by Tony Medawar
A week passed and Superintendent Tarrant, with a couple of clerks and a bag, went to have a chat with Beeding.
The conversation began by seeming to be directed to the question of Beeding’s possible assailants, and Tarrant produced the starting-handle.
‘This was your starting-handle, wasn’t it, Mr Beeding?’
Beeding had a good look at it.
‘No.’
‘Ever seen it before?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Ah! I’ve had that starting-handle for five years. It was the one that was found in the train when Hartways was murdered. And you’ve never seen it before?’
‘Oh, I saw it at the time when your fellows were carting it round, I suppose. But why are you bringing all this up?’
‘I just thought you might be inclined to make a yarn of it!’ The Superintendent smiled. ‘I’m going to show you something else in a minute, Beeding. You were friendly with Hartways, weren’t you? Let’s see, what did they call him?—Balmy Hartways, wasn’t it? Went to stay with him and taught him a few things about horses, didn’t you, Beeding? Did you ever happen to see his missus wearing the—the Riverstoke necklace?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Nothing, Beeding. You don’t have to tell me anything you’d rather keep quiet about. Never give evidence against yourself. Perhaps I’d better not ask any questions until you’re out and about again. But maybe I’ve got a bit of good news for you and maybe I haven’t … What would you say if I told you we’d got the man who knifed you?’
‘Tommy rot!’ said Beeding so quickly that Tarrant became fairly sure of his ground,
‘The man who knifed you and robbed you, Beeding.’
Beeding stayed mum. Tarrant dived into the bag and dangled before Beeding’s eyes the paste copy of the Riverstoke necklace. Beeding became profoundly excited.
‘Cor! You’ve got him, and I know who it was. Chalky Saunders. He’s been hanging round Polly and she gave him the tip, the dirty little slut. My God, I’ll pay her for that when I get out!’
Superintendent Tarrant put the necklace away.
‘When you get out!… When you get out, did you say, Beeding? You’re reckoning on getting the sentence commuted, then?’
Beeding dropped his jaw and gazed at the wholly irrelevant starting-handle.
‘I took the necklace from Balmy before he ever went on the train!’ he cried. ‘While I was helping him on with his overcoat in the hall I picked his pocket.’
‘Kept it a long time, haven’t you, Beeding?’
‘Well, none of the fences would touch it when there was a murder tacked on. And just lately I had the chance of planting it on a new man—never mind who. I’d mentioned it to Polly and told her I was taking it up on the chance. Cor!… But I had nothing to do with the murder, Mr Tarrant. That was done in the train, and how could I have got in the train?’
‘Didn’t happen to slip along to the tunnel and hook yourself up on to the handrail by means of this starting-handle, did you?’
‘No. I swear I didn’t. I tell you I took it off him—’
‘All right, Beeding! I believe you, and I dare say, if you get a good man, the jury will, too. But we can’t promise to keep Polly out of it now you’ve mentioned her name.’
Tarrant left Beeding a few minutes before twelve. By one-thirty the whole of the diamond trade, legitimate and otherwise, knew that the Riverstoke necklace was being hunted by the whole pack. By three-fifteen it was brought to Scotland Yard by a terrified fence with a very weak explanation—which was accepted.
Lionel Cornboise had as yet no aspirations to Cabinet rank. He had made one very military maiden speech and for the rest contented himself with a very zealous obedience to the Whips. He was told that he could go home for tea, and was there informed that Lady Cornboise was in the dining-room with an official from Scotland Yard.
In those days Scotland Yard held no more secret terror for him than it holds for you and me. He supposed that Hilda had lost an umbrella and was therefore surprised to see two large diamond necklaces laid out on the dining-room table.
‘Lionel, isn’t it splendid? They’ve found the Riverstoke necklace after all these years. And they’re not allowed to tell me where they’ve found it. This other one’s only the paste one. I was just going to sign a receipt when you came in. This is Mr—er—’
‘Tarrant,’ supplied Tarrant, and smiled. Lionel made polite conversation while Hilda signed the receipt.
‘I don’t think I want any tea—I’d rather have a drink. Join me in a whisky-and-soda, Mr Tarrant?’
‘Thank you, Sir Lionel!’
In those days, when men had a drink women retired. Hilda retired with the necklaces.
‘Funny your finding it after all these years! The long arm of the law and all that! I understand I’m not allowed to ask how it all happened.’
‘Well, Sir Lionel, one has to guard one’s tongue with the ladies. Of course, there can’t really be any secret about it, because we’ve got the man and Lady Cornboise will be a witness, I’m afraid. Did you ever hear of a man called Beeding?’
‘Yes. A racing tout of some sort. Half a minute, though! If he—stole—the necklace—’
‘Quite so, Sir Lionel!’ The Superintendent, we may suppose, appeared to mellow under the influence of the whisky. ‘And I don’t mind telling you I know just how it was done. You remember there was a starting-handle found in the carriage that seemed to have nothing to do with the murder. Now, either I’m a Dutchman or Beeding had that handle under his coat when he was following Hartways’ car on his motor-bike. He rode on when the car stopped at the station—and then I’ll tell you what he did. He rode on a bit and hid his motor-bike. Then he came back, cut through the hedge, slipped past the signal-box and hid himself in the tunnel until the eleven-twenty came along. He’s a little man, but they’re very wiry, those jockeys—oh, very wiry! You’d be surprised! When the eleven-twenty came along he made a jump for the train, using the starting-handle to shorten his jump—hooked it into the handrail. Then he shot Hartways with Hartways’ own revolver, which he had stolen from the house, and there you are! He found the market a bit too hot for that necklace, especially as it was so well known, being the Riverstoke necklace, and he had to hold it.’
‘H’m! Has he confessed?’
‘No. He put up a silly little tale about picking Mr Hartways’ pocket before they started off. But that’s too easy. You know as well as I do, Sir Lionel, that Marshall Hall himself couldn’t do anything with such a fool defence. We’ve got him—like that. And we’ll hang him—you see if we don’t.
‘The part I don’t like,’ continued the Superintendent, ‘is the girl he’s living with. Decent enough little thing called Polly. Funny how these fellows often get very nice women. As she was helping him hide the necklace we shall have to charge her as accessory to the murder. But, of course, they won’t hang her—probably let her off with five years.’
Lionel went upstairs and found Hilda.
‘Oh, Lionel, isn’t it splendid! You know, poor Balmy gave six thousand for it at Christie’s. And it wasn’t insured. So the money will be ours. All right! I was going to say we’ll sell it and make a trust for David.’
‘You always say “poor Balmy” … Do you wish it had never happened, Hilda?’
‘No.’ Then she echoed his own words from the past. ‘I think I’m honest with myself about that, Lionel. It was a blessed release.’
‘I’m not sorry it happened, either,’ he said. He suddenly kissed her and said goodbye, but she just thought he was going back to the House of Commons.
A gentleman might conceivably commit murder if he were utterly and absolutely convinced that by so doing he ensured an increase in the sum of human happiness. But a gentleman could in no circumstances allow another man, however intrinsically worthless, to pay the price of his own crime. To say nothing of allowing an innocent woman to go to prison for five years.
It was si
x o’clock when he reached Scotland Yard. But Superintendent Tarrant was still there. It was almost as if he were waiting for Sir Lionel Cornboise.
‘I’ve come to tell you that you’re barking up the wrong tree,’ he said, in that clipped military voice. ‘Beeding had nothing to do with the murder of Hartways. I killed him myself. I don’t want to talk about it. Let me sit down here and I’ll write a circumstantial confession.’
That night Beeding died.
ROY VICKERS
William Edward Vickers (1889–1965) wrote under several pseudonyms, including David Durham, Sefton Kyle and John Spencer, but it is for his work as Roy Vickers, in particular the short stories featuring the Department of Dead Ends, that William ‘Duff’ Vickers is best remembered today.
Vickers was born in Wandsworth and boarded at Charterhouse School, and on completing his schooling he went up to Brasenose College, Oxford. For reasons that are unclear, he left Oxford without completing his degree but was admitted in January 1909 to Middle Temple, one of the Inns of Court. As at Oxford, Vickers left Middle Temple prematurely and, perhaps planning to follow in the footsteps of his publisher father, began work as a journalist, writing extensively for a number of newspapers. His first short story, ‘The Stolen Melody’, was published in 1913 and a steady stream of others followed, appearing in Detective Story Magazine, Topical Times and elsewhere. His first full-length work was a biography of the former Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, Lord Roberts, which was published shortly after the eminent soldier’s death in 1914.
In August 1916, Vickers enlisted as a Private in the Durham Light Infantry and he spent the next three years in Greece, including a stint writing for Balkan News, a newspaper for the British Salonica Force which was fighting on the Macedonian Front. After the First World War, Vickers took up writing full time, with his first novel, Bonnie Mary Myles, appearing as a newspaper serial in 1919. By the end of 1930, Vickers had written twenty-five more novels, under various pen names; among them was The Mystery of the Scented Death (1922), his first crime novel. Vickers was astonishingly prolific, producing more than seventy novels in the thirty years between 1920 and 1950; many are light, rather forgettable romantic thrillers but all of them are characterised by an easy style and economically drawn but compelling characters.
In September 1934, ‘The Rubber Trumpet’, the first of Vickers’ Department of Dead Ends stories, was published in Pearson’s Magazine. The Department is an imaginary section of Scotland Yard where what a contemporary critic described as ‘the flotsam and jetsam of unsolved crimes’ are stored, awaiting illumination by Inspector Rason, a cold case specialist who always unravels the truth. Vickers wrote many other short stories, including—as David Durham—a series about Miss Fidelity Dove, ‘the smartest crook in London, in the world, in history’, which were gathered in the collection The Exploits of Fidelity Dove published in 1924.
One of Roy Vickers’ most famous short stories is ‘Double Image’, which in 1954 won first prize—equivalent to £10,000 in today’s money—in a short story competition run by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine; the story was adapted into a popular comedy thriller that opened in London’s West End in 1956 with Richard Attenborough and Sheila Sim.
One of only a handful of uncollected stories about the Department of Dead Ends, ‘The Starting-Handle Murder’ was first published in Pearson’s Magazine in October 1934.
THE WIFE OF THE KENITE
Agatha Christie
Herr Schaefer removed his hat and wiped his perspiring brow. He was hot. He was hungry and thirsty—especially the latter. But, above all, he was anxious. Before him stretched the yellow expanse of the veldt. Behind him, the line of the horizon was broken by the ‘dumps’ of the outlying portion of the Reef. And from far away, in the direction of Johannesburg, came a sound like distant thunder. But it was not thunder, as Herr Schaefer knew only too well. It was monotonous and regular, and represented the triumph of law and order over the forces of Revolution.
Incidentally, it was having a most wearing effect on the nerves of Herr Schaefer. The position in which he found himself was an unpleasant one. The swift efficient proclamation of martial law, followed by the dramatic arrival of Smuts with the tyres of his car shot flat, had had the effect of completely disorganising the carefully laid plans of Schaefer and his friends, and Schaefer himself had narrowly escaped being laid by the heels. For the moment he was at large, but the present was uncomfortable, and the future too problematical to be pleasant.
In good, sound German, Herr Schaefer cursed the country, the climate, the Rand and all workers thereon, and most especially his late employers, the Reds. As a paid agitator, he had done his work with true German efficiency, but his military upbringing, and his years of service with the German Army in Belgium, led him to admire the forcefulness of Smuts, and to despise unfeignedly the untrained rabble, devoid of discipline, which had crumbled to pieces at the first real test.
‘They are scum,’ said Herr Schaefer, gloomily, moistening his cracked lips. ‘Swine! No drilling. No order. No discipline. Ragged commandos riding loose about the veldt! Ah! If they had but one Prussian drill sergeant!’
Involuntarily his back straightened. For a year he had been endeavouring to cultivate a slouch which, together with a ragged beard, might make his apparent dealing in such innocent vegetable produce as cabbages, cauliflowers, and potatoes less open to doubt. A momentary shiver went down his spine as he reflected that certain papers might even now be in the hands of the military—papers whereon the word ‘cabbage’ stood opposite ‘dynamite’, and potatoes were labelled ‘detonators’.
The sun was nearing the horizon. Soon the cool of the evening would set in. If he could only reach a friendly farm (there were one or two hereabouts, he knew), he would find shelter for the night, and explicit directions that might set him on the road to freedom on the morrow.
Suddenly his eyes narrowed appreciatively upon a point to his extreme left.
‘Mealies!’ said Herr Schaefer. ‘Where there are mealies there is a farm not far off.’
His reasoning proved correct. A rough track led through the cultivated belt of land. He came first to a cluster of kraals, avoided them dextrously (since he had no wish to be seen if the farm should not prove to be one of those he sought), and skirting a slight rise, came suddenly upon the farm itself. It was the usual low building, with a corrugated roof, and a stoep running round two sides of it.
The sun was setting now, a red, angry blur on the horizon, and a woman was standing in the open doorway, looking out into the falling dusk. Herr Schaefer pulled his hat well over his eyes and came up the steps.
‘Is this by any chance the farm of Mr Henshel?’ he asked.
The woman nodded without speaking, staring at him with wide blue eyes. Schaefer drew a deep breath of relief, and looked back at her with a measure of appreciation. He admired the Dutch, wide-bosomed type such as this. A grand creature, with her full breast and her wide hips; not young, nearer forty than thirty, fair hair just touched with grey parted simply in the middle of her wide forehead, something grand and forceful about her, like a patriarch’s wife of old.
‘A fine mother of sons,’ thought Herr Schaefer appreciatively. ‘Also, let us hope, a good cook!’
His requirements of women were primitive and simple.
‘Mr Henshel expects me, I think,’ said the German, and added in a slightly lower tone: ‘I am interested in potatoes.’
She gave the expected reply.
‘We, too, are cultivators of vegetables.’ She spoke the words correctly, but with a strong accent. Her English was evidently not her strong point and Schaefer put her down as belonging to one of those Dutch Nationalist families who forbid their children to use the interloper’s tongue. With a big, work-stained hand, she pointed behind him.
‘You come from Jo’burg—yes?’
He nodded.
‘Things are finished there. I escaped by the skin of my teeth. Then I lost myself on the veldt.
It is pure chance that I found my way here.’
The Dutch woman shook her head. A strange ecstatic smile irradiated her broad features.
‘There is no chance—only God. Enter, then.’
Approving her sentiments, for Herr Schaefer liked a woman to be religious, he crossed the threshold. She drew back to let him pass, the smile still lingering on her face, and just for a moment the thought that there was something here he did not quite understand flashed across Herr Schaefer’s mind. He dismissed the idea as of little importance.
The house was built, like most, in the form of an H. The inner hall, from which rooms opened out all round, was pleasantly cool. The table was spread in preparation for a meal. The woman showed him to a bedroom, and on his return to the hall, when he had removed the boots from his aching feet, he found Henshel awaiting him. An Englishman, this, with a mean, vacuous face, a little rat of a fellow drunk with catchwords and phrases. It was amongst such as he that most of Schaefer’s work had lain, and he knew the type well. Abuse of capitalists, of the ‘rich who batten on the poor’, the iniquities of the Chamber of Mines, the heroic endurance of the miners—these were the topics on which Henshel expatiated, Schaefer nodding wearily with his mind fixed solely on food and drink.
At last the woman appeared, bearing a steaming tureen of soup. They sat down together and fell to. It was good soup. Henshel continued to talk; his wife was silent. Schaefer contented himself with monosyllables and appropriate grunts. When Mrs Henshel left the room to bring in the next course, he said appreciatively: ‘Your wife is a good cook. You are lucky. Not all Dutch women cook well.’
Henshel stared at him.
‘My wife is not Dutch.’
Schaefer looked his astonishment, but the shortness of Henshel’s tone, and some unacknowledged uneasiness in himself forbade him asking further. It was odd, though. He had been so sure that she was Dutch.