by Paul Halter
If Valerie gave her parents cause to be proud of her, the same couldn’t be said of her elder sister Henrietta, who had been seriously affected by a childhood accident and spent most of her time in her room devoting herself to painting. She believe herself to be talented—an opinion shared by few.
Roger Sharpe, Diane’s brother, was a conjurer. He got along well with Harold, who frequently came to consult him—for many of his puzzle plots involved hocus-pocus of some kind. Needless to say, Harold Vickers quickly realised the usefulness of having a policeman from Scotland Yard around, so Simon Cunningham, to his great satisfaction, was welcomed into the bosom of the family and consulted often.
How long did Simon stay in that stuffy phone booth with his hand hovering over the instrument? He pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped his brow once more. He’d expected Valerie to react like that. Later, after he’d shown her the letter, she’d understand. He seemed to have handled the situation well, without telling a single lie and without revealing the contents of the letter, instructing him to dine formally with her father without letting her know.
At the same time as Simon was stepping out of the booth, Inspector Hurst was confiding in his friend:
‘—and it’s common knowledge that this harebrained writer is a notorious libertine. Nothing serious, mind you... Ah! Cunningham, come over here. What’s up, my boy? You don’t look very happy.’
‘To tell the truth,’ mumbled Simon, sitting down, ‘my fiancée and I had been planning to go to the theatre tonight and I’ve had to tell her it wasn’t possible.’
‘Why so?’ asked Hurst inquisitively.
‘Because...’ said the young sergeant hesitatingly, looking desperately about.
Dr. Twist came to his aid.
‘Your private affairs are your business, young man. Don’t allow this nosy busybody to undermine your rights.’
Hurst shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject:
‘How’s your future father-in-law...if I may call him that?’
‘He was fine the last time I saw him, even though he didn’t speak to me. Or anyone else, for that matter. He’s working on a new novel.’
‘Ah!’ said Hurst, looking interested. ‘What’s it about?’
‘A locked room murder.’
An amused smile crossed Dr. Twist’s lips. Given that Harold Vickers was recognised as the master of the genre, the news was hardly a bombshell.
‘And what else?’ growled the inspector, his thick fingers drumming on the table.
Simon looked into the distance.
‘He hasn’t confided in me...just a few words. It’s something crazy, incredible, an absolutely impossible murder. Not only is the murder impossible, but—.’
He coughed, his hand in front of his mouth and his cheeks scarlet with confusion.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen, but you have to understand that I’m not free to reveal the secrets of the plot. If my future father-in-law found out....’
Dr. Twist made a reassuring gesture.
‘We understand perfectly. Don’t we, Hurst?’
‘Of course,’ muttered his friend with a grimace which gave the lie to his words. He paused reflectively. ‘What I want to know is how he comes up with those incredible ideas.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Twist, pulling on his pipe and gazing at the ceiling. ‘I’ve often asked myself that question. Particularly after reading his latest: Death Has Wings. What an extraordinary imagination!’
Sergeant Cunningham removed his spectacles and started to polish them.
‘Roger Sharpe, his brother-in-law—who, by the way, is a conjurer—is a veritable gold mine. One of his novels, The Promenade of the Dead—have you read it?’
‘Yes, I remember it very well,’ replied Hurst excitedly. ‘The murderer managed to introduce the body of the victim into a mortuary while leaving the seals on the only door intact. And, just for fun, he arranged to change the places of all the bodies—or, rather skeletons—in the coffins, so nobody knew who was where anymore! Extraordinary, one of his best.’
‘Yes,’ interceded Twist. ‘Particularly the trick which allowed it all to be done without disturbing the seals.’
‘That was one of Roger Sharpe’s contributions,’ said Simon. ‘Based, apparently, on the Indian rope trick.’
‘Do you know what it is?’ asked Hurst, greatly interested.
Simon shook his head.
‘No, he would never tell me.’
They ordered another round and the wall-lamp was lit, throwing the wrinkles in Simon’s forehead into relief.
‘I don’t know whether all writers behave the same as Valerie’s father does,’ he said.
He took a swig of beer and paused thoughtfully for a moment.
‘For example, sometimes he doesn’t touch his meal and just sits there on his chair staring into space. Then, suddenly, he’ll say: “Darling, what’s that on the table?” even though the answer is right in front of his eyes. Or else he’ll keep repeating what he just said to someone—something trivial—after which, as if seized by inspiration, he’ll start scribbling furiously in his notebook.’
Simon shook his head in bewilderment and continued:
‘At other times he holds forth at length about digestive hygiene, stressing the importance of regular meals—advice which he himself ignores completely. There’s also his theory of dental hygiene: “Chewing is everything.” “People don’t chew their food any more” “...and then they’re surprised when they lose their teeth.” “Look,” he says, displaying a perfect set of white teeth, “not a cavity and never been to the dentist.” He’s fifty years old and has apparently never seen a doctor. He may be exaggerating, but there’s no doubt his health is excellent.’
He took another swig of beer and thought again about the strange message from Harold Vickers.
‘In any case, his comportment is highly unusual. He’s always acting strangely. And sometimes I wonder if it’s not all...how to put it? I’m starting to think he’s deliberately trying to baffle people and to perpetuate an aura of mystery in order to cultivate the myth of the author of detective fiction whose own behaviour is as strange as his books.’
Dr. Twist smiled.
‘If it’s true that stories can reveal the character of their author—and that’s not out of the question—then the novels of Harold Vickers reveal a particularly twisted mind. In these days, when the tendency is for everything to be exaggerated, it seems that every writer must become a personality by displaying some quirk or other in his daily life, or vanish into obscurity. These days the most celebrated authors are those who manage to be the talk of the town: a criminal writing his memoirs; a politician appearing drunk in his birthday suit at a conference; a foul-mouthed tennis player—and what about that Spanish singer who wrote a best-seller?’
‘Oh, I know who you mean,’ growled Hurst. ‘The one who can’t speak a word of English.’
‘Alas!’ sighed Dr. Twist with an air of disillusionment, ‘the true novel is in decline. Harold Vickers certainly has many readers, but I suspect the sales of his books are on the downturn.’
Under the criminologist’s enquiring gaze, Simon Cunningham turned bright red.
‘I-I don’t know. I’ve never asked him.’
‘If I understand correctly, Twist,’ asked Hurst bluntly, ‘you suspect Harold Vickers of attracting attention in order to—.’
‘I’d thank you not to put words in my mouth,’ the criminologist said, with unaccustomed brusqueness.
‘Golly!’ exclaimed Simon. ‘It’s nearly seven. I’d better be going.’
‘Where?’ asked Hurst abruptly.
Simon appeared taken aback.
‘To my flat. To prepare...for dinner.’
‘Dinner? Without your fiancée?’ A sly expression crossed his face. ‘Ah! I’m beginning to understand....’
‘I’m afraid you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I—.’
‘Go along, my lad. Youth will
have its fling!’
‘I assure you, Inspector, you couldn’t be more wrong,’ protested Simon, his face red as a beetroot.
So saying, he took his leave respectfully of Dr. Twist, and rather more tersely of his superior and beat a hasty retreat.
‘Cherchez la femme,’ said Hurst in honeyed tones. ‘The question is which one,’ he added suggestively.
Dr. Twist, his eyes on the door as it closed behind the departing sergeant, shook his head disapprovingly.
‘I think you’re mistaken. That young man has other things on his mind. He’s extremely tense and seems worried about something...but what?’
‘You may be right,’ acknowledged Hurst grudgingly.
‘What you need, Hurst, is a new case you can get your teeth into.’
‘True enough. But not any old case. Something off the beaten track—something meaty!’ He puffed out his chest.
He froze suddenly and gripped his companion’s sleeve, his face flushed.
‘What is it?’ asked Dr. Twist quietly.
The inspector didn’t reply. He’d just had a terrible premonition which his instincts, honed from many years of service, told him was inevitably the prelude to a particularly difficult investigation.
3
Death Invites You
At ten minutes to nine, Simon Cunningham’s car turned into the driveway of the Vickers residence. After parking close to the front door he got out, lit a cigarette and surveyed his surroundings. The large brick house loomed in front of him and the illuminated upstairs windows projected their yellowish light onto the ancient oak trees which ringed the property. He cast a look at the adjacent cemetery and shivered. Having something like that right next door gave him the willies. He turned and looked to his right. Light filtered through the hedge concealing the bungalow of Dr. Colin Hubbard, the strange next door neighbour. Why had the fellow been of such interest to Harold Vickers lately? Normally he only bothered with people who could be of use to him. Simon could have understood a policeman, a historian, an archaeologist, a conjurer... But a retired doctor who cultivated roses? No matter, this wasn’t the time to let his mind wander in futile speculation. He examined his attire carefully and crushed his barely-smoked cigarette under his heel. Perfect, he was ready to go.
He went up the four steps, rang the doorbell and waited. Thirty seconds later, steps sounded in the hallway and the door opened on Mrs. Diane Vickers, who appeared flabbergasted at the sight of the young sergeant.
‘Simon... You?’
Mrs. Vickers was a pretty woman who wore her ash-blonde hair swept up in a silky chignon, revealing a perfectly oval face almost devoid of make-up. Her large blue eyes too often showed sadness and disillusionment. And that evening she appeared particularly fragile and disoriented.
‘Good evening, madam,’ replied Simon, bowing slightly, ‘I—.’
Mrs. Vickers cut him short:
‘But, Simon, what are you doing here? Valerie has gone out to the theatre, alone and absolutely furious. She told me you’d got another invitation, to dinner somewhere.’
‘That’s true, madam,’ replied Simon, a note of concern creeping into his voice.
‘So what are you doing here?’
Simon’s eyes widened:
‘Do you mean you don’t know?’ he asked, his voice now uncertain.
‘Know? Know about what?’
There was a silence. Simon, distraught, looked desperately around as if seeking help from the trees, whose leaves rustled in the slight breeze.
‘Why, your husband invited me to dinner.’
Diane Vickers peered at him, as if trying to understand.
‘Simon,’ she murmured after a while, ‘are you sure it was Harold who issued the invitation?’
‘I only know one person with your husband’s name.’
‘Simon,’ retorted Mrs. Vickers curtly, ‘don’t you think my husband would have told me? And why, for that matter, didn’t you tell Valerie that it was her father who had invited you? Why did you lead her to understand...that there was another woman involved?’
‘Excuse me? I never said....’
‘She was beside herself. She... By the way, where was this dinner?’
Simon hesitated, fearing the answer might plunge Valerie’s mother into apoplexy.
‘Here.’
Mrs. Vickers didn’t bat an eyelid. She stepped back from under the hallway light. The silence which followed seemed interminable.
‘There was no dinner planned here for tonight,’ she said in a carefully controlled voice. ‘We had a meal—a cold one, by the way—at seven o’clock. Nothing was prepared after that.’
Simon took the letter out of his pocket and handed it to her. After reading it carefully, she declared:
‘Ah! Now I understand about Valerie. My dear Simon, I fear you’ve been the victim of a practical joke. I repeat, there’s been no dinner arranged for tonight. Hold on! That’s funny....’ She peered at the letter. ‘It looks as though it was done on my husband’s typewriter.’
The clock in the hall struck nine and there was a long silence.
‘D-Don’t you think the best thing would be for you to ask your husband?’ stammered Simon.
Mrs. Vickers sighed and shook her head.
‘In theory, yes. But he’s in one of his creative phases. He’s been locked in his study since yesterday afternoon. You know what that means: do not disturb under any pretext whatsoever. In any case, even if we did knock on the door, he wouldn’t answer.’
Just at that moment there was a sudden squealing of tyres. Simon turned to see a car coming up the driveway. It screeched to a halt next to his and a man in evening attire got out, whom he immediately recognised. Fred Springer, a journalist for the London News, and a renowned critic of crime fiction, was an energetic thirty year-old redhead with a friendly face which cracked in a huge smile at the sight of Simon.
‘Hello there, Cunningham,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘Good evening, Mrs. Vickers. I hope I’m not l—.’
Simon interrupted him.
‘Just a moment, Fred. You don’t mean to say you’ve got a dinner invitation?’
It was at that point that Springer noticed the strange attitude of the others. He started to fiddle with his car keys as Simon put him in the picture. Without a word, Springer brought an envelope out of an inside pocket, opened it and handed the contents to Mrs. Vickers, who looked at it with Simon. The invitation had been typed on the same machine as Simon’s.
My Dear Fred,
Drop any other plans you may have made for this evening and be here at 9 p.m. Formal dress required. VERY important dinner. Do not tell anyone.
Harold Vickers
‘A joke in very bad taste,’ growled Springer, catching Simon’s sympathetic eye.
A slight breeze ruffled the leaves of the surrounding trees. Annoyed and uneasy, Diane Vickers looked at the two puzzled men in their evening gear. She descended the front steps, paused, then turned to her right as if to make a tour of the house. Sensing her intentions, the two men followed. The second window on the west face was that of the author’s study. The three of them stood in front of the closed shutters which allowed a feeble light to shine through the chinks. They looked at each other before retracing their steps. As they turned the corner to the front of the house, Simon looked over his shoulder down the dark paved alleyway which led to the cemetery; he could almost see the sinister emanations. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Please come in,’ said Mrs. Vickers. ‘We’re going to clear the matter up.’
The two men followed her into the house. The half-panelled walls of the hallway led to a massive staircase in dark oak. The wall lights disseminated a milky light through the frosted glass globes, multiplying the shadows thrown by the antlers which decorated the walls. Diane Vickers reached the second of the three doors along the left-hand wall and knocked. Simon and Springer stood on either side of her. She knocked a second time, more forcefully.
‘Harold, ple
ase answer me. Simon and Mr. Springer are here. They want to talk to you. It’s important!’
Again she knocked on the door, with all her force. The sound echoed along the hallway. She gave an exasperated sigh.
‘He’s not going to answer. I know him only too well.’
‘Are you quite sure he’s in there?’ asked Simon gently.
Diane Vickers looked at him. He was struck by the sad expression in her beautiful blue eyes as she answered him wearily:
‘You saw the light through the shutters, just as I did.’ She looked down at the keyhole hesitantly. ‘In any case, I’m sure he’s in there because I heard a sound as I was on my way to open the front door for you. Listen.’
The two men moved closer and held their breath. In the silence a faint crackling could be heard.
‘There’s a fire in the grate. You can hear it,’ she said with an exasperated look on her face. ‘This is getting to be ridiculous. I’ve just about had it with all these eccentricities.’ She hammered on the door repeatedly, then shook the handle vigorously. ‘Harold! Answer me! Harold, HAROLD! Open up for the love of God! Harold!’
Suddenly Springer’s expression changed. He made a gesture for silence then sniffed the air. Simon and Diane looked at him with a growing bewilderment.
‘What the devil...?’ said the journalist anxiously. ‘It’s as if...don’t you smell anything?’
Simon and Diane sniffed the air in turn.
‘I have a bit of a cold,’ said Diane. ‘I can’t smell a thing.’
Simon looked at Springer in astonishment.
‘It smells as if....’
‘...someone’s frying something.’ Springer finished the sentence. ‘There’s no doubt about it.’