Appleby Talking

by Michael Innes

  “Only one public gallery in the country has any considerable collection of Orlando Says, and that is the Municipal Museum at Nesfield. One of my first moves had been to get in touch with the Director there, since it had occurred to me that he might have made some study of Say, and so possess a chance piece of information that might throw light on the mysterious theft from Counterpoynt House. That particular cast had drawn blank, but now I had a telephone call from him. An oil painting of Say’s had been stolen from his gallery in the course of the previous night, and he would be much obliged if I could come down.

  “So down I went, wondering whether Say was presently to be universally acclaimed as a transcendent genius, and whether an enterprising criminal had received some species of precognitive intelligence of this shift in artistic taste.

  “But as soon as I entered the gallery, I saw that this fantastic explanation, at least, was ruled out. The place was stuffed with Says. There were Homeric heroes on every wall – for all I knew, half the English peerage had posed for them – and there was an equal muster of nymphs and goddesses, knee-deep in water or gleaming engagingly from behind an exiguous screen of leaves. And it was a nymph that had disappeared. The missing picture was called The Metamorphosis of Daphne. The Director showed me a photograph. There she was, beautifully naked, and hurtling across the picture-space from left to right. Apollo wasn’t in the painting – but presumably he wasn’t far out of it, since one of the nymph’s arms was already sprouting into a very pretty little laurel-bough.”

  The Vicar chuckled. “As the poet Marvell puts it:

  Apollo hunted Daphne so,

  Only that she might laurel grow.”

  “Quite so. Well, light was dawning on me, and I asked if anything was known about the model who had posed for Orlando Say in this picture. The answer was just right. There was an obscure story that it had been a well-known society beauty of the time – now still alive, but as an extremely old and august lady.

  “So there you are. Apollo Pursuing Daphne had been a very daring prank indeed. Lord Counterpoynt had wisely had it chopped in two – and the half which had represented him as the pursuing Apollo he had retained as a representation of the fleeing Patroclus. The other half had gone to the lady, who had at some time most rashly parted with it.

  “I now knew that I had only to wait. And – sure enough – there was presently an attempt to blackmail poor old Counterpoynt. The thefts had been the work of a fellow who had got the whole story from some stray letter of Say’s. He was pretty sure that Lord Counterpoynt would pay a lot rather than have such a ludicrous scandal dragged up in his and the lady’s respectable old age. When we pounced on this enterprising scoundrel in the end we found that he had even gone to the trouble of having the two halves of the picture put together again. The background showed it to be incontrovertibly one composition. And it was really rather a pretty thing.”

  The Vicar had been listening with grave attention. “And may I ask,” he said cautiously, “where this – um – improper picture hangs now?”

  “Of course you may.” And Appleby smiled. “But if I were to give an answer – well, that would be telling.”

  THE CLOCK-FACE CASE

  “It was the convenient sort of case,” Appleby said, “in which the bullet stops the clock.”

  The QC looked sceptical. “That’s something that ought to happen from time to time, I’ve no doubt. But in twenty years on the criminal side I’ve never actually come across it.”

  The Vicar was mildly considering. “I believe,” he ventured presently, “that it has been used in a detective story. In fact, I’m almost sure of it.”

  Appleby chuckled. “I suspect that your reading in the genre is limited. Yarns in which the clock stops the bullet and the bullet retaliates by stopping the clock are as thick in the libraries as autumnal leaves are supposed to be in Vallombrosa. But there was another interesting feature in this case. The evidence of one witness – a crucial witness – was complicated by the fact that he had seen only the reversed image of the clock.”

  “You mean in a mirror?” The QC groaned. “It’s really too much, my dear fellow. All yarns in which the bullet stops the clock in Chapter One regularly introduce a mirror to our notice round about Chapter Five or Six. And you yourself are being wildly improvident. You should sit on your mirror” – and the QC stretched out his arm for the decanter – “until the port has gone round a second time.”

  “I can imagine nothing more gingerly and uncomfortable. I insist on setting my mirror squarely on the table. And, for that matter, my clock too. It is important that you take a good look at it.” Appleby, somewhat to the Vicar’s bewilderment, pointed firmly to a dish of walnuts. “Notice that it is a thoroughly modern clock. You might almost call it a modish clock. And certainly a reticent clock. It bears no figures, but only a plain dot at each hour.”

  The QC nodded. “I’ve seen that sort of clock. Uncommonly silly notion, if you ask me. But then” – he smiled happily – “it’s clear that you are determined to tell us an uncommonly silly story. It’s an art that I can’t myself study too carefully. So pray proceed.”

  Appleby nodded. “Very well. Sir Hannibal Green was a prosperous bachelor living in a flat just off Piccadilly, where he was ministered to by a manservant of the name of Snake.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it.” The QC was uncompromising. “Outside Restoration Comedy, such a name simply doesn’t exist.”

  Appleby grinned. “Well, I’m calling the man Snake. And Snake alone lived with Sir Hannibal in the flat, getting along with the aid of persons who came in to oblige by the day. Sir Hannibal wasn’t distinguished for anything very much, with the exception of a very fine collection of miniatures. Some of these hung on the walls of his study; others were disposed in showcases; and the majority – I suppose so that the general effect should not be too overwhelming – lived in a big Flemish cabinet which had been steel-lined and fire-proofed for the purpose.

  “As you may have guessed, my story concerns an attempt to steal these treasures. It was a successful attempt and a ruthless one – involving nothing less than Sir Hannibal’s murder. And it occurred on the day that Sir Hannibal, together with Snake, returned from his annual visit to Italy.”

  “Italy?” The Vicar cracked a nut with the air of bringing off an epigram. “Then Hannibal must have crossed the Alps.”

  “Certainly he did.” Appleby smiled tolerantly. “He did so by rail and through the Mont Cenis – which got him and his manservant back to Victoria round about seven p.m. They drove straight home in a taxi. Sir Hannibal, after satisfying himself that his collection was safe and sound, went to his bedroom to change. And Snake employed himself in preparing a light supper. So much is certain.

  “At ten o’clock that night a married sister of Sir Hannibal’s named Mrs Gracie called to welcome home her brother on his return from abroad. Having got no answer to her ring on the doorbell, she let herself in with a latchkey – something she commonly had when her brother was away, so that she could drop in from time to time and keep an eye on things. She found the flat in disorder, the greater part of the collection gone, and her brother shot dead in his dining-room.”

  The QC set down his glass. “You suspected Snake?”

  “We came to suspect him strongly, although at first he told a story that seemed innocent enough. On his serving the meal he had prepared, his employer asked him if he wanted to go out. He replied that he would like to. He, too, had a sister, to whom he was anxious to give an account of his holiday. And on the chance that he might be free, he had suggested to her by letter that she come round at nine o’clock and wait for him in some caretaker’s room downstairs. This apparently was a common rendezvous for people working in this block of flats. Sir Hannibal at once agreed, adding that he would breakfast in his bedroom, and that the present meal could be cleared up by a woman who came in during the morning.

  “And now I come to the clock. Snake withdrew, and Sir Hannibal told hi
m to leave the dining-room door open. He had a notion that he might not be able to hear the doorbell, if Mrs Gracie did call.

  “Ten minutes later Snake – if his story was to be believed – left the flat. He didn’t glance into the dining-room, since it would have been impolite, apparently, to meet his employer’s eye. But he did glance at a large mirror in the hall. It showed him Sir Hannibal sitting over his wine just as we are doing now. And it showed him the clock. Wondering whether his sister would yet be waiting downstairs, he took the trouble to read the clock. He could see that it was going, for it had one of those second-hands that sweep across the whole dial. And it said precisely nine o’clock. Snake seemed quite clear-headed about this. It had the appearance of reading three o’clock, because – as I have said – he was, of course, seeing its image in reverse.

  “Well, out Snake went – and within a couple of minutes was conversing with his sister, a caretaker, and another private servant. He had left his employer alive and well. Or so he said.”

  The QC picked up the decanter again in great absence of mind. “Snake,” he said, “was in an unpleasant position.”

  “It was to become much more unpleasant quite soon. At first, there seemed to be various possibilities. Sir Hannibal’s body was found by the open door of his dining-room. It seemed plausible that somebody might have rung the doorbell, been admitted, and then been led into or towards the dining-room to be interviewed. The direction of the shots – there had been three of them – were consistent with this. One had buried itself in the mantelpiece; another had hit the clock, which was standing on the mantelpiece; and the third had shot Sir Hannibal through the forehead. It looked as if a thoroughly nervous criminal had taken two rapid shots at him ineffectively from behind, and had then got him squarely above the eyes as he swung round.”

  The Vicar sighed. “And all to clear the way to a collection of miniatures. What an incredibly brutal crime!”

  “Quite so. There was, of course, the question of the criminal’s knowing his way about, getting the Flemish cabinet open, and so on. There was nothing here that positively pointed to Snake. But the business of the waiting sister had a suspicious air. It is just the sort of thing that is brought into prominence when a man has been cooking up an alibi.

  “Only if that had been Snake’s game, he had bungled things badly. You will recall that he claimed to have left Sir Hannibal alive and well just on nine o’clock. And you know that one of the bullets stopped the clock.”

  The QC considered. “Before nine?”

  “Precisely. At half-past eight.”

  “Admirable!” The Vicar nodded with every appearance of massive intellectual delectation. “So Snake’s game was up.”

  Appleby shook his head – and once more pointed impressively at the walnuts. “A modern clock. Indeed – as you can now see – an electric clock. And you know how the simple type of electric clock is set going? You switch on the current, and then simply spin a little knob at the back. The electricity had, of course, been switched off while Sir Hannibal was away on holiday. Presumably just before his man went out he had set the clock by his watch, switched on, and spun. But he had spun in the wrong direction.

  “That – as you will know if you have ever possessed such a clock – is a very easy thing to do. And it simply sets the clock going backwards. Half an hour after Snake last saw Sir Hannibal, the clock would be saying not half-past nine but half-past eight. Sir Hannibal had been murdered by someone gaining admission to the flat half an hour after Snake left.”

  The QC drew a long breath. “How did you tumble to this?”

  “Snake remembered that he had seen the second-hand definitely revolving in a clockwise direction. It had obscurely disturbed him at the time – as well it might, in view of the fact that he was seeing the thing in a mirror. I was convinced of the truth of his statement as soon as he recalled this odd fact; and it admits of no other explanation than the one I have given you. So I pegged away at the case until I ran the real criminal to earth. One usually does, in the end.”

  MISS GEACH

  “The newspapers nowadays,” Appleby said, “are full of resourceful persons remembering to dial 999. And a very good thing too. But Miss Geach disliked the telephone, and so she came all the way to New Scotland Yard instead.”

  The QC shook his head. “An imprecise statement, this. Was her journey from John o’ Groats or Highgate?”

  “It was from Kensington, where Miss Geach had a small flat in a superior sort of warren called, if I remember correctly, Dreadnaught Mansions. Miss Geach herself, however, was somewhat timorous. Or so one had to suppose.”

  “Because she disliked the telephone?”

  “Because of that – and because she swooned away in my arms as I was going out to lunch. A sergeant on duty in the lobby was so outraged that he did his best to arrest her on the spot. When I got her revived and calmed down a bit she told me rather an odd tale.

  “It seemed that behind the marble hall of Dreadnaught Mansions, with its proliferation of palms and resplendent commissionaire, there harboured a shameful secret, which was causing the tenants much discomfort and annoyance. There was something wrong with the drains.”

  The QC looked puzzled. “But would one want to dial 999 about that?”

  “You mistake me. The drains were only a remote cause of Miss Geach’s agitation. The attempt to patch them up had resulted in a serious breach in her insulation.”

  “Miss Geach was insulated?”

  “Yes – I believe with seaweed. In other words, noise from the flat below should have been cut out by some stuff or other packed under her floors. But the bother over the drains had in some way put this out of action, and left Miss Geach for the time being abnormally vulnerable to disturbance. The position was worst in her bedroom. There she was obliged actually to overhear a good deal of any conversation going on beneath her. And this distressed Miss Geach very much. I got the impression that, even during the day, she was in her bedroom quite a lot.”

  “And Miss Geach came along to you about this?”

  “She came along because – if she was at all to be credited – she had overheard a violent quarrel, followed by what she was convinced had been murder. As you know, mild-mannered elderly ladies are constantly enjoying hallucinations of that sort, and it seemed to me that the best thing to do would be to get her straight home again. If there was anything in her story, I could investigate it on the spot. So I drove her back.

  “She gave me more details on the way. Just who lived immediately beneath her she didn’t know. But she had lately come to the conclusion that it must be a bachelor of unstable temperament, since what she heard for the most part was simply the voice of a youngish man talking to himself, or even shouting. At this point I was inclined to feel that poor Miss Geach’s fantasy might become merely embarrassing, and concern a sort of dream lover. But as she went on I began to take another view. I thought there might be something in it.”

  The QC grinned. “My dear fellow, it’s only if there was something in it that I’m prepared to go on listening to you.”

  “Very well. The first thing of which Miss Geach was aware on the relevant occasion was the owner of this attractive young male voice calling somebody a dirty hound. Then he talked with great volubility and passion about his family honour, foul slander, and the reputation of a woman who was inexpressibly dear to him.”

  The QC shook his head. “One can picture – can one not? – the reluctance of your Miss Geach to listen in to such stuff. But proceed.”

  “Presently the temperature appeared to be rising yet higher, and the young man’s voice was saying something about contemptible curs and blackmail. It was at this point that a second voice joined in. Miss Geach described it as a soft sinister foreign voice. And it was demanding some large sum of money. The young man replied angrily that he wouldn’t pay, and added that the whole thing was a filthy racket, and too unspeakably low. The foreign voice replied that it didn’t care a damn how low it
was, the money must be paid. The young voice said something about not putting up with vulgar gangster stuff, and the foreign voice said inflexibly, ‘One thousand pounds’. The young voice then rose in real out-and-out rage, and the language, Miss Geach said, was such as she could not repeat, even to an officer of police. But the owner of the foreign voice appeared to bide his time, and when the other had blown off steam came back again with something inaudible but decisive. The young voice suddenly shouted, ‘Very well, I’ll pay – and then you can take yourself out of this and never let me see you again.’ The foreign voice made what sounded like a speech of ironical thanks, and then there was a silence of some minutes duration, before hell broke loose.”

  The QC raised his eyebrows. “Hell broke loose? That was Miss Geach’s expression?”

  “It was. Furniture appeared to be hurtling all over the place, and its crashing or bumping was punctuated by what she described as howls of rage. And it was this that broke the poor lady’s nerve. She bolted downstairs and into the street, intending to find a constable. But there wasn’t one in sight, and she had the odd inspiration of jumping into a taxi and driving to the Yard. When we drew up upon returning to Dreadnaught Mansions I had to take her encouragingly by the arm before she found resolution to enter again.

  “I judged it in her best interest not to start inquiring about a rumpus that might never really have happened, and so I walked straight upstairs with her until we reached the flat beneath her own. Its outer door was closed, and there was a porter standing near by, eyeing it doubtfully. I questioned him and gathered that there had in fact been some sort of row; other tenants had complained, and he had been sent along to make discreet inquiries. But there had been no reply to his knocking, and he was wondering whether to hang about or return and report to the management. It seemed to me a case for going right in, and after some police stuff I got hold of a master-key and opened up.