by Bruce, Leo
Seventeenth Entry
And now I’ve got the red tape, too. I wonder why it’s called red? It isn’t red at all, but pink. However, I’ve got a dozen yards of it.
I called on Aston, the lawyer, by appointment yesterday. I found that he has only two rooms, his own and one where his solitary clerk sits, with two extra chairs for clients, I suppose. I sat in one of these waiting while Aston got rid of an imaginary visitor, and passed the time by chatting with the clerk. We earnestly discussed the weather and shortages of food and fuel. Then, touching some documents which were bound with the stuff, I asked whether that was what lawyers called red tape.
‘Yes, indeed,’ he said.
‘But it’s not red at all,’ I ventured.
‘No. Pink, isn’t it?’
‘Do you really use much of it?’ I asked. ‘Or is that just a joke in the comic papers?’
‘We do use quite a bit,’ he admitted.
‘How is it sold to you?’
He pulled open a drawer and revealed a dozen or so spools of the stuff. He handed one to me to look at. I glanced at it but, seeming to lose interest, handed it back to him.
‘I see,’ I said indifferently. ‘I should prefer paper-clips myself.’ Then I went off into a long discussion on stationery.
But when the buzzer went and he hurried through to Aston’s office my hand was in the drawer in a moment. And now I have a nice new spool of red tape.
After that the making of my will was almost pleasant. I’ve left sums of money to half a dozen obscure charities and £100 to Mrs Pluck if she’s still in my service. The rest to Rudolph Gooding.
To-morrow will be December 20th. I am getting very excited as the day draws near. I went to see Miss Shoulter today for the first time since the afternoon on which I took the gun. Her brother had come and gone, she said, adding that she was sorry I hadn’t met him. It appears that he is coming again for Christmas. About the gun she said nothing, though I gave her a lead by mentioning reported thefts in the district. I feel sure she does not know it has gone. How easy everything is made for me!
CHAPTER SIX
Journal of Wellington Chickle
Continued
Eighteenth Entry
To-day is Christmas Eve – the greatest day of my life, if all goes well. I intend to commit my murder at about four o’clock, or as soon after four o’clock as my victim comes walking down the footpath. Of course no one may come. That will be a pity, but it only means a postponement, for everything is ready. It is half-past two now, and I have a clear hour in which to make this, the most important entry in my Journal.
But first I must tell you about the cartridge. I remembered a few days ago that for the suicide a cartridge case (or two if the tape has pulled both barrels) must be found actually in the gun. You see how careful you have to be? A less intelligent murderer would have made a slip there and perhaps used a type of cartridge which was not found locally. So I asked Miss Shoulter where I could buy some cartridges.
‘Don’t think you’ll get any now,’ she said, ‘unless you can persuade Warlock’s to let you have some. They used to supply me and Flipp before the war.’
‘What kind do they sell?’ I asked.
‘Potter’s Fesantsure,’ she said. ‘At least that’s what I always got, and Flipp the same.’
My own brand. Lucky again. So if I use these to fake the suicide, and the police decide that it wasn’t suicide, there’s still nothing to direct suspicion from Miss Shoulter or even Flipp.
Then fingerprints. Yesterday I went into the wood and polished every inch of Miss Shoulter’s gun. To-day, of course, I shall wear gloves. No sense in taking any chances, even though I’m pretty sure it will pass as suicide. Whoever it turns out to be is sure to have something about him which will provide reason enough for him to take his own life Who hasn’t?
Also yesterday I went to my bedroom and took out the pair of Miss Shoulter’s shoes which I have kept locked up there. I put them into the little haversack which I always take with me when I take my evening stroll. I took them to the place where the gun is hidden and put them beside it, wrapped in a piece of old sacking. They’ll be ready to-day. And that was all before I went to bed last night, and slept like a top. Everything, I felt, was in complete readiness. Not a chance taken or a mistake made. I had nothing whatever to worry about.
And now I will tell you how I have spent to-day, and you will have a unique opportunity of seeing into the mind of a murderer on the day of his crime. And a very unusual murderer, too. One who not only will not be caught, but will not even be suspected.
I had my early morning tea, then went to the window to look at the weather. Excellent. It had rained in the night, so that the ground will be nice and sticky to-day for footprints – of Miss Shoulter’s shoes! – yet there is scarcely a cloud visible now and everything promises a cold clear day.
I came down to breakfast and found that Mrs Pluck had managed to inveigle a kidney from the butcher. Delicious. I have missed such things during the war. Kidneys, sheep’s hearts, liver, sweetbreads, brains – all the little etceteras of meat which are so pleasing. I drank my coffee thoughtfully, wondering what I should do first.
I decided that the most urgent matter was that of loading my own gun and fixing it in the tree. I sent Mrs Pluck on her bicycle to the village and while she was gone carried out that simple operation. I found a branch about breast high pointing away from the house, loaded the gun and tied it firmly to the branch. Then I passed my long string round the trigger and brought the double line back to my lawn, seeing that from the foot of the tree to the edge of the lawn it was hidden in the undergrowth. So now the ends were ready for tying to the single thicker line I use for measuring out and marking flower-beds. All that was ready.
Then I went into the room where I keep my books, looked through my Journal from the beginning and went over in my mind exactly what I shall do this afternoon. After lunch I should work in the garden for a while, I decided, then at about half-past three I shall go for my stroll. Mrs Pluck usually has what she calls ‘half an hour to herself in the afternoon, disappearing into her little room on the east side of the house. From her window the front entrance is not visible so she will not be able to see that I go out without my gun. I shan’t call her attention to the fact in case I am seen later with a gun under my arm. I will just walk slowly out as though it were an ordinary day.
Then I shall make my way to the place where the gun is hidden, unroll it from its mackintosh and load it. Then I shall take off my shoes and put on Miss Shoulter’s. (I’ve already tried them, by the way. They are a little large, but I can easily walk in them.) Then I shall set off to the point, my point, where the fallen tree is. If I should happen to meet anyone on the way I feel quite convinced that he or she will not notice my shoes. But I shall keep my eye on him, watching his eyes. If I see him look down and I know that he has observed them, well, it will be all off till another time. But those are all ifs.
I suppose there is a slight danger, by the way, that I might meet someone who notices the shoes after the murder. It is very unlikely. And it is the only minute risk I am taking. After all, I can probably avoid anyone approaching – if anyone should be about.
To continue with my plan. I settle down behind my fallen tree trunk and wait. I am prepared to stay there for a full hour. And if a stranger comes it will be my great moment. I shall call him over. ‘I’m afraid I’ve sprained my ankle,’ I shall say. The gun will be beside me, leaning against the trunk in the most natural position. He will cross to see what is wrong. Then when he’s quite near me, not more than a yard or so, he shall have both barrels in his face.
I shall then get busy. I shall first clean the outside of Miss Shoulter’s gun which I shall be carrying, for although I shall have been wearing gloves all the afternoon it would be a useful extra precaution. Then I shall grip his fingers round it in a number of places. Then I shall tie the red tape to the triggers and set him as though he had been leaning over
the gun while it was upright and had pulled the triggers with his foot. His foot will, in fact, be still in the loop which I shall tie in the tape. Right. He’s there. An obvious suicide.
Slowly I shall walk away and back to the point where my own shoes are waiting. A quick change into these and I shall be ready for ‘Labour’s End’. ‘Dear me, Mrs Pluck,’ I shall say. ‘I’m out late this evening.’ It’s only half-past five, sir,’ she’ll tell me. Then, I’ll remember my gardening things including the line, and go out to get them in. It will be nice and dark by now so that I can tie my garden line to the double line round the trigger and let off the report in the woods without any trouble at all. Then all I have to do is to draw in my line and come in to enjoy my tea by a bright fire.
And there it will be-the perfect murder. Impossible of solution. And the victim? I do not know, and certainly do not care. It will be someone I have never seen before, that’s all.
Later Mrs Pluck will come in to say that she’s catching the Ashley bus and going to the pictures. ‘Very well,’ I shall say. ‘You have your key?’ And I shall be once again absorbed in my book. But when she has gone I shall go out quietly, untie my own gun, and bring it in. To-morrow, there will not be a single unusual thing about ‘Labour’s End’.
It leaves only one problem – Miss Shoulter’s shoes. I don’t want to keep them in my possession, and it would be better not to leave them in the wood, for one doesn’t know how thoroughly the police will search it. They had best be cleared very soon, I think. If the body is found the same evening there will be no questioning or search for some hours. I think my best plan would be to put them in my haversack that night and run up to London for a day tomorrow. Then they could go out of the train window. Or would it be better to leave them where they are? The police would have to search twenty acres of woodland to find them. I think they would be safe there.
Next day will come what is called, I think, the hue and cry, and I shall know the name of my victim. It will not disturb me. ‘Something attempted, something done’, will certainly earn me a night’s repose.
It is a quarter-past three now. The great moment is rapidly approaching. Mrs Pluck has just been in and I’ve given her her Christmas present. A touching scene-the benevolent old gentleman, the lonely housekeeper. She seemed grateful. And ironically enough there was the sound of a distant shot while we were speaking, so I needn’t have bothered with my gun-in-the-tree idea at all. Still, I rather enjoyed that. It was so ingenious. I shall use it just the same.
And now I’m off. My great triumph is at hand. I only hope a suitable victim appears this afternoon. I am so excited that my hand is trembling and I can’t write any more till afterwards.
S.B.—2*
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jack Ribbon Goes to Church
JACK RIBBON was sixteen years old and considered that his job as kennel-boy to Miss Shoulter was a good one. He was fond of dogs, fond of all animals for that matter, and in a desultory way was studying with the hope of one day becoming a veterinary surgeon. His hours of work were not too long and his pay was generous. He thought Miss Shoulter a bit of a gorgon, but he liked the straight way she talked to him, and used to say that it ‘wasn’t like working for a woman’.
Jack Ribbon was rather apt to talk of ‘women’ just then, for they had begun to interest him, and he them. He was considered the best dancer in Barnford and never missed one of the village hops. He was concerned with such matters as ties, brilliantine, and a new suit which he had just obtained from Ashley. He knew himself to be a presentable youth, fair-haired, light-skinned, quick of eye and movement, with an easy laugh which showed his excellent teeth. He found that he liked girls. A year ago he had not been aware of the fact. Now he was aware of little else.
Not that there was ‘anyone special’. He knew all of them who came to the dances, but he had not yet started walking out with one. He was adept at the familiar slightly Americanized banter of the dance floor, but he had not yet started ‘anything serious’.
He was not a remarkably inquisitive boy, but he could not help noticing things. Miss Shoulter’s brother now-he did not like him. A sullen fellow who drank too much and ‘treated the old girl rotten’. Jack could not make out why she put up with him. Yet every now and then he’d turn up at the bungalow, stay a night or two, drink anything he could lay hands on and, Jack believed, borrow a few quid from Miss Shoulter. He could not understand a woman who was so strong and downright in everything else being so weak over her brother, who, Jack thought, was nothing but a rotten sponger. He was supposed to make a living in some vague way out of horse-racing, but whether as a professional punter or a tout he would not like to say. Privately Jack did not believe that Shoulter had ever done a day’s work in his life.
Last time he had been down there had been trouble – and it had something to do with Flipp. That was another thing Jack had never understood; what there was between Ron Shoulter and Flipp. Every time Shoulter came down he would go up to Flipp’s place, usually in the evening, yet Flipp never came to Miss Shoulter’s while her brother was there.
And last time, after her brother had gone, Jack Ribbon had seen an extraordinary thing. He had gone into the bungalow to see her about one of the dogs and had found the old girl in tears. He could scarcely believe it. Miss Shoulter, such a manly, noisy woman, sitting in an arm-chair crying her eyes out. He had not told anyone. It was the sort of thing Jack believed in keeping to himself. But it had made him think.
Then there was the old boy who had come to live at ‘Labour’s End’. He was pretty thick with Miss Shoulter now. In and out of the house every day. What was the idea? Decent old boy, mind you. He had given Jack ten bob as a Christmas present for no reason at all that he could see. And he was always smiling and spoke friendly. Still, you couldn’t size him up. There was something funny about the old chap. And he did not like dogs.
Well, it was Christmas Eve. And to-morrow he’d be free all day except just for the feeding. But to-night he was going to Midnight Mass at the little church in Copling. His mother would not be able to come this year because of her rheumatism which had been chronic lately, though she’d never missed before. A good Catholic his mother, and she’d brought him up strict. She didn’t mind him going to a dance and having a bit of fun, but let him miss Mass on Sunday and see what would happen. Not that he wanted to miss Mass – particularly on Christmas Eve. The little church at Copling had been made out of an old barn and was still thatched. It was just like the real Christmas night, Jack thought.
So at eleven o’clock he started off from Barnford and began his lonely walk by the footpath through Deadman’s Wood. Pity there was no one to go with him, but he and his mother were almost the only Catholics in the village, except for one family who would be going by car. Still he did not mind the walk and it was a nice clear night with lots of stars.
Jack Ribbon passed ‘Labour’s End’ on the outskirts of the wood and noticed a light on in the housekeeper’s room. She’d probably come back on the Ashley bus and was just turning in. The old man must have gone to bed – no light anywhere else in the house.
He followed the path by which old Chickle came when he called on Miss Shoulter. It was still a bit sticky underfoot from last night’s rain, and you had to be careful how you walked.
Presently he reached a point in the path where there was a slight clearing and a fallen tree. It was here that old Chickle was always hanging about. He had heard Flipp tell Miss Shoulter that. ‘The old boy’s always standing about near that fallen tree beside the footpath,’ Flipp had said. ‘I wonder what the idea is?’ Miss Shoulter had laughed and said that he was probably waiting for rabbits to come out. But Flipp had seemed very puzzled. ‘I’ve met him half a dozen times, and always in the same spot.’
Jack was early for Mass. The church was only ten minutes away now and it was not yet half-past eleven. He crossed to the fallen tree, sat down on it and lit a cigarette.
When he told the story afterwards he could n
ot say exactly what had made him look on the ground behind him. He did mutter something incoherent about feeling as though someone was watching him, but admits that was just his imagination. But look he did, then jumped to his feet.
The first thing he saw was the dirty old teddy-bear overcoat which Ron Shoulter always wore. Perhaps it was this which made him certain that the Thing behind him was, or had been, Ron Shoulter. He never had any doubt of it at the time or afterwards, though it was not by the face that he recognized it, for the very sufficient reason, which he gave between chattering teeth later, that there wasn’t any face. In fact what he saw was a corpse with – as he put it – the best part of its head blown off.
He did not, he could not, touch it. He thinks he gave some sort of a shout. Then he set off as fast as he could and did not stop running till he came out of the wood. He was very scared.
The first thing he wanted to do was to get among people. Talk to someone. As he came to ‘Labour’s End’ he saw that the light was still on in the housekeeper’s room and without thinking very clearly he hurried up to the front door and gave the electric bell a long ring. As he waited he watched the footpath into the wood as though he thought someone might be following him.
Mrs Pluck came to the door.
‘What… Why, Ribbon, what on earth …’ she began.
‘A dead man,’ he said. ‘A dead man in the wood.’
A light showed in another window and in a few moments Mr Chickle came to the door in a thick woollen dressing-gown.
‘What’s this?’ he asked rather snappily. ‘Young Ribbon, what do you want at this time?’
‘I … just found a dead man, sir. In the wood. Just near that place where you often go….’