Mile succeeded mile, minute succeeded minute. Detective-Inspector Beecham began to grow restless. The corridor windows were coated with snow. There was nothing to see and as little to do. Cheerful Christmasy shouts reached his ears from the ends of the train. He began to feel out of it. He began to feel bored. He shook himself and set out to walk the length of the train.
He passed through the dining car. He passed through two coaches beyond the dining car—satisfied that neither Mr Jones nor Maxwell had seen him do so—before he pulled up, again round the angle of a passage at the end of a coach.
Again he had perforce to play a waiting game. Again he began to feel out of it and bored. But at last, about an hour out of Liverpool Street he was pleased to hear a door slide down the corridor and thrilled to see that the two men who came out of the first-class compartment and made off in the direction of the rear of the train were Mr Jones and Maxwell. And Maxwell carried the second shabby little bag.
'Ah!' said Beecham softly to himself.
He let them get round the angle at the end of the coach; then he followed. He followed them through the next coach. He gave them three-quarters of a minute, then he plunged into the dining car prepared for the interesting bit in the rear section of the train.
But there he stopped.
And there Mr Jones stopped, too. Stopped ordering turkey and Christmas pudding to stare up at Detective-Inspector Beecham and exclaim:
'Why, look who's here! Who could have thought it? Maxwell—wish the gentleman a Merry Christmas!'
'A Merry Christmas to you, sir,' said Maxwell, with a respectful dip of the head to the detective.
'Sit down and join us,' Mr Jones invited. 'After all, it only comes once a year and you can mutter "Without prejudice" under your breath as you drink my beer. Or shall it be port?'
Beecham sank wearily into the comfortable chair opposite the pair of them.
'I—' he stopped.
'Yes, dear fellow?' Mr Jones prompted.
'Nothing,' the detective mumbled.
'Don't tell me you're going away for Christmas,' said Mr Jones. 'I understand you don't believe in such tosh. Or am I wrong? Does that hard face of yours hide a heart that weeps after three glasses of rum punch and the sight of a holly berry?'
'The point is where are you going?' Beecham demanded.
'I don't see that's the point at all,' Mr Jones smiled. 'Waiter—or should it be steward? I travel so little—bring my friend Detective-Inspector Beecham, of Scotland Yard, turkey and plum pudding and all things seasonable to eat and drink. Beecham, I don't think you know the steward, do you? The steward—Detective-Inspector Beecham. Of Scotland Yard, you know. My very good friend.'
The attendant departed smiling, while the detective, with a neck going steadily pinker, attempted the futility of looking out of the window.
'When I want to advertise. . .' he said fiercely.
'You never will' Mr Jones assured him. 'Too well known to need it. Too deeply established in the affections of the multitude to require such a cheap device. Advertise? You? When you have to civilization will have perished. What about the skating prospects for the holidays? I'd like your opinion.'
'What I'm never sure about,' said Beecham, turning a fierce glare on Mr Jones, 'is whether you're a crafty fool or just a fool.'
'Shall we say a lucky fool?' suggested Mr Jones.
'Luck, yes!' snapped Beecham.
'That shows,' said Mr Jones, 'how little you know me. You must get to know me better. Call round some time. Second Thursdays, you know. Tea. And cakes.'
To give the grim old man of Scotland Yard his due he almost enjoyed the turkey and plum pudding and the port that followed.
Despite his company he would have enjoyed the unusual even entirely had it not been for the business which found him there. As it was he said little. Nor did he do more than listen occasionally to the ceaseless flow of light-hearted chatter which poured from the lips of Mr Jones.
He gave himself up to a waiting game and tried to calculate the number of miles that had pounded themselves out under the wheels of the train.
Mr Jones glanced at his watch.
'Eight o'clock? The snow's keeping us back. We were due in at Friars Topliss at five minutes to, surely?'
Beecham looked up at the mention of Friars Topliss, but still he said nothing. Mr Jones offered a cigar, which was refused, and then lit one himself.
Ten minutes later the train began to slow down.
'Now where are we?' said Mr Jones.
All down the dining car there was much rubbing of steamed windows, which answered no questions. An attendant, laden with Christmas fare on a tray passed quickly.
'Tell me, steward, where are we?' Mr Jones inquired.
'Running into Etching Vale, sir,' replied the attendant. 'Friars Topliss in twenty-five minutes.'
'Thank you,' said Mr Jones, and turned to Maxwell.
'This is where we get off,' he said. 'Got everything, Maxwell?'
'Everything, sir,' Maxwell answered.
'Don't forget the bag.'
Maxwell stopped and picked up the shabby bag.
'Here it is, sir.'
Mr Jones rose. Maxwell rose too. Beecham stared, dissatisfied with he knew not what.
Maxwell helped Mr Jones into his big overcoat, pulled on his own and waited. Mr Jones pulled his hat down over his ears and turned up the collar of his coat.
The train stopped.
'Well, good-bye, Beecham, dear fellow,' Mr Jones said breezily. 'And, if I don't see you before, a Happy New Year.'
And out to the snow-covered platform he went, with Maxwell and the shabby little bag after him.
Beecham blinked. That little bag. . .Was it possible? Even before Hadlow Cribb reached the train? Or, by some trick, while he, Beecham, had been waiting his chance in the guard's van?
'Crafty, but I wonder if he's really a fool?' he thought solemnly.
The driving wind covered Mr Jones and the faithful Maxwell with snow in the twinkling of an eye. They dashed across the bleak platform of Etching Vale to the shelter of the station wall. And under this shelter they hurried to the barriers. Here Mr Jones offered two tickets.
The collector peered at the tickets in the doubtful lamplight.
'Pardon, sir,' he said, 'but this is Etching Vale.'
'Remarkable how you can tell, with all this snow on it,' remarked Mr Jones.
'These tickets are for Friars Topliss, sir,' said the collector.
'I know,' said Mr Jones, 'but I've changed my mind. I thought I'd get off here. It sort of called to me.'
'Not allowed to break the journey, sir,' the collector reminded him. 'I'm afraid you'll have to pay again.'
Mr Jones thrust a note into the collector's hand.
'Take it out of that,' he said, 'and buy your wife something for Christmas out of the balance.'
'No wife, sir,' the collector grinned.
'Soon will have,' Mr Jones assured him, 'with such charm as yours.'
He passed out into the snow-covered station square of Little Etching Vale, the soft footfalls of Maxwell on his left and, as he soon realized, other soft footfalls on his right. He turned and there once more was the stolid figure of Detective-Inspector Beecham.
'Not again!' he exclaimed. 'But, my dear Beecham, I thought you were going on?'
'I thought you might be, too,' said Beecham.
'I changed my mind,' Mr Jones informed him.
'I changed my mind,' retorted Beecham.
'A costly process, I found it,' said Mr Jones.
'I didn't!' said Beecham.
'Oh, well, of course, you're known to the police,' said Mr Jones, 'which makes a difference!'
He smiled and waited, but Beecham waited too.
'Where now?' he asked.
'Where would you like to go?' said Beecham.
'You don't mean, do you, that the drinks are now on you?' said Mr Jones. 'But Beecham, my own, this is too touching! Very well—there's a decent-looking
, old fashioned hostel over there. Shall we?'
'Anywhere,' growled Beecham.
They crossed the square to the old-fashioned hostel where, to Mr Jones' surprise, the Scotland Yard man immediately booked a private room and ordered the drinks to be sent up there.
'If you'll join me,' he said to Mr Jones.
'Delighted,' Mr Jones agreed. 'Does Maxwell remain in the weather and hold the horses' heads?'
'There'll be room for the three of us upstairs,' said Beecham.
'What could be better?' said Mr Jones.
And upstairs they went, with a waiter and tray to follow them.
'Cosy,' remarked Mr Jones, when the waiter had left them and closed the door. 'Shall you be staying here long?'
'About as long as it will take me to go through that little bag of yours,' Beecham answered.
'Beecham!' Mr Jones gasped. 'I don't understand you.'
'You will,' said Beecham. 'I always thought you'd be too clever. You let me see your train tickets this afternoon. After that, I just had to take this trip with you. Hand over the bag.'
'You know, Beecham, my sweet,' said Mr Jones, 'really I don't think you have the right.'
'I can soon get that,' said Beecham. 'Please yourself, if you want to waste time. You'll waste it in my presence, that's all.'
Mr Jones sighed.
'Maxwell,' he said, 'nobody trusts us. It's a suspicious world. Pass the little bag to the gentleman.'
Maxwell passed the little bag to the gentleman, and the gentleman, frowning, promptly dragged it open. Out fell pyjamas, combs, and toothbrushes. Nothing else. Beecham clicked his teeth and looked up.
'Pockets, probably?' he said.
'No friendliness at all, observed Mr Jones with a fresh sigh. 'Your pockets, Maxwell.'
Maxwell emptied his pockets. Mr Jones emptied his. The detective's complexion darkened. Pie turned once more to the little bag, fumbled inside it, threw it on the floor. His hands passed swiftly, but certainly, down the attire of the other two men; then, with a muttered exclamation, he picked up a telephone that stood on a corner table.
'Friars Topliss police, quick!' he shouted.
'You might tell me, sweet Beecham, Mr Jones put in, 'what is on your mind.'
But Beecham didn't. He sat glaring at the instrument in front of his nose until there was a faint tinkle.
'Yes?' he roared. 'This is Detective-Inspector Beecham of Scotland Yard. Is the six-fourteen from Liverpool Street—what? Good Lord! Battered up? But I saw him—the jewels? Gone! I'll come along!'
He dropped the receiver and spun round.
'Without having the faintest idea as to what is on your mind,' said Mr Jones, 'I think you must admit that I never batter them up. I may have many failings, but never that.'
'I don't exactly know where you come into this,' snapped Beecham, 'but bear this in mind. I'll land you.'
'I doubt it,' Mr Jones smiled. 'You'd like to, I fear, but it's such a disappointing world.'
Beecham strode to the door.
'Say good-bye to the gentleman, Maxwell,' said Mr Jones.
And Maxwell said good-bye to the gentleman.
'Dapper' Dawlish, expert but unlikeable, let himself into his Baker Street flat and snapped on the lights. He was satisfied with himself and the world in general. Or, at least, he was until he snapped on the lights.
Then he found himself looking down the barrel of an automatic, and he changed his opinion of the world at once.
'Good evening,' said Mr Jones. 'Or morning. Or what is it? Travelling about the world in a snowstorm makes one lose one's sense of time.'
'Who are you?' snarled Dawlish.
'Doesn't matter in the least,' said Mr Jones.
'What do you want?'
'The jewels you stole from Mr Hadlow Cribb on the Friars Topliss train,' said Mr Jones. 'And I want them now. I've been waiting two hours without a fire. I'm depressed. And when I'm depressed I'm nasty. That bulge in your right pocket, I believe. Come on! One—two—’
Which was where 'Dapper' Dawlish threw in.
'I'm hanged if I see how you knew,' he grumbled.
'But, of course, I knew,' said Mr Jones. 'It was I who had you put wise this afternoon that the stuff would be on the train.'
'You?'
'Mind, you wouldn't have stood an earthly if I hadn't been on the train to take their attention away,' Mr Jones added. 'They watched dear old Cribb and you'd never have got near him. Brains, my lad. That's what gets you to the top.
'Mind, I couldn't have got the things. I'm too popular with the C.I.D. They won't let me out of their sight. Which is why I sometimes have to leave the labouring to others. Which reminds me.'
He opened the parcel of gems, separated one from the rest, and tossed it on the table.
'The labourer is worthy of his hire,' he said, with a smile. 'You'd have got two—or even three—if you hadn't battered him up. Battering-up is a thing I detest. Or, at least, I've always thought so. I may change my mind one day. Even this day. Try following me and see! Good-bye, Mr—Dawlish the name is, I believe. Charmed to have met you. And a Merry Christmas.'
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14 - A Present For Christmas by ROBERT ARTHUR
WHY IS Robert Arthur (real name Robert Arthur Feeler, 1909-69) so neglected? This is not a rhetorical question. I have no real idea of the answer. As a writer of short stories from the 1930s to the 1960s he was certainly as imaginative as Frederic Brown; on occasion as caustic (though by no means as obsessive) as Cornell Woolrich. Brown and Woolrich posthumously flourish (and rightly so); mention Robert Arthur's name to both mystery and fantasy enthusiasts and the response is likely to be 'Who?'
Well, very briefly, here's who. Born in the Phillippines into a typically peripatetic army family; first job in oil. That lasted seven years, from 1929 to 1936, though even then he was working at cracking the pulp, later the slick, markets and playing the field: mysteries, weirds, Westerns, science fiction. Joined MGM as a writer in 1937; from then on sat behind a typewriter, either as freelance or editor.
Maybe that's got something to do with his lack of profile. Arthur did a good many editing chores in his lifetime and a good many of the editing chores he did were uncredited. Of the score or more hugely popular anthologies quote-edited-unquote by Alfred Hitchcock, Arthur did all the hard graft on at least a third, possibly nearly half—that's to say, he chose the stories, copy-edited them, dickered with authors and agents, prowled through the proofs; it may well be that he wrote Alf's Intros as well. For not, I suspect, an awful lot of money. And for absolutely no kudos.
He veered off to a certain extent from the mainstream of writing by doing film work, TV work, and (probably more to his taste) a good deal of radio work, both as writer and producer. For radio he hammered out scripts for The Mysterious Traveller (as well as editing the excellent spin-off digest magazine) and Murder By Experts. Yet he was still a prodigious wordsmith for the pulps even when he was doing other things and was particularly proficient at producing the short-sharp-shock story (one, 'Change Of Address', is really one of the neatest little murderer-exposed-due-to-the-malice-of-Fate tales of the past forty years).
In the writing business, reputations still largely rest on books—objects that are not, like periodicals, instantly ephemeral; objects that you can get your hands round, that rest on shelves, that last. Robert Arthur had three books published, so I suppose he did slightly better than that other forgotten master of the short story, Arthur Porges. Even so, it's always seemed to me that Arthur was singularly unlucky, either with his agent or his publishers. Or both.
His only novel, Somebody's Walking Over My Grave (1961), proves that his true metier was the short story and is notable only for the most specious, not to say lunatic, editorial blurb I've ever come across while his two volumes of shorts—Ghosts And More Ghosts (1963) and Mystery And More Mystery (1966)—were, insanely, packaged for the juvenile market, sank without a trace pretty soon after they appeared, and are now alm
ost impossible to find. But well worth paying out large sums for if you do stumble across copies. A hefty and representative collection of his stories is (American editorial directors, please note) long, long, long overdue.
Robert Arthur could be extremely damn funny (some of the stories he sold to Unknown magazine are gems). He could also be extremely not so damn funny. Here is a bleak little Christmas tale guaranteed to bring a wry twist to the mouth. . .
YOUR name is Purvis—Edward Purvis. You 're in your late thirties—a solid man, with a cold solid face and small, unwinking eyes. Just now you're crouching in the darkness beside a massive chimney on the broad, flat roof of an old building in the city slums. From time to time you stamp your feet in the light snow. It's Christmas Eve, and it's cold, and you've been waiting for an hour. But you know you won 't have to wait much longer.
The children on the floor below have begun to sing Christmas carols, and the thin, high sweetness of their voices rises into the wintry night, reaching you with sharp clarity except when the roar of a passing elevated train, rushing by in the street well below the roof level, drowns them out. Yes, it can't be long; the children are on their third carol now. . .
Silent Night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright. . .
Purvis shifted impatiently. He was warm and sweating inside the heavy sweater that he wore beneath his suit coat. He wore no overcoat. He didn't have one, and if he had, it wouldn't have been suitable to cat-footed creeping across roof tops. But though the wind, when it came, was raw, and the night was crystal sharp with the snap of a real Christmas Eve, he was sweating. Sweating with impatience, maybe, because the blood was running so hot in this veins.
Round yon Virgin mother and Child. . .
Below him was a gymnasium. Though he could not see through the snow-covered gravelled roof under his feet, he knew it. Because this was the building of the St Francis Foundling Home, and Ed Purvis had been a St Francis orphan.
Crime at Christmas Page 18