

  “I hope there’s a booby prize,” she said to him. “I’m the world’s densest at paper games, and as for clues, I shouldn’t know one if I met it. If I tell you the books of the Old Testament, will you oblige with geography bits?”

  Macdonald, who was at her elbow, laughed.

  “My knowledge of geography is limited and specialised,” he retorted, recognising the gambit and knowing that she was fishing for Digby Bourne. “Losh! If this is algebra, I’m done!”

  It wasn’t algebra. The first ‘clue’ was a simple cipher, which ran as follows:—

  “Each separate numeral represents a letter. E is the most frequent letter.

  “The words ‘on’ and ‘no’ are reversible.

  “2=the letter N.

  “The letter K occurs thrice, once as an initial, twice as an ultimate.

  2.3. 4.2.3.5.6.7.8.9.7. 2.7.7.8.7.8. 1.7.7.4. 3.2. 7.2.8. 3.1. 8.7.1.4.”

  Each guest was handed a similar slip, and Macdonald assumed (rightly) that each cipher differed from its fellows. He could not help laughing to himself at the manner in which the company set to work, though even as he deciphered, he kept an eye open to observe the others. This might be an easy game, but the prize would go to the speediest, and Macdonald backed Laurence Sterne as the likeliest winner. As it fell out, three people made an almost simultaneous move to their next clues, of whom the quickest was Jane Austen, who completed her cipher a split second before Laurence Sterne and Izaak Walton.

  The latter, bidden to seek a desk, realised at once that no such piece of furniture was in the drawing-room. He hurried out to the library downstairs and found a copy of The Compleat Angler lying on the end of the desk. This contained a small cross-word, headed “Walton” and Macdonald sat down to the desk to solve it. A moment later he was joined by Anna Seward who gave an exclamation of despair as she took her next clue out of a copy of Boswell’s Life of Johnson.

  “Oh, this is hopeless! The thing’s all based on Holy Writ. I never could do Scripture. What do I do now?”

  “Bag the Concordance before the others get here,” said Macdonald helpfully. He felt happy because he was well up in the sons of Jacob, and recognised that Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite, was the lady eulogised as “Blessed above women,” and he was pretty certain that most of the competitors would go astray by misreading the quotation and putting in another name of four letters. He was half-way through his cross-word, held up by “served by Ahab a little but by Jehu much,” when Thomas Traherne strolled in.

  “This is utterly beyond my capacity,” he groaned. “A drink’s the only hope and a little inductive reasoning. Some one spread a rumour that a pukka C.I.D. man’s here. I place him as the stout merchant, Samuel Pepys. His feet are about right for beetle crushers. I say, what’s the land of Uz? or is it a leg pull? Do Bibles have indices?”

  “Sons of Israel… How odd of God to choose the Jews,” murmured Anna Seward. “Really I am painfully slow, and the articulated skeleton’s just finished the second round—Laurence Sterne, you know. I met him on the stairs and he told me that anything I said would be used in evidence against me. Does that indicate anything? He’s a bit sinister—so long and thin, and much too clever. Did Gad live in the land of Uz? I think so. Mrs. Gaskell’s much more of a rapide than you’d think from the look of her. I place her as ‘crime,’ but Madame de Sevigné’s still sitting in the drawing-room looking blank.”

  “The Austen kid’s going to win this. She’s a mover,” said Thomas Traherne. “Lord! You’re not through?” This to Macdonald, who had picked out the letters indicated in his cross-word as instructed in a footnote, and was making for the door. Lycidas was his next clue and he had noticed a vellum bound copy of Milton upstairs in the drawing-room. Hastening back there, he passed Laurence Sterne, inspecting the lettering on a cross-stitch sampler, while Ben Jonson sat at the bottom of the staircase working steadily at the cross-word. A glint of golden green and a low laugh indicated Jane Austen at the back of the lounge, and Fanny Burney stood beside her.

  “Do you feel like Archimedes when you’ve seen your way through a clue?” inquired Jane’s fresh young voice, and Fanny Burney replied:

  “Still feeling that you’re in the fourth form, my dear, hearing about—Eureka, I’ve got it?”

  “So I have, got it in one and no questions asked!” laughed Jane, as she hastened toward the library.

  Digby Bourne was gazing thoughtfully into the recesses of a grandfather clock at the turn of the stairs, inquiring idiotically, “Have you ever met a nude plum?” as he detached a slip from the pendulum.

  In the drawing-room, Madame de Sevigné was still looking in a puzzled way at her very simple cipher, and Graham Coombe was assuring Samuel Pepys that the
land of Uz was well authenticated in a famous English classic. Seeing Macdonald hastening towards the bookcase on which lay the vellum bound Milton, Coombe chuckled.

  “I’ve laid ten to one on you and Jane Austen being the winners, Izaak Walton,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  “Wait and see,” replied Macdonald, who found himself gazing at a line of music whose melody was not beyond his power to hum. “Hymns A and M,” he murmured. “Number 165. St. Anne. That’s a gift. Now where did I see that da Vinci cartoon?”

  II

  It was about an hour later that Macdonald entered the small room which held the volumes published by the firm of Coombe. He had worked his way through a variety of clues, having been held up once through ignorance of the fact that Angostura was an alternative name for Boliver, and that the latter town was situated on the river Orinoco. As the major-domo pointed out, the bottle of Angostura which provided the clue provided bitterness in more senses than one.

  Macdonald, being well in the running in the Treasure Hunt, had decided to acquire a little data concerning the authors published by the house of Coombe. It was his ignorance of these which might land him at the bottom of the list when it came to question time, and since he had entered into the spirit of the game and was intent on winning if he could, he wished to get all the information which might assist him in the final test.

  A copy of Coombe’s Quarterly lay on the table, and he inspected it for photographs, and in the hope of biographical details which might prove useful at question time. Immersed in his research, he fairly jumped when a quiet voice behind him observed, “Old Graham’s rather a peach. He does give us a chance to use our grey matter, even though his mot-croisées are a bit amateurish.”