Death Invites You

by Paul Halter

  They looked at each other.

  Springer approached the door, followed by Simon. They sniffed again for a few seconds and Simon turned to look at Diane:

  ‘I get the impression that someone’s cooking something in there. In fact, I’m sure of it.’

  Fred Springer nodded his head in silent agreement.

  At that very moment footsteps could be heard on the stairs. Philip Kesley—he and his wife were responsible for the upkeep of the house—appeared. Tall and thin, dignified and impassive, he was the very model of an English butler. He strode briskly across the hall and enquired respectfully:

  ‘I heard knocking, madam. Nothing untoward, I hope?’

  A troubled expression crossed his face as the mistress of the house explained the situation. He frowned:

  ‘I can assure madam that no dinner of any kind has been prepared in the kitchen,’ he declared. ‘And yet, there’s an undeniable odour of chicken.’

  Once again Diane Vickers pounded on the door.

  ‘Harold! Harold! Harold!’

  She bent down to look through the keyhole. Quickly she stood up with a bewildered expression on her face:

  ‘There’s a fire in the grate. I can only see the corner of the room, nothing else.’

  Springer shook his head in bewilderment.

  ‘This doesn’t feel right. I think we should open this door right away, even if we have to break it down. Something may have happened to him.’

  ‘Suppose we try the window?’ suggested Simon.

  ‘If the shutters are closed, as you say,’ said Kesley, ‘that wouldn’t work. They’re made of metal and very solid, to discourage burglars.’ He turned to the mistress of the house. ‘With madam’s permission, I think we should break the door down.’

  Diane, with tears in her eyes, swallowed hard and nodded her agreement. Simon put his eye to the keyhole and said thoughtfully as he straightened up:

  ‘The key isn’t in the lock. He must have slid the bolt.’

  Whilst Springer tried in vain to open the door by turning the handle, Simon made a suggestion:

  ‘We could try using another key. The interior keys are often the same in this kind of house.’

  ‘There’s no point. Harold always bolts himself in,’ moaned Diane, more and more aware of the gravity of the situation. ‘He always uses the bolt on the inside of the door, even though the handle has a dead-bolt and so does the lock. That way nobody can get in from the outside.’ She hid her face in her hands.

  ‘There’s nothing to prove your husband is even in there,’ Simon pointed out. ‘He may just have gone out for a moment and locked the door behind him.’

  Springer and Kesley nodded encouragingly at Simon’s words, but Diane shook her head desperately.

  ‘In any case,’ said the butler, ‘there’s no harm in trying. It’ll only take a minute.’

  He went to the next door down, which led to the kitchen, and emerged almost at once brandishing a key. Simon took it and inserted it in the lock. He tried the handle several times and shook his head.

  ‘The key’s fine,’ he sighed, ‘but the door isn’t locked, it’s bolted, just as you said.’

  A feeling of panic seized the occupants of the hallway. It was the butler who expressed out loud the feelings of all present.

  ‘The shutters are closed and the bolt has been shot... There must obviously be someone in the room. There’s not a moment to lose,’ he added, looking meaningfully at Simon.

  The sergeant looked at the solid door and took a couple of steps back.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ said the energetic Springer, lining up level with Simon. ‘Three, two, one—.’

  The two men hurled themselves at the door and a deep sound resonated through the hall. At the third attempt the oak panel gave way with a resounding crash.

  The extraordinary sight which greeted Springer and Simon left them momentarily dumbfounded. Harold Vickers, seated on one of the chairs, was slumped over a table sumptuously arranged for three people. On the silver plates were: salmon, vegetables, two roasted chickens, still piping hot; a cheese plate; bowls brimming with grapes; and two bottles of Burgundy, both open. In the middle of the table was a stuffed pheasant with silver candelabra on either side illuminating the scene with their flickering flames. The only sound came from the wood fire in the grate, situated on the right-hand wall perpendicular to the door. On the mantelpiece stood a number of pewter pots surmounted by the head of a six-point stag, with paintings of the battle of Waterloo on either side. Numerous shelves full of books, files and various papers were ranged along the wall on the hallway side. Against the left-hand wall—beyond the table—were a comfortable wing chair, a standard lamp and two low round tables. The oak-panelled room had but one quite ordinary sash window, locked shut from the inside by a metal catch. The open curtains revealed the white window-frames and the dark red of the closed shutters.

  Harold Vickers was slumped forward on the table, his hands clutching his head, which was partially immersed in a large frying pan next to a spirit stove still alight. The boiling oil in the pan, in which several pieces of meat were floating, had burnt his face and hands, one of which was still clutching a pistol fitted with a silencer. There was a small black hole in his right temple near the ear; a streak of dried blood had run down to his chin and mixed with the oil. His back was turned to the fire in the hearth, whose dancing flames created red highlights in his black hair. The silverware shimmered in the light from the candles. It was a horrible sight, mesmerising, almost unreal: the feast on the table, the odours...and Harold Vickers, as dead as the stuffed pheasant and as roasted as the two chickens.

  4

  Impossible Crime

  ‘My God!’ murmured Simon. ‘Just like his novel....’

  His sentence tapered off as he approached the author without touching him. Springer came over to join him. They exchanged glances and fell silent.

  Mrs. Vickers and Kesley, standing in the doorway, understood immediately. Diane, horrified, clutched at the broken door and steadied herself with the handle to avoid falling to the floor. The upper hinge, already seriously damaged, creaked ominously but did not yield.

  Philip Kesley leant over to hold his mistress:

  ‘Courage, madam... Let me take you to your room. I’ll call the doctor and he can give you a sedative. Come, madam... Don’t stay here.’

  Diane Vickers tore herself away from the atrocious scene, let go of the door and allowed herself to be led by Kesley.

  ‘Unfortunately, we shall also have to notify the Yard. Ask for Inspector Archibald Hurst and tell him to come right away. He’s my direct superior,’ he added, almost as an apology.

  Springer and Simon waited whilst the steps receded in the hallway.

  ‘A mighty peculiar suicide,’ observed the journalist.

  ‘More than peculiar,’ replied Simon, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the perspiration from his brow. ‘Look at the pair of gloves at his feet.’

  Springer moved as if to pick them up, but the sergeant restrained him:

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch anything!’

  Springer complied, somewhat grudgingly, then spotted an object on the floor by the window.

  ‘Look!’

  They skirted the dead man’s chair and knelt down by a small bowl, half full of a transparent liquid standing on a white napkin.

  ‘It looks like water,’ observed the journalist.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ repeated Cunningham. ‘We have to get out of here and wait for the police in the hall. Nobody must enter the room.’

  They stopped as they were leaving to examine the door frame, which was damaged at the height of the lock and bolt. The wood had splintered and fissures were apparent around the hinges.

  ‘This is absurd!’ said Springer to his friend, who appeared just as bewildered. ‘Why invite us and then kill yourself? Utterly absurd.’

  Simon, who had removed his glasses and was chewing on the fram
e, seemed to be desperately trying to think.

  ‘There’s something even more absurd... I’m afraid we haven’t come to the end of our surprises. My God! When Valerie learns about this....’

  ‘Even more absurd?’ asked Springer anxiously, oblivious to his friend’s sentimental problems. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The body appears to be....’ He looked back into the study briefly. ‘We have to wait for the police. I don’t want to do or say anything before they arrive. My God! What a situation!’

  Kesley joined them in the hallway a few minutes later.

  ‘I called Scotland Yard. They’re trying to reach Inspector Hurst.’

  ‘How’s Mrs. Vickers?’ asked Simon.

  Philip Kesley made a reassuring gesture.

  ‘She’s in bed. I’ve given her a sleeping pill. Henrietta’s with her.’

  ‘What was Henrietta’s reaction?’

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ sighed the butler. ‘As you know, Mr. Cunningham, she’s not like the others. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t even bat an eyelid. I told her not to leave her mother until the doctor arrived. She nodded and shut the door in my face.’

  The clock in the hall struck a quarter to ten just as the police arrived. The family doctor had arrived a few minutes earlier and taken a quick look at the body before going to see Mrs. Vickers.

  Inspector Archibald Hurst was in a dangerous situation. His opponent’s knight had just moved, leaving his own king open to attack from the other’s queen and forcing him to move it, which would place it in an even worse position. That beanpole Twist, he muttered to himself, was going to win yet again.

  They’d had dinner together and the inspector had invited his friend home for a last drink. As usual, he proposed a game of chess. Dr. Twist beat him regularly, but on this particular evening he felt on form and was hopeful of taking his revenge. It had started well, but things had rapidly taken a turn for the worse and he was now staring defeat in the face.

  He attempted to cause a distraction by starting a discussion on an unrelated matter, but his opponent would have none of it and was about to pounce....

  The telephone rang suddenly and Dr. Twist froze. Hurst seized the apparatus with obvious relief:

  ‘Hurst here.’

  Not a muscle moved in his ruddy face as he listened attentively.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he exclaimed, seizing the opportunity to bang his fist on the chessboard and send all the pieces flying. ‘We’ll be there as soon as we can.’

  He hung up.

  ‘Come along, Twist. We’re going to St. Richard’s Wood. Harold Vickers has just committed suicide, right under the nose of Sergeant Cunningham.’

  In the police car on the way there, the inspector was relaxed and jovial, despite the complicated business awaiting them. He whistled softly: the miraculous phone call had allowed him to avoid the humiliation of another defeat.

  It was almost ten o’clock when Sergeant Cunningham and Fred Springer greeted their arrival. The photographer and two other police officers had arrived shortly beforehand and were already examining the study. Hurst stopped in the doorway, tilted his hat back on his head and peered at length at the scene with half-closed eyes like a specialist assessing the work ahead of him. He took out a cigar, lit it, and after a studied silence turned to Cunningham and Springer, who gave him a detailed account of events. After they had finished he nodded sombrely and said:

  ‘I see. So nobody, absolutely no one, has touched anything in this room. Now show me your invitations.’

  After perusing them carefully he put a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder:

  ‘Now I understand your phone call in the pub. Does your fiancée know yet?’

  ‘No,’ sighed Simon miserably. ‘She’ll be back soon. It’s going to be a terrible shock for her.’

  ‘Apart from the domestic staff, Mrs. Vickers and her two daughters, does anyone else live here?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Vickers’ brother.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the conjurer. And where is he at this moment?’

  ‘He...’ said Simon hesitantly. ‘He’s probably in the theatre performing his act.’

  Dr. Twist had gone over to the window and was kneeling down to examine the small bowl.

  ‘It’s only water,’ explained one of the police officers with a smile, ‘and there are no fingerprints.’

  Twist nodded and got up with an agility surprising for his age. Meanwhile, Hurst had placed a sheet of paper in the typewriter sitting on one of the shelves. He looked back at the body, which the photographer was snapping at all angles, and typed: “A strange suicide.” He removed the sheet and compared it with the letters on the Cunningham and Springer invitations.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ he said. ‘It’s the same machine.’

  Whilst Twist, on his knees again, was examining the gloves at the feet of the victim, one of the officers working on the table recited:

  ‘Fondue bourguignonne: you dip bits of meat into boiling oil...and you burn your hands!’

  ‘And the head!’ added the photographer.

  ‘Right,’ said Hurst in a voice that made it clear the misplaced hilarity of his subordinates was now over. ‘This business is quite straightforward despite the weird touches. We’re not going to dwell on the reasons which pushed Harold Vickers to commit suicide, even though we may hazard an intelligent guess: the author who dominated detective fiction for so long couldn’t accept his recent decline and preferred to end his life in an extraordinary manner rather than simply fade into obscurity.’ He cast a glance at the corpse as if to say “so much for glory.” ‘Let’s take the events in chronological order. He sends out dinner invitations. Who does he send them to? You, Springer, a respected journalist who’s also a well-known critic of detective fiction... And you, Cunningham, a detective sergeant at Scotland Yard. Let us note in passing that you were both told not to breathe a word about it to anyone—especially you to your fiancée, Cunningham. He wants it to be a total surprise to everyone in this house when you both turn up for a dinner nobody knows anything about. Peculiar, to say the least....

  ‘But that’s not all: when someone knocks on the door of his study, he doesn’t answer even though it’s pretty obvious he must be in there. More and more bizarre....

  ‘He doesn’t respond to an even louder knock. Has something happened to him? Something serious? “We have to knock the door down. Right away.”’

  He mimicked the scene and stopped to catch his breath. He indicated the table with a sweeping gesture:

  ‘And now look! Look at this spectacular scene: the sumptuous dinner by candlelight, the chicken still hot, the spirit stove still alight and Harold Vickers the grand master slumped over the table with a bullet in his head and his face and hands burnt by boiling oil! What a prodigious and macabre suicide! An exit worthy of the great man. How could Harold Vickers have gone out any other way?’

  Archibald Hurst, evidently feeling very pleased with himself, paused theatrically and continued:

  ‘And that’s not all. As a final touch to the masterpiece, one last detail to deepen the mystery: a bowl half full of water under the window. Just as in the detective stories: the small detail which appears insignificant but—and this is classic—is actually the key to the puzzle. Dr. Twist, have you anything to add?’

  The criminologist shook his head.

  ‘Neither have I,’ added Hurst craftily. ‘And I’ll tell you something: neither does Harold Vickers.’ He turned to the corpse:

  ‘No, mister famous author, we’re not going to fall for your tricks. We’re not going to spend sleepless nights racking our brains about why there was a bowl under the window.’

  Triumphantly, Hurst stopped and nodded towards Springer:

  ‘Go ahead Fred, write your article. And don’t pull your punches. Tomorrow all of London should have one topic of conversation: the extraordinary suicide of Harold Vickers. Do your job, Fred, and don’t let him down. That’s why he invited you, after all. As for yo
u and me, Cunningham, we’re going to let Scotland Yard handle the case of the bowl of water under the... What’s got into you, Sergeant? You’re looking at me as if I were a ghost....’

  ‘Good evening all,’ said a small, jovial man whom Cunningham recognised as the medical examiner.

  Everyone greeted Dr. Lawson except Hurst, who was looking at Simon with a growing bewilderment:

  ‘Sergeant, explain yourself!’

  Seeing Cunningham as red as a lobster and unable to talk, Dr. Twist, leaning across the chicken, said quietly:

  ‘You told me not so long ago, Hurst, that nothing would give you greater pleasure than to have fate send you another baffling case, something really meaty. Do you remember that?’

  Hurst, sensing trouble, said nothing.

  Twist gave him a lingering look, then walked round the table and stood next to the body. He leant over to examine the face burnt by boiling oil:

  ‘Something really meaty. Those were your words, Hurst, weren’t they?’

  ‘Twist,’ replied the inspector, trying to remain calm, ‘don’t you think your word games are in bad taste, given the circumstances?’

  ‘So you must be happy with the way things are,’ said the criminologist, with a smile on his lips. ‘Oh, by the way, according to you, it was Harold Vickers who prepared the feast before killing himself?’

  ‘Obviously,’ replied Hurst, looking up at the ceiling.

  The medical examiner, who hadn’t said a word since he’d examined the body, announced calmly:

  ‘This man has been dead for at least twenty-four hours.’

  5

  When Reality Becomes Fiction

  Inspector Hurst, his eyes popping out of his head, appeared to be transfixed. His carefully combed forelock had flopped over his forehead. Simon Cunningham hesitantly broke the silence:

  ‘The blood on his cheek was dry...It was obvious he’d been dead for some time. I didn’t want to interrupt you, chief, you seemed so sure....’

  More silence. Hurst seemed to have turned into a zombie, staring vacantly into space. Twist, puffing on his pipe and watching the medical examiner go about his business, declared abruptly: