Brenda: What on earth's the matter, Bill?
Bill: Search me! A Scotland Yard man is on his way up to see me. What price safety and stodginess now, Brenda?
Brenda: You're joking, Bill. What can the police want with you?
Bill: About six hours in England, and—
Brenda: Oh, this is ridiculous! There must be some mistake!
Bill: There probably is. All the same, come to think of it, I don't feel very keen about facing one of these C.I.D. bowler hats in real life.
As he speaks there is a rap on the door, a firm, official knock, not loud but determined.
Come in, please, come in.
The door opens, and Chief Inspector Radford enters. He is wearing a well-cut dark suit and carries a brief-case and the latest model in bowler hats. Yes, he has a neatly cropped black moustache. He has an affable manner and keen grey eyes. He bows slightly to Mrs Leslie. Then turns quickly to business.
Radford: Mr William Leslie? Sorry to have to trouble you, sir. I'm a police-officer. Metropolitan C.I.D. Here's my warrant card.
Bill: I see. 'Chief Inspector—'
Radford: Radford, sir. And I'm bound to tell you I'm here about a serious matter.
Bill: How delightful—I mean, how surprising. Please sit down, Inspector.
Radford: Thank you, sir.—Now . . . don't mind my notebook. It's a mere formality . . . You and your wife arrived this morning by the Maurevania. Your wife is British, and carries her own passport. Correct?
Bill: Yes. That's correct . . .
Radford: A week from today you leave, by the same ship, for Lisbon. At Lisbon you take up a new diplomatic assignment at the American Embassy. Correct?
Bill: Yes! But . . .
Brenda: What's wrong?
Radford: Just a moment! I'd like you to look at this snapshot I have here . . . Who is it?
Brenda: But—it's Bill! No, it isn't. Look at that awful shirt and tie! It's your double, Bill!
Bill: So help me, I never had that picture taken. It must be my double. I never wore a shirt like that!
Radford: I know you didn't, Mr. Leslie. That's Flash Morgan. Ever heard of him?
Bill: Never. Is he—wanted for something?
Radford: He's wanted for several murders. Also bank robbery. Also he's a ripper, if you know what that means. Uses a razor, and—likes it. Never has a gun. That's Flash in a flash, so to speak.
Bill: Me? The image of a murderer?
Radford: They don't look so different from the rest of us. Do you realize, sir, you can't leave this hotel without being nabbed, as Morgan, by the first copper you meet? It isn't just a likeness you'll agree. You're his double. You're the dead spit of him—as we say.
Bill: But I can prove who I am! I've got my papers!
Radford: You've got your papers. Right! Suppose Morgan gets 'em?
Bill: Morgan?
Radford: The Maurevania sails a week from to-day. Somebody called William Leslie, carrying diplomatic immunity, sails with her. What's to prove it's really you?
Bill: You mean he might—
Radford: I do.
Bill: That's impossible! He couldn't get away with it!
Radford: No, I don't think he could. But I'll give you ten to one he tries it. This is a small country to hide in, and he can't get away. He's desperate. This is his last hope.
Bill: What about—Brenda here?
Radford: There are several things that might happen to Mrs. Leslie. All unpleasant. There's just one more matter I'm bound to warn you of. Morgan may try to get into this hotel.
Bill: But look here, Inspector! This ripper, or whatever he is, couldn't possibly know there's a man in town who looks like him!
Radford: He couldn't, eh? Have you seen the evening papers?
Bill: No.
Radford: Some fool took a picture of you getting off the boat train. It's been published, with comments on the resemblance in all the evenings! You'll find Morgan's story in the Evening News. With pictures.
Bill: So I've made the front page at last!
Brenda: Don't laugh about it, Bill. But haven't you got any idea where this man is, Inspector?
Radford: No, ma'am; we haven't. He used to have a hangout at 996 Fleet Street, up over a barber's shop. But he won't go there now. He's loaded with money from the Whitehall Bank job. He's got a razor, and he's ready to use it. And now, if you'll excuse me, I must go. But for your own sakes I want you to stay in this hotel, both of you, until that boat sails.
Bill: Cooped up here for a week? Just in case?
Radford: Yes, Mr Leslie. Just in case.
Bill: Suppose I do go out?
Radford: I can't stop you, sir. The guard I'm leaving here can't stop you. But I might send you some photographs of people with their throats cut. Sorry to have to upset you. Good night.
As the bowler hatted representative of England's Criminal Investigation Department closes the door behind him, Bill and Brenda sit down on a sofa covered with red plush. For a few moments they simply stare at each other. From the street below the barrel organ is playing 'The Lambeth Walk,' accompanied in the bass register by hoots and toots from the fog-covered Thames.
Bill: Brenda! What price romantic London!
Brenda: Don't, dear. This is serious. I'm scared, Bill.
Bill: What was the number of that address Radford gave us? Where Morgan used to hang out?
Brenda: I don't remember.
Bill: You mean, darling, you won't remember. Nine hundred and ninety-six, wasn't it? 996 Fleet Street?
Brenda: Why do you want to know?
Bill: Because I'm going there. And I'm going now.
Brenda: Yes, I thought that was it. Bill, you can't! You mustn't! You can't do anything there!
Bill: I know.
Brenda: Bill, come back here! You're not to go!
Bill: Where's my overcoat? Now, this address—
Brenda: If you go, I'm going with you.
Bill: Oh no. This isn't a woman's kind of dare; and you know it.
Brenda: It's as much my dare as yours!
Bill: 996 Fleet Street. Up over a barber shop. How do I get there?
Brenda: I don't—
Bill: If you don't tell me, Brenda, I can easily find out.
Brenda: Oh, all right, I give up. It's not very far from here. You could walk it in ten minutes.
Bill: That's better! That's much better!
Brenda: What about your identification papers?
Bill: I'm throwing 'em out here on the bed. Morgan won't get those.
Brenda: But if you haven't got those papers, you won't be able to prove who you are!
Bill: I'll risk it, Brenda. I'll risk it. See you later!
Brenda: Bill, come back! It's idiotic! Don't leave me! Please come back! Please ... If you don't, I'm coming, too . . .
TABLEAU TWO
Fleet Street on a foggy October evening is not the easiest place in the world for a stranger to find a particular building. London street numbering is so eccentric that it seems arranged on purpose to puzzle, and Fleet Street is no exception. Bill Leslie has passed Temple Bar without seeing it, and is now stumbling across Fetter Lane. As he stares at the lighted windows of Peek's Coffee House (one of the street's noted taverns) the slow booming bell of St Paul's strikes seven, followed by the harsh clang of St Dunstan's. Bill bumps into someone as he reaches the narrow entrance to 'The Cheshire Cheese,' and a cheerful Cockney voice shouts 'Sorry, guv'nor.' Bill feels his throat apprehensively and begins to wish he had a Londoner as a guide. He mutters to himself:
Bill (soliloquizing): Can't see the numbers. Those I can see seem to be in the wrong order. Fool stunt to come out alone in a fog. Wish I hadn't started. Supposing Morgan with his rip-throat razor is following me! But can't turn back now. Who's afraid? Mustn't be afraid. Might walk a little faster. No harm in walking a little faster. There! Number nine thirty-four. Can't be far off now. Was that a policeman's helmet? Doesn't matter. Police mean safety. Nobody can see my face. Another policeman
's helmet! Swear to it! Over in that alley. A little faster . . . Take it easy, now; don't run. They can't possibly . . .
Man's Voice: You, there! Stop!
Bill: Mustn't get panicky. How do you stop panic? Got to find that address; got to justify myself; got to—
Bill's soliloquy is interrupted by the shrill blast of a police whistle. As he begins to run, he stops abruptly. By a staircase open to the street Bill has noticed the number 996. Then he sees a notice: 'Henry S. Todd, Barber.' As the police whistle blows again, he goes upstairs.
TABLEAU THREE
Bill Leslie enters a large room, not too clean, with a cork floor giving back no sound. Facing him is a window. On the left is another door. On his right, a wall of mirrors with two white barber chairs and another door at the end. That is what Bill Leslie sees. What he can smell is the thick odour of hair tonic. On a white stool sits a little old man with yellow-white hair and a reddish nose, peering up from an evening paper with Cockney friendliness . . .
Bill: I—I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to crash in like this. Todd: Not a bit of it, sir! Nobody 'ere, sir! Glad to 'ave you come up any way you like!
Bill: I've come about something important. I want—I want a shave, please. And I'll just close this door.
Todd: Shave, sir? Very good, sir! If you'll just come over 'ere . . .that's it. . . Your overcoat, sir; allow me . . . and in this chair, please. Now we'll just whip out the cloth and get busy.
Bill: Wait a minute! Don't tilt me backwards yet! Are you Mr. Todd?
Todd: Me name is Todd, and that's a fact. But mostly the gentlemen call me Old Scratch.
Bill: Old Scratch?
Todd: It's only their joke. If they call me Old Scratch, or as it might be Old Nick, it's 'cos they know I won't nick 'em. Never miss with a razor, I don't. There now! We'll just tip the chair back. And I'll bet this lather is as comfortable as—well, as going 'ome to tea and kippers on a night like this. It's remarkable, sir, 'ow comforting.
In the mirror Bill Leslie is suddenly aware that his double has just slipped into the room and vanished again through the glass panelled door on the left of the street door. The barber, busy with his razor, has seen and heard nothing.
Bill (whispering): Mr. Todd, listen carefully. Keep on lathering, and don't speak any louder than I do.
Todd (whispering): Wot is it, sir? Wot's up?
Bill: Flash Morgan has just come in.
Todd: 'Oo?
Bill: Flash . . . Morgan.
Todd: Never 'eard of 'im.
Bill: He's a killer.
Todd: But there's nobody 'ere but you and me. Lift your 'ead up and look!
Bill: You didn't see him. You were looking at the shaving-mug. I saw him come in by the door from the stairs when you moved the chair. He went through the other door.
Todd: Swelpmearry!
Bill: He's a killer. Wanted by the police.
Todd: The police, 'ere now, are you—
Bill (loudly): Finished with the lather? Then start shaving (softly), but make it quick. Get a razor! That's it. He didn't look at either of us. He didn't make a sound. I saw him in the mirror. I heard him bolt the street door on the inside. Look over and see if it isn't bolted.
Todd: Blimey—so it is!
Bill: He walked to that door there. Behind me. Where does it lead? Upstairs?
Todd: No, sir. There's no upstairs on this side of the 'ouse. Bill: But there's got to be! Morgan lives at 996!
Todd: Don't move your chin like that! Keep your 'ead where I put it!—if you was looking for nine-nine-six proper, you must 'a made a mistake.
Bill: What do you mean?
Todd: Nine-nine-six is under the arch and round the back, like a lot of these old 'ouses. This is nine-nine-six B.
Bill: Then where does the door lead?
Todd: Only to a cupboard, sir. A big cupboard. Blimey! And 'e is 'iding there now.
Bill: That's right. Hiding there—with his razor.
Todd (loudly): That's the end of the shave, sir. 'Ot towel?
Bill: Yes, thanks. Hot and steaming. (Softly.) Hang on to your nerve, Old Scratch, and we'll get him in two minutes!
Todd: Towel satisfactory, sir? (softly) I'm a peaceful man, guv'nor. I don't want no trouble.
Bill (whispering): Now listen. When you take the towel off, go to the shelf under the mirrors and mess around with the bottles. Ask if I'd like some kind of lotion, and edge towards the glass door. When you get near it, run like blazes and yell for the police. The whole neighbourhood is full of cops. Morgan will come out fighting when he hears you run. I'll pick up that high stool and try to hold him off. The cops didn't find me, because I went to the wrong number . . .
Todd (urgently): Sir! That door behind you!
Bill: Well?
Todd: The knob's moving.
Bill: Then we'll have to do it when I count three.
Todd: I can't, sir. I just ain't up to it.
Bill: You can run, can't you? One! . . . Two! . . . Thr—
The street door bursts open, and Inspector Radford enters, accompanied by a sergeant of City police and two constables. Radford: Better stay where you are. Both of you.
Bill: Well, well! Do I hear Chief Inspector Radford?
Radford: You do. Sorry to break the door, Old Scratch; but why is it bolted?
Bill: Inspector, don't you recognize me? I'm Bill Leslie!
Radford: Yes. You probably are. Where's Morgan?
Bill: He's in that cupboard over there. I don't want to handle him. Where's your gun?
Radford: We don't carry guns. Sergeant!
Sergeant: Yes, sir?
Radford: Guard that window. Constable stay here. I'll take the wasp out of his nest. Coming out, Morgan? No? All right. Have it your own way. I'm turning the knob, and—Lord Almighty! It's Morgan, all right. But he won't give any trouble. His throat's cut! . . .
TABLEAU FOUR
The scene is Chief Inspector Radford's room at New Scotland Yard. The fog has penetrated even this official sanctum, which overlooks the invisible Thames. The river traffic is still hooting and tooting as it noses its way upstream or down. Big Ben, on the opposite side of Westminster Bridge, is striking eight o'clock as Chief Inspector Radford, flanked on one side by an official shorthand writer and on the other by two young policemen, continues his interrogation of Bill Leslie and the barber.
Radford: Mr. Leslie, why don't you tell us the truth?
Bill: Inspector, I have told you the truth. So has Old Scratch here.
Todd: Ah! Every word of it.
Radford: Let's face it, Mr. Leslie. I suggest that you killed Morgan, and you don't seem to understand the law here.
Bill: How do you mean?
Radford: To kill a wanted man, even a murderer, is just as bad as killing the Prime Minister. I can't help you if you say you didn't kill him! But I can if you admit you did it in self defence.
Bill: Look, Inspector, I never set eyes on Morgan except when he walked through that shop. Scratch never saw him at all. I never stirred out of the chair for one second. Scratch never left me, never even took his hands off me, for a second. Neither of us did it.
Radford: Then who killed Morgan?
Bill: I don't know!
Radford: I suggest that you and Morgan met at the barber's. There was a fight and you killed him, unintentionally.
Bill: I killed him with what?
Radford: With his own razor. We found it in the cupboard. Then you bribed Old Scratch to keep his mouth shut.
Todd: 'Ere now, Inspector. I—
Radford: Morgan was loaded with money. Carried a thousand quid in an oilskin tobacco pouch. It wasn't on his body. If you gave it to Scratch, and Scratch hid it in the confusion after we broke in—
Bill: You know, Inspector, I've been wrong about this whole thing.
Radford: That's better!
Bill: Not in the way you mean!—/ thought my trouble would be to prove my identity. But you don't doubt my identity. Or do you?
/> Radford: I don't, no. But officially, until your wife identifies you—
Bill: That's what I've been asking all night; and you won't answer! Where is Brenda?
Radford: Well, sir. The fact is—
Bill: You haven't got her locked up somewhere?
Radford: No, of course not! The fact is—we can't find her.
Bill: Isn't she at the hotel?
Radford: No. Your wife left the hotel just after you did.
Bill: Brenda left the . . . Where did she go?
Radford: To 996 Fleet Street! Bill: How do you know that?
Radford: The real entrance to 996 is at the back. Up a flight of stairs past the barber's window. One of our men saw her there. Then lost her.
Bill: You mean, Morgan may have seen her before he came into the shop and attacked her. Brenda's dead! That's what you're saying! Don't start to object. That's what you're intimating! And if Brenda's dead ... I'm the cause of it.
There is a knock at the door and a sergeant enters.
Sergeant: Chief Inspector!
Radford: Sergeant, keep out of here! I told you—
Sergeant: Yes, sir. But I couldn't help it. Mrs. Leslie's here. She says she wants to give herself up. Here she is.
Brenda: Bill! Bill! Oh, Bill!
Bill: Brenda!
Radford: Please stay where you are. Mrs. Leslie. You want to—give yourself up?
Brenda: Yes. I saw the murder.
Radford: You saw it? From where?
Brenda: From the back stairs, through the window. It was dark there but I could see into the lighted room quite easily. Bill, I got there before you did. You had to ask your way. I didn't. I—I saw you come in.
Bill: Into the barber-shop?
Brenda: Yes! But I think I'd have known what happened, even if I hadn't seen it.
Radford: Are you one of our women detectives, Mrs. Leslie?
Brenda: Please! It's because I am a woman that I'd have noticed. You're too used to it. Bill thinks that. . . that man you call Old Scratch was never out of his sight for a moment. But he's forgotten something.
Bill: Forgotten what?
Brenda: You've forgotten there were thirty seconds when you had a hot towel over your face and eyes.
Radford: Sergeant! Grab our friend Scratch's arms! Quick!
Brenda: Keep him away from me! Please keep him—!
Murder Impossible Page 24