Foreign Bodies

by Martin Edwards

  Com: ‘Why not?’

  Val: ‘Because I left the theatre at half-past nine.’

  Com: ‘Where did you go?’

  Val: ‘I went to see a lady at her house.’

  Com: ‘Who was the lady?’

  Val: ‘Fräulein M., the Soubrette at the Stadt-

  theater.’

  Com: ‘Then the lady can prove that you spent the evening with her?’

  Val (hesitating): ‘No…’

  Com: ‘Come, speak the truth. You did not see the lady because she was at the Stadttheater the whole evening from eight to eleven o’clock.’

  Val: ‘That’s quite true. I went to her house, but I didn’t see her.’

  Com: ‘Surely you knew beforehand that she would be occupied at the theatre the whole evening?’

  Val: ‘Yes, I did know that. But…I had reason to believe that she would not go to the theatre.’

  Com: ‘Did Fräulein M. express any such intention?’

  Val: ‘No.’

  Com: ‘Then perhaps you will explain why you had this strange idea?’

  Val (hesitating): ‘If you insist—I had reason to be jealous, that is, suspicious. I kept a watch on her villa that evening.’

  Com: ‘Hm…Has Fräulein M. ever given you cause for jealousy?’

  Val: ‘No, but—’

  Com: ‘Well, what?’

  Val: ‘I was rung up on the telephone that evening and informed that Fräulein M. intended to entertain a gentleman in her villa.’

  Com: ‘Who gave you this information?’

  Val: ‘I don’t know. It was a man’s voice that I did not recognize.’

  Com: ‘What time was it when you had this telephone call?’

  Val: ‘Shortly after nine o’clock.’

  Com: ‘At the theatre?’

  Val: ‘Yes.’

  Com: ‘Your statement agrees with the evidence in one respect. It is true that you left the theatre at half-past nine. Herr Harsfeld, of The Sensation, told us that he spoke to you at the theatre and requested you to obtain an interview for him with the principal actor. He interviewed the gentleman in your presence, and then at nine-thirty you said you had to leave, whereupon Herr Harsfeld accompanied you to the door and saw you enter your car and drive off.’

  Val: ‘That is so.’

  Com: ‘Whereabouts is Fräulein M.’s villa?’

  Val: ‘In the Kirschenallee.’

  Com: ‘Your chauffeur can verify that he took you there?’

  Val: ‘I drove the car myself.’

  Com: ‘When you reached the Kirschenallee what did you do?’

  Val: ‘I parked my car in a little wood at the back of the road. Then I walked round and hid in the shadow of some houses opposite Fräulein M.’s villa. I waited there for about two hours.’

  Com: ‘Did you see anything that confirmed your suspicions?’

  Val: ‘No.’

  Com: ‘You say you waited there for two hours. What did you do then?’

  Val: ‘I got the car out and drove home.’

  Com: ‘Therefore your car remained standing in the street for a period of two hours. How is it that no one noticed it?’

  Val: ‘There are only two houses near the wood where I parked it. Naturally no one saw it; that was my object in putting it there. And I switched off the headlights.’

  Com: ‘Very good. What time did you reach your home?’

  Val: ‘It was about midnight. My servant informed me of the dreadful news about my father…’

  The Commissioner stood up. ‘Herr Valoni,’ he said gravely, ‘six impartial witnesses have given evidence which disagrees entirely with what you say. You left the theatre at nine-thirty, everyone is unanimous on that point. But the rest of your statement does not fit in. You returned to the theatre again at ten o’clock.’

  At these words Valoni sprang to his feet, pale and trembling. ‘It’s not true!’ he cried excitedly. ‘I left the theatre at half-past nine and did not return again.’

  ‘The actors on the stage saw you sitting in the back of the box beside your father.’

  ‘I never went into his box!’

  ‘There is another point which deserves our attention. Your father was found sitting peacefully in his chair, with his face still turned to the stage. A proof that there was no struggle, and that he must have known who the person was who entered the box and sat beside him for half an hour. There is no doubt whatsoever that this person and the murderer were one and the same.’

  ‘I never went into the box.’

  ‘Herr Valoni, you are arrested on the suspicion of having murdered your father.’

  News of the arrest spread like wildfire through the town. The general public, who have been following the case with the greatest interest, are openly divided into two camps; those who are convinced that Ernst Valoni is the murderer, and the others who hold him to be innocent of the whole affair. We shall continue to report further developments from an entirely unbiased angle.

  November 24th.

  Dearest Clara,

  The Sensation continues to flourish. We sold over a thousand copies in the streets alone today.

  There are no further developments in the Valoni case, except that public opinion is veering round in young Valoni’s favour. I heard an open hint at police headquarters that suggested he might be innocent. I believe Valoni has asked the well-known detective, Joe Jenkins, to take on his case.

  Ever your,

  Kurt.

  November 30th.

  My dear Clara,

  I met somebody very interesting yesterday. For the first time since the night of the murder I went to the Rembrandt Theatre, which has been re-opened under a new management. I was particularly struck by the appearance of a man I saw in the foyer. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a clean-shaven, square-jawed face, and very piercing grey eyes that seemed to be watching everybody and everything. I made discreet inquiries, and discovered that he was Joe Jenkins, the famous American detective. I was introduced to him afterwards by some theatrical critics I know. He knew my name from having seen my signed articles in The Sensation, and congratulated me on what he called my clear and concise grasp of the situation. A charming fellow, obviously a man of the world. He asked me, by the way, to help him in his investigations, and naturally I agreed. Mr Jenkins’s photograph will appear in the next issue of The Sensation.

  Ever your

  Kurt.

  December 5th.

  My darling Clara,

  Joe Jenkins and I have become great pals. I sampled his methods of work yesterday morning. At ten o’clock he called for me at the office and took me along to the General Post Office, where he managed to verify that young Valoni did actually receive a telephone call at the theatre on the evening of the murder, at exactly ten minutes past nine. It was put in from a call box. And now comes the remarkable part of it—which call box do you think it was? One of those in the foyer of the theatre itself. Would you believe it! Most risky, I call it. There are two deductions to be made from this fresh discovery. Either Valoni is innocent, and someone did actually make use of a ruse to get him out of the theatre, or—it was all planned. Valoni, anticipating that the matter of the telephone call would be enquired into, got a confederate to ring him up. Jenkins is straining every nerve to follow up this clue, and trace the man who used the telephone box in the Rembrandt foyer.

  With love,

  Kurt.

  December 8th.

  Dearest Clara,

  Joe Jenkins has found another clue. It seems comparatively trivial, but may lead to something really important. Valoni left the theatre at nine-thirty in a heavy fur-lined coat, but when he returned he was wearing a mackintosh. Strangely enough the mackintosh, which was very long and light in colour, has disappeared since the night of the murder. Young Valo
ni declares he has not been able to find it. The commissionaire, the programme sellers, and the box attendant remember the mackintosh distinctly because of its pronounced light-yellow colour. The box attendant further added that he noticed distinctly the smell of a certain Russian leather perfume which young Valoni habitually used. He said it had been noticeable in the box, too…Things are getting hot, aren’t they!

  Love, yours,

  Kurt.

  December 12th.

  Darling Clara,

  Really, Joe Jenkins is overwhelming me with friendly attentions, though to tell you the truth he gets on my nerves a bit at times. He seems to have taken a special fancy to me—very flattering, of course, but apt to be rather trying when it takes the form of calling on me at almost any hour of the day or night. Not long ago he knocked me up at seven in the morning. I wondered what on earth had happened. And what do you think he wanted? Simply to ask me if I had not noticed the Viennese actor’s slip at the performance of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ you know, on the night Valoni was murdered.

  ‘Didn’t it strike you,’ he said, ‘that there was an unsettled atmosphere about the whole theatre that evening?’ When I looked at him in astonishment, he continued: ‘Didn’t you notice that Romeo missed his entrance in the Chapel Scene in the last act? The stage was empty for quite half a minute before he came on. Surely you remember?’ ‘Of course I remember,’ I replied somewhat crossly. Whereupon Jenkins burst into a roar of laughter and cried: ‘Ha!—caught you! It never happened at all.’ Now don’t you call that an extremely childish joke for a famous detective?

  Then he played another practical joke on me. I got home at twelve o’clock the other night and found my landlady waiting up for me. She said that Mr Jenkins had called at about ten o’clock and told her I had promised to lend him my dress coat. I don’t possess any such garment. My landlady told him so, but he would not be put off. He wasn’t satisfied until she had taken him to the cupboard and shown him there was no dress coat there. When I met him on the following morning and asked him what the idea was, he threw back his head and howled with laughter. Just a little joke of his, he said…All I can say is, he has a very funny idea of a joke!

  Then again he will be utterly charming and delightful. Yesterday evening for instance, he came round at about nine o’clock and brought a bottle of rum with him. He insisted that we should make some hot grog, and I was quite ready to agree. He swept the ash out of the stove with his own hands and lit a fire. Well, his idea of a joke may not be mine, but his grog was certainly great. I haven’t had such a jolly evening for a very long time. Jenkins is an amazingly interesting companion. I don’t know what we didn’t talk about—I remember though that I told him all about you, and showed him your photograph. He asks me to send you his very special regards.

  Well, we’d got to about our fifth glass, when Jenkins, who was leaning back in his chair looking up at the ceiling, said suddenly: ‘Things are going to start moving, Harsfeld. Quite soon.’ ‘Do you mean the murder?’ I asked him. He nodded. ‘Then you don’t think Valoni is guilty?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘And are you on the track of the real criminal?’ ‘Yes,’ he said curtly.

  You can guess how curious I was to know more. But I didn’t want him to think I was prying, so I tactfully refrained from further questions—not that they would have been much good with a man like Jenkins.

  Best love from

  Kurt.

  December 17th.

  Dearest Clara,

  Jenkins came in to the office to see me this morning. ‘Be prepared,’ he said, ‘by this time tomorrow he’ll be in our hands.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘The real murderer.’

  ‘No, really?’ I cried, in great excitement.

  ‘At noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Where will you find him?’

  ‘In the Café Sirius. You must come along, too.’

  ‘You want me to be there?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You have helped me in my investigations so far, you must be in at the death. Think of the article you’ll be able to write up for The Sensation. Be ready by a quarter to twelve, I’ll call for you at your house.’

  Picture me like a cat on hot bricks, waiting for tomorrow to come. I’ll write and tell you all about it.

  Ever,

  Kurt.

  December 18th.

  Dear Clara,

  I am in a great state of excitement, waiting for Jenkins to come and take me along to the place where we shall catch the real murderer at last. Who will he be?…It is a quarter to twelve already. Ah, I hear Jenkins’s step on the stairs.

  (An hour later.)

  My darling sweetheart…This is saying good-bye to you. The game’s up and I have lost. Forgive me, if you can find it in your heart to do so, and try to remember that I did it for your sake.

  Joe Jenkins is outside the door. His footsteps as he paces up and down are those of a gaoler. For he has kept his promise and shown me the murderer…The clock struck noon, I looked at Jenkins, waiting…‘I thought you were going to show me the murderer at twelve o’clock…?’

  ‘I will do so,’ he replied.

  ‘Well? Where is he?’

  Then Jenkins stepped up to me and laid a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Here, Herr Harsfeld.’

  He was right. I did it. It was I who rang young Valoni up from the call box in the foyer, to lure him out of the theatre. As soon as he was out of the way I went to his room, made up my face, and put on the mackintosh. Having transformed myself into his double I walked through the theatre, and entered his father’s box, where I sat down beside the old man. He never for a moment doubted that I was his son, and for that very reason he never spoke a word to me—they were on bad terms. Then I strangled him…

  You would ask me why I did it? There is only one answer. Ambition. Vain, vaulting ambition. I wanted a big story, a sensation, something that would lift me and my paper on to the crest of the wave, pitch us right into the centre of the public eye.

  Jenkins, who is no mean student of human nature, suspected me from the first. I see now the reason for those practical jokes of his. It was the scent of Russian leather he was after when he went to my wardrobe, and he found it. The mackintosh was not there, but he found the remnants of that when he raked a couple of buttons out with the ash of my stove.

  It was an experiment, and it nearly succeeded—but I must pay for it with my life.

  In spite of everything, I say Jenkins is a gentleman and a sportsman. He left me to write this letter, and he did not take my revolver from me.

  At half-past one he is coming in…I hear the church clock strike…Farewell. Forgive your unhappy

  Kurt.

  Postscript

  The shot has been fired.

  I am sending you this letter together with his watch and his photograph. I shall make it my business to see that his memory rests without stain. You must forgive me, too. It was my duty—God knows it was hard to do.

  Joe Jenkins.

  The Spider

  Koga Saburo

  Haruta Yoshitame (1893–1945), who wrote as Koga Saburo, was a contemporary of the legendary Japanese crime writer Taro Hirai (1894–1965), who adopted the pen-name Edogawa Rampo, a loose transliteration of Edgar Allan Poe, in tribute to the father of the detective story, and founded the Mystery Writers of Japan in 1947. Edogawa is credited as the author of the first detective story in Japanese, publishing ‘The Two-Sen Copper Coin’ in 1923. Shortly afterwards, Koga Saburo followed his lead, and Japanese detective fiction began to flourish. Koga is credited with coining the term honkaku, meaning ‘orthodox’, to describe Japanese Golden Age stories in 1930, the year in which the Detection Club was founded by Anthony Berkeley in London. Rather fittingly, the Honkaku Mystery Writers Club of Japan is to this day a thriving body, established in 1970, and modelled on the
Detection Club.

  Although unknown to British and American readers during the Golden Age, Koga’s work was very popular in Japan. Traditionalist in his outlook, he contributed an essay about Conan Doyle to a book published in Japan in 1934, and favoured focusing on the puzzle element of a mystery, rather than on its literary aspects. ‘The Spider’ dates from 1930, and is not a conventional whodunit, but rather a pleasing fusion of elements from macabre fiction and the classic detective puzzle. The translation presented here was undertaken by Ho-Ling Wong and edited by John Pugmire.

  The bizarre laboratory of Professor Tsujikawa stood on top of a pillar towering at least nine metres high, as if competing with the surrounding keyaki trees which had lost their leaves. The laboratory was shaped like a cylinder about 4.5 metres wide and 2.7 metres high. It had a round ceiling and the windows, all of the same size, were spaced at regular intervals. The building had been unprotected from the forces of wind and rain for a whole year and the chalk-white walls had faded to a grey colour in several places; at first sight, the laboratory resembled a misshapen lighthouse or a time-worn fire watchtower. I gazed up at the building in awe.

  The world was shocked when Professor Tsujikawa, a leading authority on physical chemistry, gave up his seat as a university professor and started research on a completely different topic: spiders. People thought the man had become mad when they heard the professor had built a laboratory shaped like a tube, nine metres above ground somewhere in the outskirts of Tokyo. I, too, was one of those surprised people who did not comprehend the professor’s intentions.

  But the professor was completely indifferent to the voices of critique and ridicule and devoted himself diligently to his research. He had over a hundred jars in his laboratory, in which he kept countless species of spider. He studiously examined the adaptability of spiders, among other topics. Within months of the professor starting his research, one could find the strangest spiders from all over the world inside his bizarre laboratory.

  Half a year passed, and the world had forgotten about the professor cooped up in his strange laboratory, but then one night Professor Shiomi, a friend from the university who had come to visit, fell to his death from the laboratory and it became news again. There were even curiosity-seekers who came out of their way just to take a look at the laboratory. Professor Tsujikawa naturally didn’t let just anyone in, so the gawkers had to be content with staring up at the circular tower ten metres above them from ground level.