‘What are you arguing, Fortune? It’s odd the cases should follow one another. It’s deuced awkward we can’t clean them up. But what then? They’re not really related. The people are unconnected. There’s a different method of murder—if the Bigod case was murder. The only common feature is that the man who attempted murder is not known.’
‘You think so? Well, well. What I want to know is, was there anyone at Mrs Lawley’s party in Kensington who was also at the Home of Help party and also staying somewhere near the chalk-pit when Bigod fell into it. Put your men on to that.’
‘Good Gad!’ said Lomas. ‘But the cases are not comparable—not in the same class. Different method—different kind of victim. What motive could any creature have for picking out just these three to kill?’
Reggie looked at him. ‘Not nice murders, are they?’ he said. ‘I could guess—and I dare say we’ll only guess in the end.’
That night he was taking Miss Amber, poor girl, to a state dinner of his relations. They had ten minutes together before the horrors of the ceremony began and she was benign to him about the recovery of the small Gerald. ‘It was dear of you to ring up and tell me. I love Gerry. Poor Mrs Warnham! I just had to go round to her, and she was sweet. But she has been frightened. You’re rather a wonderful person, sir. I didn’t know you were a children’s doctor—as well as a million other things. What was the matter? Mrs Warnham didn’t tell us. It must—’
‘Who are “us”, Joan?’
‘Why, Lady Chantry was with her. She didn’t tell us what it really was. After we came away Lady Chantry asked me if I knew.’
‘But I’m afraid you don’t,’ Reggie said. ‘Joan, I don’t want you to talk about the small Gerry? Do you mind?’
‘My dear, of course not.’ Her eyes grew bigger. ‘But Reggie—the boy’s going to be all right?’
‘Yes. Yes. You’re rather a dear, you know.’
And at the dinner-table which then received them his family found him of an unwonted solemnity. It was agreed, with surprise and reluctance, that his engagement had improved him: that there might be some merit in Miss Amber after all.
A week went by. He had been separated from Miss Amber for one long afternoon to give evidence in the case of the illegitimate Pekinese when she rang him up on the telephone. Lady Chantry, she said, had asked her to choose a day and bring Mr Fortune to dine. Lady Chantry did so want to know him.
‘Does she, though?’ said Mr Fortune.
‘She was so nice about it,’ said the telephone. ‘And she really is a good sort, Reggie. She’s always doing something kind.’
‘Joan,’ said Mr Fortune, ‘you’re not to go into her house.’
‘Reggie!’ said the telephone.
‘That’s that,’ said Mr Fortune. ‘I’ll speak to Lady Chantry.’
Lady Chantry was at home. She sat in her austere pleasant drawing-room, toasting a foot at the fire, a small foot which brought out a pretty leg. Of course she was in black with some white about her neck, but the loose gown had grace. She smiled at him and tossed back her hair. Not a thread of white showed in its crisp brown, and it occurred to Reggie that he had never seen a woman of her age carry off bobbed hair so well. What was her age? Her eyes were as bright as a bird’s and her clear pallor was unfurrowed.
‘So good of you, Mr Fortune—’
‘Miss Amber has just told me—’
They spoke together. She got the lead then. ‘It was kind of her to let you know at once. But she’s always kind, isn’t she? I did so want you to come, and make friends with me before you’re married, and it will be very soon now, won’t it? Oh, but do let me give you some tea.’
‘No tea, thank you.’
‘Won’t you? Well, please ring the bell. I don’t know how men can exist without tea. But most of them don’t now, do they? You’re almost unique, you know. I suppose it’s the penalty of greatness.’
‘I came round to say that Miss Amber won’t be able to dine with you, Lady Chantry.’
It was a moment before she answered. ‘But that is too bad. She told me she was sure you could find a day.’
‘She can’t come,’ said Reggie sharply.
‘The man has spoken,’ she laughed. ‘Oh, of course, she mustn’t go behind that.’ He was given a keen mocking glance. ‘And can’t you come either, Mr Fortune?’
‘I have a great deal of work, Lady Chantry. It’s come rather unexpectedly.’
‘Indeed, you do look worried. I’m so sorry. I’m sure you ought to take a rest, a long rest.’ A servant came in. ‘Won’t you really have some tea?’
‘No, thank you. Good-bye, Lady Chantry.’
He went home and rang up Lomas. Lomas, like the father of Baby Bunting, had gone a-hunting. Lomas was in Leicestershire. Superintendent Bell replied: Did Bell know if they had anything new about the unknown murderer?
‘Inquiries are proceeding, sir,’ said Superintendent Bell.
‘Damn it, Bell, I’m not the House of Commons. Have you got anything?’
‘Not what you’d call definite, sir, no.’
‘You’ll say that on the Day of Judgment,’ said Reggie.
It was on the next day that he found a telegram waiting for him when he came home to dress for dinner:
Gerald ill again very anxious beg you will come sending car to meet evening trains.
Warnham
Fernhurst
Blackover
He scrambled into the last carriage of the half-past six as it drew out of Waterloo.
Mrs Warnham had faithfully obeyed his orders to take Gerald to a quiet place. Blackover stands an equally uncomfortable distance from two main lines, one of which throws out towards it a feeble and spasmodic branch. After two changes Reggie arrived, cold and with a railway sandwich rattling in his emptiness, on the dimly lit platform of Blackover. The porter of all work who took his ticket thought there was a car outside.
In the dark station yard Reggie found only one: ‘Do you come from Fernhurst?’ he called, and the small chauffeur who was half inside the bonnet shut it up and touched his cap and ran round to his seat.
They dashed off into the night, climbing up by narrow winding roads through woodland. Nothing passed them, no house gave a gleam of light. The car stopped on the crest of a hill and Reggie looked out. He could see nothing but white frost and pines. The chauffeur was getting down.
‘What’s the trouble?’ said Reggie, with his head out of the window: and slipped the catch and came out in a bundle.
The chauffeur’s face was the face of Lady Chantry. He saw it in the flash of a pistol overhead as he closed with her. ‘I will, I will,’ she muttered and fought him fiercely. Another shot went into the pines. He wrenched her hand round. The third was fired into her face. The struggling body fell away from him, limp.
He carried it into the rays of the headlights and looked close. ‘That’s that,’ he said with a shrug, and put it into the car.
He lit a cigar and listened. There was no sound anywhere but the sough of the wind in the pines. He climbed into the chauffeur’s place and drove away. At the next cross-roads he took that which led north and west, and so in a while came out on the Portsmouth road.
That night the frost gathered on a motor-car in a lane between Hindhead and Shottermill. Mr Fortune unobtrusively caught the last train from Haslemere.
When he came out from a matinée with Joan Amber next day, the newsboys were shouting ‘Motor Car Mystery’. Mr Fortune did not buy a paper.
It was on the morning of the second day that Scotland Yard sent for him. Lomas was with Superintendent Bell. The two of them received him with solemnity and curious eyes. Mr Fortune was not pleased. ‘Dear me, Lomas, can’t you keep the peace for a week at a time?’ he protested. ‘What is the reason for your existence?’
‘I had all that for breakfast,’ said Lomas. ‘Don’t talk like the newspapers. Be original.’
‘ “Another Mysterious Murder,” ‘ Reggie murmured, quoting headlines. ‘“Sco
tland Yard Baffled Again,” “Police Mandarins.” No, you haven’t a “good Press,” Lomas old thing.’
Lomas said something about the Press. ‘Do you know who that woman chauffeur was, Fortune?’
‘That wasn’t in the papers, was it?’
‘You haven’t guessed?’
Again Reggie Fortune was aware of the grave curiosity in their eyes. ‘Another of our mysterious murders,’ he said dreamily. ‘I wonder. Are you working out the series at last? I told you to look for someone who was always present.’
Lomas looked at Superintendent Bell. ‘Lady Chantry was present at this one, Fortune,’ he said. ‘Lady Chantry took out her car the day before yesterday. Yesterday morning the car was found in a lane above Haslemere. Lady Chantry was inside. She wore chauffeur’s uniform. She was shot through the head.’
‘Well, well,’ said Reggie Fortune.
‘I want you to come down and look at the body.’
‘Is the body the only evidence?’
‘We know where she bought the coat and cap. Her own coat and hat were under the front seat. She told her servants she might not be back at night. No one knows what she went out for or where she went.’
‘Yes. Yes. When a person is shot, it’s generally with a gun. Have you found it?’
‘She had an automatic pistol in her hand.’
Reggie Fortune rose. ‘I had better see her,’ he said sadly. ‘A wearing world, Lomas. Come on. My car’s outside.’
Two hours later he stood looking down at the slight body and the scorched wound in that pale face while a police surgeon demonstrated to him how the shot was fired. The pistol was gripped with the rigor of death in the woman’s right hand, the bullet that was taken from the base of the skull fitted it, the muzzle—remark the stained, scorched flesh— must have been held close to her face when the shot was fired. And Reggie listened and nodded. ‘Yes, yes. All very clear, isn’t it? A straight case.’ He drew the sheet over the body and paid compliments to the doctor as they went out.
Lomas was in a hurry to meet them. Reggie shook his head. ‘There’s nothing for me, Lomas. And nothing for you. The medical evidence is suicide. Scotland Yard is acquitted without a stain on its character.’
‘No sort of doubt?’ said Lomas.
‘You can bring all the College of Surgeons to see her. You’ll get nothing else.’
And so they climbed into the car again. ‘Finis, thank God!’ said Mr Fortune as the little town ran by.
Lomas looked at him curiously. ‘Why did she commit suicide, Fortune?’ he said.
There are also other little questions,’ Reggie murmured. ‘Why did she murder Bigod? Why did she murder the lady doctor? Why did she try to murder the child?’
Lomas continued to stare at him. ‘How do you know she did?’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’re making very sure.’
‘Great heavens! You might do some of the work. I know Scotland Yard isn’t brilliant, but it might take pains. Who was present at all the murders? Who was the constant force? Haven’t you found that out yet?’
‘She was staying near Bigod’s place. She was at the orphanage. She was at the child’s party. And only she was at all three. It staggered me when I got the evidence complete. But what in heaven makes you think she is the murderer?’
Reggie moved uneasily. ‘There was something malign about her.’
‘Malign! But she was always doing philanthropic work.’
‘Yes. It may be a saint who does that—or the other thing. Haven’t you ever noticed—some of the people who are always busy about distress they rather like watching distress?’
‘Why, yes. But murder! And what possible motive is there for killing these different people? She might have hated one or another. But not all three.’
‘Oh, there is a common factor. Don’t you see? Each one had somebody to feel the deathlike torture—the girl Bigod was engaged to, the girl who was devoted to the lady doctor, the small Gerald’s mother. There was always somebody to suffer horribly—and the person to be killed was always somebody who had a young good life to lose. Not at all nice murders, Lomas. Genus diabolical, species feminine. Say that Lady Chantry had a devilish passion for cruelty—and it ended that night in the motor-car.’
‘But why commit suicide? Do you mean she was mad?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. That’s for the Day of Judgment. When is cruelty madness? I don’t know. Why did she—give herself away—in the end? Perhaps she found she had gone a little too far. Perhaps she knew you and I had begun to look after her. She never liked me much, I fancy. She was a little—odd—with me.’
‘You’re an uncanny fellow, Fortune.’
‘My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I’m wholly normal. I’m the natural man,’ said Reggie Fortune.
THE BUOY THAT DID NOT LIGHT - Edgar Wallace
Edgar Wallace (1872-1932) was a most prolific writer of popular fiction with countless mystery novels, short stories, plays, and non-fiction articles to his name. ‘The Buoy That Did Not Light’ was originally published in the Grand (companion magazine to the Strand) in January 1923, and later appeared in his collection The Steward (1932).
What’s that word that they use to describe an airplane that can come down on the sea or the land? (It was the steward inquiring. ) Amphibian! That’s it. It was the name our old captain gave ’em. In the days when I was steward on board the old Majestic—you remember how she killed a stoker every voyage—there used to be a crowd that worked its way across twice a year—the only crowd I ever knew that mixed it.
Amphibians are rare. A man either works ships or he works towns. If a ship’s gang works a town at all, it is with people they’ve got to know on board ship. Somebody said that a ship is like a prison, with a chance of being drowned. It is certainly a bit too restricted for people who want to sell gold bricks, or have had a lot of money left to them to distribute to the poor, providing they can find the right kind of man to give it away. The point I want to make is this: that the ship crowd and the land crowd very seldom work together, and if the land people do travel by sea, they’ve got to behave themselves, and not go butting in to any little game that happens to be in progress in the smoke-room. The ship crowd naturally do not go to the captain or the purser and complain that there is an unauthorized gang on board eating into their profits. The case is settled out of court; and when you’ve real bad men travelling... Well, I’ve seen some curious things.
There was a fellow, quite unknown to me except from hearsay, called Hoyle. He was a land man in a big way. Banks and bullion trains and post cars were his specialty, but there was hardly a piece of work he couldn’t do if there was money to it.
If he’d kept to land work, where by all accounts he was an artist, he’d have been lucky. You can’t properly work both. I’ve had that from some of the biggest men that ever travelled the sea. What my old skippers called “The Barons of the Nimble Pack” work in a perfectly straightforward manner. All they need is a pair of hands, a pack of cards, a glib tongue and a nut. Sometimes they use more packs than one, but there is no fanciful apparatus, no plots and plannings, guns, masks or nitroglycerine. It’s a profession like doctoring or lawyering—peaceful and, in a manner of speaking, inoffensive. When a land crowd comes barging into the smoke-room they’re treated civilly so long as they’re travelling for pleasure. Otherwise... Well, it’s natural. If you’re poaching a stream you don’t want people throwing half-bricks into it. There’s only one sensible way of being unlawful when you’re poaching, and that is to poach.
I’ve seen a bit of amphibian work and I’m telling you I don’t want to see any more. In the year 19— we went out of Southampton with a full passenger list, the date being the 21st of December, and we carried to all appearance as nice a passenger list as you could wish to meet. Mostly Americans going home, though there was a fair sprinkling of British. We had a couple of genteel gangs on board—fellows who never played high or tried for big stakes, but managed to make a reasonable living. Tad Hesty
of Pittsburg ran one, and a London fellow named Lew Isaacs managed the other. I think he was a Jew. A very nice, sensible fellow was Lew, polite and gentlemanly, and I’ve never heard a complaint against him, though I’ve travelled a score of voyages with him.
“Felix,” he said to me one day, “moderation in all things is my motto. Nobody was ever ruined by taking small profits. A man who loses a hundred dollars or twenty pounds doesn’t squeal. Touch him for a thousand, and the pilot boat comes out looking like an excursion steamer, it’s that full of bulls. A hundred dollars is speechless, Felix. It may give a tiny squeak, but it apologizes immediately afterwards. A thousand dollars has a steam siren, and ten thousand dollars makes a noise like a bomb in a powder plant.”
He and his two friends used to share the same cabin. One was always dressed quiet and respectable, and never went into the smoke-room at all. He used to sit up on the deck, reading a book and getting acquainted with the serious-minded people from the Middle West, or the North of England mill-owners who think they’re sporty because they own a couple of greyhounds that get into the second round of the Waterloo Cup.
Lew was on very good terms with the Pittsburg crowd, and I’ve seen them drinking together and exchanging views about the slackness of trade and the income tax and things of that kind, without any ill word passing between them.
A ship isn’t out of port twenty-four hours before a steward knows the history of everybody on board; and the smoke-room steward told me that there was nobody else on board but the Pittsburg crowd and this man Lewis and his friends. In fact, it looked so much like being such a quiet voyage, that only the little cards warning passengers not to play with strangers were put up in the smoke-room. If the Flack gang had been travelling, we’d have put up the usual warning with four-inch type.
I had eight state-rooms to look after. No 181 to 188, F Deck. A Chicago man had one, a Mr Mellish, who was a buyer at a St Louis store, was another, a young English officer—Captain Fairburn—attached to the British Embassy had another and the remainder were booked by Colonel Roger Markson for his party. There was the colonel, a tall, solemn-looking man, his wife, who was younger than him, and always seemed to be crying in her cabin, his son, a slick young fellow, generally dressed to kill, and there was Miss Colport.
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