As Berry and I Were Saying

by Dornford Yates

  “Proceed,” said everyone.

  “That’s right,” said Berry. “Defile the crystal fount. Spit into the limpid basin.”

  “You filthy beast,” said Jill.

  “That takes me back,” said Berry. “When I was St Salmon of Gluckstein, I was operating—”

  “Will you go on?” said I.

  “Oh, very well… I took Collins round to the flat. He went over each chair – there were eight. Then he stood back.

  “‘The set’s a fake, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s not one genuine chair: not even a made-up chair. I’d say they come out of the Midlands. Shipped to Spain, of course. There’s a lot of that goes on.’

  “Crispin was so thankful that he gave Collins five pounds.

  “Collins stared at the gold.

  “‘But I ’aven’t done nothing, sir.’

  “‘Yes, you have,’ says Crispin. ‘You’ve saved me three hundred pounds.’

  “And now for the expert by profession…

  “Let me make it quite clear that I am speaking of those who declare that they are experts, who ask and receive money for the opinions they give. As an executor, on more occasions than one I have sought their advice. Allow me to place upon record one or two opinions which I was able to check.

  “When old Mrs — died, I employed a well-known man. She had some very nice stuff. And the Will had the usual provision – that relatives should be allowed to purchase at probate prices. What was left was to be sold by auction. One of the best things was a Louis Quinze bureau, in a lovely state. I’ve never cared for them: but most people do. The expert examined that table before my eyes. His examination was thorough. At last he looked up. ‘It’s an excellent copy,’ he said. ‘It was made in Holland, by a man called Damuryse (or something like that). It was made for the Great Exhibition of 1851. If it was genuine, it would be worth quite a lot. As it is, I shall put it in at twenty-five pounds.’ None of the relatives wanted it, so I sent it to Christie’s to be sold. I thought it might make forty pounds, for he was valuing low. That table sold for eight hundred and fifty guineas. It was a fine example of period stuff… And a plate, I remember, he valued at four pounds ten. I sent that to Christie’s, too, where it made nearly eighty pounds.

  “And the table Boy wrote about in And Berry Came Too. We all know that’s true. Only, it wasn’t Geoffrey Majoribanks. It was a well-known peer. He was having his stuff revalued in 1928. For purposes of insurance. At — House, a stately home of England. And —’s of London valued that very table at twelve hundred and fifty pounds. And it had been made for Lord —: made to his order, some twenty-five years before. And it cost him, I think, thirty pounds.

  “Well, there you are. Fakes and experts. They’re really synonymous terms. The fake is the frying-pan, and the expert is the fire. It’s not strange that, between the two, the purchaser falls to the ground. I don’t say the expert’s dishonest. But he professes a skill which often he hasn’t got. To my mind, that is dishonest; for no man should hire himself out as an authority, unless he knows in his heart that that representation is true. As for the faking of stuff it’s purely a criminal offence. Well, not the faking – the selling, as genuine stuff, of stuff that is faked. It’s obtaining money by false pretences. And that’s what the expert does, too. But that would be hard to prove. Both parties are culpable. Of course, you can talk of fools who deserve what they get. But I say this – that no man deserves such treatment. But, unless the world has changed, a great many people receive it year in year out.”

  My sister glanced at her watch.

  “Something short, Boy?”

  “Two flashes,” said I. “I’m sorry to have to suppress the names of the cases concerned. But at least I can promise you this – that neither of these flashes has ever appeared in print.

  “A man was tried for murder at the Central Criminal Court. Although I was not concerned, I remember the case very well. It attracted much attention. The jury acquitted the prisoner, and that was that. But, always afterwards, at every murder trial – at every hearing of every murder charge, that man was in the front row of the public seats. He was pointed out to me in the Crippen case. One might have been forgiven for supposing that, having been through the hoop, he would avoid the precincts of criminal courts. One would have been wrong. Police Court, Coroner’s Court, Old Bailey – if the charge was wilful murder, that man was there.”

  “Theory?” said Berry.

  “I have no theory. I simply find his behaviour very strange.

  “And the second flash is this. There was another case, in which I was not concerned. That, too, was a case of murder. The accused was defended – not very well, I thought – by, let us say, Weston Gale, while he was still at the Bar. And after a hearing which lasted for three or four days, the jury found him ‘Not Guilty’ and he was discharged. Now I felt pretty sure, as did other, wiser men, that the jury had made a mistake. I thought that the man was guilty – no matter why. Some months later, I met the Chief Inspector who had had charge of the case. ‘The King against —,’ I said. ‘Was he guilty, or not?’ ‘Of course he was guilty, sir. But there was one link in the chain which we hadn’t got. God knows I tried hard enough to find it… But there you are. If I could have found that link, the case was dead. You remember we had all his movements on that particular night. From pillar to post we proved them – all but one. That was the gap in the chain, which we could not fill – and, of course, Mr Weston Gale fairly rammed it home.

  “‘And now just listen to this, sir. Three weeks after the case, two brothers came to the Yard and asked to see me. They were brought up to my room. I asked them what they wanted. “The — case,” said one. “We think there’s something perhaps you’d like to know.” “A bit late, aren’t you?” I said. “The man was acquitted nearly three weeks ago. What d’you want to say?” By God, sir, they closed the gap: they gave me the missing link. Both of them could have proved the very movement I’d tried so hard to get. I won’t say how I felt, because you can guess. It was hard to keep one’s temper. “I see,” I said. “And now will you kindly explain why you didn’t report this, say, six weeks ago?” “Thanks very much,” says one. “And have to go into the box – to be bullied by Weston Gale.”’”

  “Well, I’m damned,” said Berry. “What policemen have to bear.”

  “It was rather hard. You might call it ‘rubbing it in’.”

  15

  “You’re never yourself,” said Jill, “just after you’ve finished a book. For two or three days, I mean. And then you get all right.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “The truth is, I feel so lost. You know I’m a very slow writer. That book has probably taken me nearly a year to write. And all that time I’ve lived and moved with the people that I’ve been writing about. I’ve heard everything that they’ve said, and I’ve seen everything that they’ve done. I know all their thoughts and feelings, their hopes and fears. For eight or ten months, I’ve lived every one of their lives. And when I suddenly leave them, I feel quite lost.”

  “Poor little waif,” said Berry.

  “I simply hate you,” said Jill. “And he isn’t a waif.”

  “Back in the wide, wide world.”

  My wife took her cigarette and pitched it into his lap.

  With one convulsive movement, Berry, who was comfortably settled, left his chair.

  Searching himself all over–

  “Where is the blasted thing?”

  “There it is,” said Daphne. “Pick it up quick. We don’t want to burn the rug.”

  As he tossed it into the grate–

  “And what about my trousers?” said Berry. “Three pounds ten, these cost before the war. Their present value’s about two hundred pounds.”

  “They’re quite all right,” said Daphne.

  “And what of my large intestine? A sudden movement like that lays on that lovely organ a stress or strain it was never constructed to bear.” He looked at my wife. “You’ve been reading comic strips. Just
because we let you see them, you don’t have to do what Porky and Huckaback do. When your husband makes me feel sick, I’ve a right to denounce the emetic which he administers.”

  Jill’s hand slid into mine.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” I said. “It probably sounded precious. As a matter of fact, it’s true. I think, perhaps, if you wrote, you’d feel the same. Of course, my people are puppets. But I have heard of actors ‘living’ their parts. I’ve actually seen them do it – though not for a good many years. I think, perhaps, they felt lost, when at last the curtain came down. Don’t you think Kipling felt lost, when he’d finished Kim? I’ll lay any money he did. That queer, dirt smell of the East. You can smell that, when you read Kim. But he was a great master. His contemporaries shrink in stature when he goes by.”

  “And there you’re right,” said Berry, now settled again. “There’s a drive in Kipling’s work that no one has ever approached.”

  “Or ever will,” said I. “He was a very great man.”

  “‘Sweet’,” said Berry, “‘are the uses of publicity.’ If you had used publicity, you would have sold about three times as many books.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you would. Probably five times as many. Hundreds of thousands of people don’t even know your name.”

  “He’s had heaps of letters,” said Jill, “saying they’ve just found his books. He had one the other day. And a man wrote not long ago, saying he’d just read one and gone off to his bookseller and ordered all the rest.”

  “I can’t help it,” said I. “I think publicity is wrong. More. I know it’s wrong. A book should stand by itself. I’ve seen mediocre books made into best sellers simply by publicity and nothing else. I’ve seen mediocre writers made famous – by publicity alone: and while their names were being thrust into the public’s mouth, far better writers than they – far better writers than I shall ever be – were being ignored. Well, that tends to put you off. Justifiable publicity – yes. A portrait on a dust-cover, and that sort of thing.”

  “Blurb?”

  “Careful,” I said. “I have a gorge, too. The notes on the back of my jackets, I always write myself. They say what the book is and why I wrote it and what I hope it will do.”

  “I greatly enjoyed the Fable you wrote for Lower Than Vermin.”

  I laughed.

  “I had rather a triumph there. I showed it to a man of letters, before the book came out. ‘Very appropriate,’ he said. ‘You’ve verified it, of course?’ It seemed best to say yes.”

  “Lovely,” said Berry. “But you did put ‘After Aesop’.”

  “I know. But he missed that.” I fingered my chin. “You know, all this damned stuff is publicity.”

  “In a way. But it’s under a bushel. If people like to lift the bushel, that’s their affair. And now take us back to real life.”

  I glanced at my watch.

  “I have a case in mind, but it will take some time.”

  “Wilful murder?” said Berry.

  “No. There are other crimes. And this, in its day, was rather a famous case. I was then a solicitor’s pupil. I saw it from beginning to end; and, when it went for trial, I managed it at the Old Bailey – and anxious work it was. I mean, I was in sole charge, and things went wrong. We got home all right, but my path which had looked so smooth, proved to be rough indeed. But the public didn’t know that. The case was known as ‘The D S Windell Case’ – a highly impudent fraud, brilliantly conceived and very well carried out.”

  “I remember it well,” said Berry. “Everybody was laughing – except the Bank. ‘The d— swindle’ case. Talk about nerve. Sorry. Go on.”

  “Great credit is due to Muskett, for he forced his impatient clients to play a waiting game: and, only by playing that game, did we get our men. I think Jonah would have approved.

  “Now, before I go any further, let me say this. It’s a long time since all this happened, and on one or two details my memory may be at fault. But I’ll do the best I can.

  “I hadn’t been very long in Bedford Row, when I walked in one Tuesday morning at half-past nine, to be stopped by the clerks from entering Muskett’s room. I asked what was up. ‘Conference,’ was the reply. ‘Directors and all. Somebody’s done it on one of the bigger Banks.’ I knew that it must be big trouble, because of the early hour, and very soon after they’d gone, I learned the truth.

  “On Monday morning – that is, the day before – the Manager of the Lambeth Branch of one of the biggest Banks received a letter from the Manager of the Harlesden Branch. The letter said that a customer, a Mr D S Windell, wished to transfer his account from Harlesden to Lambeth: that the money now standing to his credit amounted to two thousand odd pounds: that Mr Windell would shortly call at the Lambeth Branch and make the Manager’s acquaintance.

  “Mr Windell appeared soon after that letter was received, made the acquaintance of his new Manager, signed the signature book, received a chequebook and drew out four hundred pounds.

  “What nobody but Mr Windell knew was that eleven other Managers of eleven other Branches of the same Bank had received eleven similar letters from the Manager of the Harlesden Branch.

  “He visited nine of these, and then his nerve failed. Still, he got away with ten cheque-books and, what was more to the point, with four thousand pounds. Even in 1908, four thousand pounds was not a great deal of money. But what was so serious was that it was stolen from a Bank. And not by a hold-up, but by a careful manipulation of that Bank’s machinery – machinery which had been designed to make any such manipulation impossible.

  “Well, of course, the twelve letters were forgeries. The Manager of the Harlesden Branch had never written one of them. Neither had he ever heard of Mr D S Windell. There was, in fact, no such person.

  “In those days letters were answered without delay: and the post was wonderful. With the result that on that Monday evening the Manager of the Harlesden Branch received more than one acknowledgment of a letter, the composition of which had never entered his head. He took immediate action. From this, had sprung the conference of the following day.

  “Before twenty-four hours had gone by, we knew all there was to be known. This was that Mr D S Windell was a complete stranger to everyone: that he was not known to the police: that he must have had an accomplice within the Bank: that that accomplice had done the forgeries: that he could not have done them – they were superb – unless he had had access to the handwriting of the Manager of the Harlesden Branch: that that reduced the number of suspects to about two thousand. Two thousand.

  “But the General Inspector of Branches – his name was Anderson – was worth his salt. He attended the conference. ‘It’s one of three men,’ he said. He laid a sheet of paper on Muskett’s desk. ‘There are their names.’ Three, out of two thousand. The first of the names was King. And King, it proved to be. I’ve always considered that a remarkable feat.

  “Well, there was nothing to be done but to keep an eye on these men and to ‘black-list’ the stolen notes. Windell, of course, had disappeared into the blue.

  “I forget the name of the Branch at which King was employed. But it was not Harlesden, nor was it one of the twelve. In his luncheon hour on that Monday, King had not lunched. He had made his way to the City, and there, in the Mansion House subway, under the street, he had met D S Windell and received two thousand pounds in Bank of England notes. I don’t think the two met again, till both were out of jail. And that was years afterwards. If you ask me how we knew this, I cannot say. I simply cannot remember. But know it, we did.

  “Naturally enough, the Press made much of the affair. When all is said and done, it was a hell of a show. I suppose that, reading the papers, King got puffed up. Be that as it may, he did an extremely foolish thing. (I have often heard it said that every criminal makes one bad mistake. I have never found this true. Most criminals make two or three. Some don’t make any at all.) King wrote a letter to the Head Office of the Bank, thankin
g them for the four thousand pounds, and he signed it ‘D S Windell’. He wrote it all on a typewriter, including the signature. He wrote it at a house at which he was spending the weekend. But he didn’t put an address, and the letter was posted in a district with which he had nothing to do. But he did commit a piece of almost unbelievable folly. He had two shots at his letter, and sent the second one: but, though he tore up the first, he never burned the fragments. These were found the next morning by an inquisitive charwoman, who took them to the police. I doubt if I should have believed that, if I hadn’t had the fragments in my hand. But I can see them now.

  “That told us, of course, that it was King. But you don’t get a conviction for forgery on evidence like that. And so we had to sit still and wait for more.

  “Suddenly one of the stolen notes came in through a Spanish Bank. And then another and another. D S Windell was touring Spain, and, to judge from the way in which he was spending money, was having a gorgeous time. We sent out a man, to make sure – and followed him round. It was very galling for the Bank to have to sit still and watch their money being blown, but King was the man they wanted: and, if we had arrested Windell, King would have been put upon his guard. And that would have been fatal, for he was a very shrewd man. Hardly anyone knew he was suspected. The Manager of his Branch had no idea. In the hope of lulling any suspicions which King might entertain, we arranged for him to be promoted. This was done.

  “So we sat still, watching and hoping. All the time, Windell’s notes kept coming in from Spain. And the Bank writhed: but Muskett refused to move. King never tried to cash one.

  “And then at Whitsuntide, nearly six months after the robbery had been done, King took a short holiday. And he decided to spend it at Amsterdam. So the bankers of Amsterdam were warned to stand by. Sure enough, he walked into one office and laid down five five-pound notes.

  “‘Will you change these, please? And what is the rate of exchange?’

  “An old Dutchman glanced at their numbers and then at his list. Then he picked up the notes.