by Tony Medawar
‘Ah, yes!’ he said quietly. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Caryu placed several documents in the case. I don’t know what they were, but he told me to give—’
‘Give them to me, please. Thank you!’
Winthrop cast a hurried glance at each of the sealed documents handed to him. Then he laid the whole sheaf down upon his desk, and shot the secretary a long, keen look. Lastly he turned to Linckes.
‘This is a case for you, I think,’ he said.
‘Oh!’ Linckes sat up. ‘What is the matter?’ He looked inquiringly from Winthrop’s impassive countenance to the secretary’s surprised, vaguely nervous expression. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘A very great deal. Come and look at these documents. You too, Fortescue.’
Linckes went to the table and spread open the various sheets. Looking over his shoulder, the secretary gave a startled gasp. But Linckes’ heart was beating madly. Every sheet was blank.
‘Good heavens!’ he said.
‘Exactly!’ Winthrop turned to Fortescue. ‘Mr Fortescue, I saw Mr Caryu this morning. He informed me that he was sending certain important papers. Did you know this?’
‘No, Sir Charles. Oh, heavens! Surely—’
He broke off, staring blankly at Winthrop.
Winthrop sat down at his desk.
‘Your case was stolen, Mr Fortescue. Presumably when you dropped it in Piccadilly.’
‘But—but, Sir Charles, it was only on the ground for an instant. Besides, who could know that the case contained anything important?’
‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you that,’ Winthrop said coolly. ‘Will you please try and remember the exact circumstances of your dropping it?’
‘I—I crossed to the “island”, Sir Charles, and waited for the stream of traffic to pass. There—there were a good many people on the “island”, and, as I said, there was a lot of pushing and barging. There was a stout woman who rather lost her head and tried to make a dash for the other side of the road, and had to get back again to the “island” in a hurry. She must have pushed the man standing next to me. Anyway, he fell against me, and I lost my balance, and—and I dropped the case.’
‘And this man,’ said Winthrop. ‘Was he by any chance carrying a dispatch-case?’
The secretary moistened his lips.
‘I—I’m afraid I didn’t notice, sir. I dare say he was. It was at an hour when most men are coming away from business, and—Oh, heavens!’ He ended on a stricken note. ‘What a fool I am! What a damned fool! If only I’d known that there were important papers in the case! Sir Charles, it—they—they weren’t the new plans?’
‘That is precisely what they were,’ Winthrop answered.
He unhooked the receiver from the telephone and called a number. While he was waiting to be connected he glanced at Linckes, smiling rather wearily.
‘Well, here’s your chance, Linckes. And he’s got away with it, the scoundrel! Hallo! Is that Mr Caryu’s house? Put me through to him, please. Winthrop speaking. Thanks!’
Again there was a pause. Then he began to speak into the telephone. Quite calmly he told Caryu all that had happened. At the end he hung up the receiver and nodded to Fortescue.
‘Mr Caryu wants you to go back, Fortescue.’
Some of the pallor left Fortescue’s face.
‘Mr—Mr Caryu doesn’t suspect me, sir?’
‘No. You’d better get along as fast as possible. Tell Mr Caryu that I shall come round at once.’
‘One moment!’ interposed Linckes.
‘Can you remember what the man who fell against you looked like?’
‘Just—just ordinary,’ answered the unhappy secretary. ‘He was middle-aged, I think, but I won’t swear to it.’
‘I see. Thank you! Winthrop, I won’t stay to dinner, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll get right on to this at once.’
Winthrop nodded.
VI
It was close on eleven o’clock that same evening, and Arlington Street was very quiet. One or two people passed down the road, and presently someone left Winthrop’s house and went away in a large limousine. Several people had visited Sir Charles that evening, and he himself had returned from Caryu’s house shortly after eight.
For some time after the last visitor had departed there was silence in the street, and then the chunk-chunk of a London taxi made itself heard, and in a few moments a car drew up outside No. 10. A man in an overcoat and opera hat got out, paid the driver, and mounted the steps to the front door. He pressed the bell, and stood waiting to be admitted. He was a medium-sized man, inclined to stoutness, and with a short, grizzled beard. The butler opened the door.
‘Is Sir Charles in?’ asked the newcomer. His voice was rather hoarse and guttural.
‘Yes, sir. But I don’t think he’s seeing anyone else today.’
‘Would you ask him if he will give me a moment?’
The man handed John a card. The butler read it.
‘Oh, Mr Knowles, sir! I beg your pardon! Will you come in while I see if Sir Charles is still up?’
Knowles entered the house, and the door closed again.
From the shadowy depths of the area two men rose stealthily, and crept up the steps to the street.
‘Got him!’ Linckes whispered. ‘Your revolver ready, Tomlins?’
His companion nodded.
‘Yes, it is. Wish I knew what you’re about.’
‘You soon will know,’ said Linckes grimly. ‘Your men are prepared?’
‘Inspector Gregory’s at the back of the house, Mr Linckes, and Inspector Marks is just down the road. He’ll come up to the house with Sergeant O’Hara as soon as we get in.’
‘All right. Don’t forget that all you’ve got to do is to follow me and to do as I say instantly.’
‘No, sir. Carry on!’
Linckes ran lightly up the steps of the house and rang the bell. After a short pause the door was opened.
‘John, is Sir Charles up?’
‘Yes, sir. Oh, is it you, sir? Come in!’
Linckes walked into the hall, followed by the other detective. John looked at Tomlins surprisedly.
‘Sir Charles is engaged just at the moment, sir. But if you’ll wait—’
‘Oh, is he? We’ll just wait here, then. Don’t bother to stay, John.’
He turned to Tomlins.
‘The library is at the bottom of this passage. It’ll be locked, and we shall wait in absolute silence outside. There are two men in the room, and when they come out you are to cover Sir Charles Winthrop. Leave the other to me. See?’
‘Can’t say I do, sir. But I’ll do as you say, of course.’
‘Then follow me. Not a sound, remember!’
In perfect silence the two men took up their stations on either side of the library door, revolvers held ready. The murmur of conversation could be heard within, and although neither Linckes nor Tomlins could distinguish any word spoken, they could hear that the talk was worried.
Then, after what seemed an interminable time, the key scraped in the lock, and Winthrop opened the door. Behind him stood the man Linckes had seen entering the house a few minutes ago.
For a moment there was dead silence as Winthrop stared haughtily from one levelled revolver to the other. Even now Linckes could not but admire the indomitable courage and sang-froid that Sir Charles displayed.
‘Really, Mr Linckes!’ he said, faintly amused. ‘May I ask what you think you are doing?’
‘Hands up, please!’ Linckes said sternly. ‘If you attempt to escape I shall shoot!’
Winthrop shrugged slightly, and raised his hands. Still he preserved that air of haughty bewilderment. But the man beside him had grown very pale, and was biting his under-lip. The hands that he held up were trembling.
Linckes advanced into the room, covering his man.
‘I may be doing you a grievous injury, Sir Charles, but I do not think so.’ With his free hand he drew a silver whistle from his pocket and
blew three shrill blasts upon it. ‘Mr Winthrop, will you be so good as to remove your wig and your beard? Your make-up is excellent!’
Disregarding Tomlins’ levelled revolver, Sir Charles lowered his hands. He sank down into his chair, and regarded Linckes with a twinkle in his eye. His fine lips smiled generously.
‘Do tell me how you found out,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Take the wig off, Alec. The game’s up!’
With starting eyes Tomlins watched the pseudo Mr Knowles tear off his wig and beard. Night black hair with a faint crinkle in it was revealed, and when the man had rubbed his face with his handkerchief, removing most of the cunning make-up, the detective’s jaw dropped.
‘Sir—Sir Charles!’ he gasped.
A little, low laugh came from Winthrop.
‘Wonderful, isn’t it? Quite difficult to tell us apart.’ He paused, listening to the sudden pandemonium without. ‘Well, you’ve roused the whole household, Linckes, and I suppose your assistants are even now invading my house. You must allow me to congratulate you. I never thought you’d discover me. And I’ve had a fair run for my money, haven’t I? I don’t regret it a bit. Poor Alec’s looking rather glum. But then he always was rather peevish That was what made you suspect me in the first place, wasn’t it? Jolly clever of you to think of that blank sheet scheme. I ought to have guessed, of course. Fact of the matter is, you took me in. I didn’t think you suspected me.’
VII
Tony dabbed at her eyes, and gave a tiny sob.
‘It’s so awful, Roger! I c-can’t bear to think of Charlie doing such a thing. I—I just can’t realise it. It—it seems impossible!’
Linckes patted her shoulder uncomfortably.
‘And—and somehow I can’t feel angry with him. He was always such a dear!’
‘I know. He was just one of those people who couldn’t run straight? ’Twasn’t altogether his fault. And one must admire his courage.’
Tony was silent for a moment, still mopping her eyes.
A pair of soft arms stole round his neck.
‘No; and I can’t help admiring you!’ whispered Tony.
GEORGETTE HEYER
Georgette Heyer, unquestionably one of Britain’s best-loved historical novelists, was born in 1902. She began her career as an author at the age of 19 with the novel The Black Moth, an exciting story about highwaymen set in the eighteenth century, which Heyer had expanded from a short story written to entertain her brother. It was the first of what would eventually be more than fifty novels, the vast majority of which dealt with the Georgian and Regency periods of British history.
While views differ as to the extent to which her books trod new ground rather than reviving scenarios and ideas from Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer was extremely popular and she remains so today, loved in particular for her lively and compelling characters and for the comedy and humour with which her novels are peppered. As a critic put it in 1929, Heyer’s historical novels ‘are not historical [and] they are not novel, but they are very good fun’.
The same can be said for the dozen novel-length ‘thrillers’, as she called them. The crimes with which these are concerned were considered by some contemporary critics, among them Dorothy L. Sayers, to be largely unoriginal but, as with her much more popular historical fiction, Heyer’s crime fiction was consistently praised for her rich characterisation, vivid dialogue and warm humour. Her dozen detective mysteries are regularly reprinted and some in particular have real merit, in particular A Blunt Instrument (1933), Death in the Stocks (1935) and Envious Casca (1941), a clever locked room mystery. Unlike her historical novels, Heyer’s detective mysteries did not require extensive research, and they were for the most part based on plot outlines provided by her husband, the eminent lawyer George Rougier. Heyer’s interest lay mainly in the characters and she would routinely seek Rougier’s advice when it came to unravelling the mystery in the final chapters and ensuring she had ‘played fair’ throughout the novel.
Heyer was a very private person, once saying that her readers would find all they needed to know about her in her books, which she considered as, ‘unquestionably, good escapist literature’. A heavy smoker, she died from lung cancer in 1974.
Georgette Heyer’s only uncollected detective short story, ‘Linckes’ Great Case’, was first published in the very rare magazine, Detective, on the 2nd of March 1923, and I am very grateful to the bookseller Jamie Sturgeon for providing a copy.
‘CALLING JAMES BRAITHWAITE’
Nicholas Blake
CHARACTERS
LADY ALICE BRAITHWAITE … wife of Sir James, daughter of Greer.
LAURENCE ANNESLEY … junior partner in Sir James Braithwaite’s firm.
LAURA ANNESLEY … his sister.
SIR JAMES BRAITHWAITE … shipowner.
NIGEL STRANGEWAYS … private detective.
CAPTAIN GREER … master of the ‘James Braithwaite’.
MR MACLEAN … first mate of the ‘James Braithwaite’.
SMITH … a seaman.
PART I
THE CRIME
ALICE: I hate him! There, I’ve said it at last, I hate him.
LAURENCE: But, Alice—
ALICE: No, I’m not being hysterical. I won’t—sometimes I think that’s what he wants—to drive me mad.
LAURENCE: Now you are exaggerating, my dear. James is not—well, not one of the world’s leading charmers. But—
ALICE: Hate. I wonder if you know what it’s like. Real hate. Oh, Laurence, what’s going to happen? I’ve stood it for nearly three years. The humiliations, the scenes, the horrible little pinpricks, all the things he does to break down my pride. You can’t imagine—
LAURENCE: Perhaps I can, my dear. Remember, I have to work with him.
ALICE: It’s like having a—a huge toad sitting across the path, blocking it, blocking it, blocking out the whole future. Oh God, I—
LAURENCE: There’s one way out, Alice?
ALICE: One way out.
LAURENCE: My darling. I love you. You must know that. Come away with me. Leave him.
ALICE: I wonder if you mean that. Do you realise—? No, listen. It would be the end of your partnership in the firm. Daddy would be sacked too, and James would see he never got another ship. I couldn’t do it.
LAURENCE: My sweet, do you love me?
ALICE: I—oh, I don’t know, Laurence. I’m fond of you. You’ve been so kind to me all these months—
LAURENCE: Kind!
ALICE: No, please don’t make it more difficult for me. You know I can’t. If it was just ourselves—but there’s Daddy. He set all his hopes on me. He wanted me to have the world—and he thinks I’ve got it. Lady Braithwaite! No, it’d break his heart. I am grateful to you, my dear—
LAURENCE: Very well. I understand. I’ll not say a word more about it. For the present. Perhaps James will fall overboard during the voyage or something.
ALICE: The voyage. I’m dreading it. Do you know why I’m so upset this morning? Why James is bringing you and Laura and me on the voyage? Do you realise what this Mr Strangeways is for?
LAURENCE: Strangeways? He’s coming as a temporary secretary, your husband told me.
ALICE: Secretary! Laurence, it’s vile. James suspects—shh—oh, it’s Laura.
LAURA: Hello, you two. You look very cheerful, I must say. I’ve just been laying in some Mother Siegel’s. Where’s James?
(Fade. Sound of subdued voices. Voice of Page-boy growing louder.)
PAGE-BOY: Calling Sir James Braithwaite. Room 15. Calling Sir James Braithwaite. Room 15. Calling Sir James Braithwaite. Room—
(Snapping of fingers.)
JAMES: Here, boy. Haven’t you got eyes in your head? What is it, now?
PAGE-BOY: Mr Nigel Strangeways to see you, sir. In the lobby, sir.
(Sir James rises. As he goes out, the murder of voices is heard again. Above it, three voices rise.)
VOICE I: Who’s that old bird, Reggie?
VOICE II: Sir James Braithwaite. Th
e shipowner. Sailing on one of his own ships next tide, I believe.
VOICE III: Jimmy Braithwaite sailing on one of his own ships? Crikey! Is he tired of life, or what?
(Fade. A door closes.)
JAMES: Morning, Strangeways. So you’ve decided to take on the job, eh?
NIGEL: Yes, Sir James. I—
JAMES: Just step out on the terrace with me a moment. It’ll be quieter out there.
(Sound of swing-door. Lobby noises cut off.)
NIGEL: (brisk, cheerful, not at all overawed by Sir James) Yes. You made such a mystery of it over the telephone. And I just can’t refrain from poking my nose into mysteries.
JAMES: (very frigid) Indeed? It is understood that you will be sailing as my employee, my secretary?
NIGEL: (faintest note of amusement in voice) Yes, Sir James.
JAMES: Very well, As I think I told you, we are to sail on one of my own ships: the ‘James Braithwaite’. She’s a freighter of some 2,500 tons, with accommodation for a few passengers. My wife—Lady Alice; Laurence Annesley and his sister, Laura—he’s a junior partner in my firm—will be coming as well. We go out on the evening tide.
NIGEL: And where does the—er—secretary come in?
JAMES: Your job is to keep your eyes open, Strangeways—and your mouth shut.
NIGEL: Hmm. A sea trip and a nice fat fee for—keeping my eyes open.
JAMES: When I need a job doing, young man, I can afford to pay for it.
NIGEL: So you’ve purchased the best detective that money can buy, to keep his eyes open. Open for what, Sir James?… Are you anticipating an attempt on your life, for instance?
JAMES: Don’t be ridiculous … I’ll tell you more when we get on board. There’s several kinds of treachery, young man.
NIGEL: Just one thing, Sir James. Why the ‘James Braithwaite’? Why have you decided to sail on a small, uncomfortable cargo-steamer, when—