Hangman's Holiday

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘That’s important. Must have him clean. And he must work for his living, you know.’

  ‘Oh, he will. He can tackle rats or anything. We call him Maher-shalal-hashbaz, because he “makes haste to the spoil.” But he answers to Mash, don’t you, darling?’

  ‘I see. Well, he seems to be in good condition. No fleas? No diseases? My wife is very particular.’

  ‘Oh, no. He’s a splendid healthy cat. Fleas, indeed!’

  ‘No offence, but I must be particular, because we shall make a great pet of him. I don’t care much for his colour. Ten shillings is a high price to pay for a ginger one. I don’t know whether—’

  ‘Come, come,’ said Monty. ‘Nothing was said in your advertisement about colour. This lady has come a long way to bring you the cat, and you can’t expect her to take less than she’s offered. You’ll never get a better cat than this; everyone knows that the ginger ones are the best mousers – they’ve got more go in them. And look at this handsome white shirt-front. It shows you how beautifully clean he is. And think of the advantage – you can see him – you and your good lady won’t go tripping over him in a dark corner, same as you do with these black and tabby ones. As a matter of fact, we ought to charge extra for such a handsome colour as this. They’re much rarer and more high-class than the ordinary cat.’

  ‘There’s something in that,’ admitted Mr Doe. ‘Well, look here, Miss Maitland. Suppose you bring Maher – what you said – out to our place this evening, and if my wife likes him we will keep him. Here’s the address. And you must come at six precisely, please, as we shall be going out later.’

  Monty looked at the address, which was at the northern extremity of the Edgware-Morden Tube.

  ‘It’s a very long way to come on the chance,’ he said resolutely. ‘You will have to pay Miss Maitland’s expenses.’

  ‘Oh, certainly,’ said Mr Doe. ‘That’s only fair. Here is half a crown. You can return me the change this evening. Very well, thank you. Your cat will have a really happy home if he comes to us. Put him back in his basket now. The other way out, please. Mind the step. Good morning.’

  Mr Egg and his new friend, stumbling down an excessively confined and stuffy back staircase into a malodorous by-street, looked at one another.

  ‘He seemed rather an abrupt sort of person,’ said Miss Maitland. ‘I do hope he’ll be kind to Maher-shalal-hashbaz. You were marvellous about the gingeriness – I thought he was going to be stuffy about that. My angel Mash! How anybody could object to his beautiful colour!’

  ‘Um!’ said Mr Egg. ‘Well, Mr Doe may be O.K., but I shall believe in his ten shillings when I see it. And, in any case, you’re not going too his house alone. I shall call for you in the car at five o’clock.’

  ‘But, Mr Egg – I can’t allow you! Besides, you’ve taken half a crown off him for my fare.’

  ‘That’s only business,’ said Mr Egg. ‘Five o’clock sharp I shall be there.’

  ‘Well, come at four, and let us give you a cup of tea, anyway. That’s the least we can do.’

  ‘Pleased, I’m sure,’ said Mr Egg.

  The house occupied by Mr John Doe was a new detached villa standing solitary at the extreme end of a new and unmade suburban road. It was Mrs Doe who answered the bell – a small, frightened-looking woman with watery eyes and a nervous habit of plucking at her pale lips with her fingers. Maher-shalal-hashbaz was released from his basket in the sitting-room, where Mr Doe was reclining in an arm-chair, reading the evening paper. The cat sniffed suspiciously at him, but softened to Mrs Doe’s timid advances so far as to allow his ears to be tickled.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ said Mr Doe, ‘will he do? You don’t object to the colour, eh?’

  ‘Oh, no. He’s a beautiful cat. I like him very much.’

  ‘Right. Then we’ll take him. Here you are, Miss Maitland. Ten shillings. Please sign this receipt. Thanks. Never mind about the change from the half-crown. There you are, my dear; you’ve got your cat, and I hope we shall see no more of those mice. Now’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘I’m afraid you must say goodbye to your pet quickly, Miss Maitland; we’ve got to get off. He’ll be quite safe with us.’

  Monty strolled out with gentlemanly reticence into the hall while the last words were said. It was, no doubt, the same gentlemanly feeling which led him to move away from the sitting-room door towards the back part of the house; but he had only waited a very few minutes when Jean Maitland came out, sniffing valiantly into a small handkerchief, and followed by Mrs Doe.

  ‘You’re fond of your cat, aren’t you, my dear? I do hope you don’t feel too—’

  ‘There, there, Flossie,’ said her husband, appearing suddenly at her shoulders, ‘Miss Maitland knows he’ll be well looked after.’ He showed them out, and shut the door quickly upon them.

  ‘If you don’t feel happy about it,’ said Mr Egg uneasily, ‘we’ll have him back in two twos.’

  ‘No, its all right,’ said Jean. ‘If you don’t mind, let’s get in at once and drive away – rather fast.’

  As they lurched over the uneven road, Mr Egg saw a lad coming down it. In one hand he carried a basket. He was whistling loudly.

  ‘Look!’ said Monty. ‘One of our hated rivals. We’ve got in ahead of him, anyhow. “The salesman first upon the field gets the bargain signed and sealed.” Damn it!’ he added to himself, as he pressed down the accelerator, ‘I hope it’s O.K. I wonder.’

  Although Mr Egg had worked energetically to get Maher-shalal-hashbaz settled in the world, he was not easy in his mind. The matter preyed upon his spirits to such an extent that, finding himself back in London on the following Saturday week, he made an expedition south of the Thames to make inquiries. And when the Maitlands’ door was opened by Jean, there by her side, arching his back and brandishing his tail, was Maher-shalal-hashbaz.

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl, ‘he found his way back, the clever darling! Just a week ago today – and he was dreadfully thin and draggled – how he did it, I can’t think. But we simply couldn’t send him away again, could we, Maggie?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Maitland. ‘I don’t like the cat, and never did, but there! I suppose even cats have their feelings. But it’s an awkward thing about the money.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jean. ‘You see, when he got back and we decided to keep him, I wrote to Mr Doe and explained, and sent him a postal order for the ten shillings. And this morning the letter came back from the Post Office, marked “Not Known.” So we don’t know what to do about it.’

  ‘I never did believe in Mr John Doe,’ said Monty. ‘If you ask me, Miss Maitland, he was no good, and I shouldn’t bother any more about him.’

  But the girl was not satisfied, and presently the obliging Mr Egg found himself driving out northwards in search of the mysterious Mr Doe, carrying the postal order with him.

  The door of the villa was opened by a neatly dressed, elderly woman whom he had never seen before. Mr Egg inquired for Mr John Doe.

  ‘He doesn’t live here. Never heard of him.’

  Monty explained that he wanted the gentleman who had purchased the cat.

  ‘Cat?’ said the woman. Her face changed. ‘Step inside, will you? George!’ she called to somebody inside the house, ‘here’s a gentleman called about a cat. Perhaps you’d like to –’ The rest of the sentence was whispered into the ear of a man who emerged from the sitting-room, and who appeared to be, and was in fact, her husband.

  George looked Mr Egg carefully up and down. ‘I don’t know nobody here called Doe,’ said he; ‘but if it’s the late tenant you’re wanting, they’ve left. Packed and went off in a hurry the day after the old gentleman was buried. I’m the caretaker for the landlord. And if you’ve missed a cat, maybe you’d like to come and have a look out here.’

  He led the way through the house and out at the back door into the garden. In the middle of one of the flower-beds was a large hole, like an irregularly shaped and shallow grave. A spade stood upright in the mould. And laid in
two lugubrious rows upon the lawn were the corpses of some very dead cats. At a hasty estimate, Mr Egg reckoned that there must be close on fifty of them.

  ‘If any of these is yours,’ said George, ‘you’re welcome to it. But they ain’t in what you might call good condition.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Mr Egg, appalled, and thought with pleasure of Maher-shalal-hashbaz, tail erect, welcoming him on the Maitlands’ threshold. ‘Come back and tell me about this. It’s – it’s unbelievable!’

  It turned out that the name of the late tenants had been Proctor. The family consisted of an old Mr Proctor, an invalid, to whom the house belonged, and his married nephew and the nephew’s wife.

  ‘They didn’t have no servant sleeping in. Old Mrs Crabbe used to do for them, coming in daily, and she always told me that the old gentleman couldn’t abide cats. They made him ill like – I’ve known folks like that afore. And, of course, they had to be careful, him being so frail and his heart so bad he might have popped off any minute. What it seemed to us when I found all them cats buried, like, was as how maybe young Proctor had killed them to prevent the old gentleman seeing ’em and getting a shock. But the queer thing is that all them cats looks to have been killed about the same time, and not so long ago, neither.’

  Mr Egg remembered the advertisement, and the false name, and the applicants passed out by a different door, so that none of them could possibly tell how many cats had been bought and paid for. And he remembered also the careful injunction to bring the cat at 6 o’clock precisely, and the whistling lad with the basket who had appeared on the scene about a quarter of an hour after them. He remembered another thing – a faint miauling noise that had struck upon his ear as he stood in the hall while Jean was saying good-bye to Maher-shalal-hashbaz, and the worried look on Mrs Proctor’s face when she had asked if Jean was fond of her pet. It looked as though Mr Proctor junior had been collecting cats for some rather sinister purpose. Collecting them from every quarter of London. From quarters as far apart as possible – or why so much care to take down names and addresses?

  ‘What did the old gentleman die of?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs George, ‘it was just heart-failure, or so the doctor said. Last Tuesday week he passed away in the night, poor soul, and Mrs Crabbe that laid him out said he had a dreadful look of horror on his poor face, but the doctor said that wasn’t anythink out of the way, not with his disease. But what the doctor didn’t see, being too busy to come round, was them terrible scratches on his face and arms. Must have regular clawed himself in his agony – oh, dear, oh, dear! But there! Anybody knew as he might go off at any time like the blowing out of a candle.’

  ‘I know that, Sally,’ said her husband. ‘But what about them scratches on the bedroom door? Don’t tell me he did that, too. Or, if he did, why didn’t somebody hear him and come along to help him? It’s all very well for Mr Timbs – that’s the landlord – to say as tramps must have got into the house after the Proctors left, but put us in here to look after the place, but why should tramps go for to do a useless bit of damage like that?’

  ‘A ’eartless lot, them Proctors, that’s what I say,’ said Mrs George. ‘A-snoring away most likely, and leaving their uncle to die by himself. And wasn’t the lawyer upset about it, neither! Coming along in the morning to make the old gentleman’s will, and him passed away so sudden. And seeing they came in for all his money after all, you’d think they might have given him a better funeral. Mean, I call it – not a flower, hardly – only one half-guinea wreath – and no oak – only elm and a shabby lot of handles. Such trash! You’d think they’d be ashamed.’

  Mr Egg was silent He was not a man of strong imagination, but he saw a very horrible picture in his mind. He saw an old, sick man asleep, and hands that quietly opened the bedroom door, and dragged in, one after the other, sacks that moved and squirmed and mewed. He saw the sacks left open on the floor, and the door being softly shut and locked on the outside. And then, in the dim glow of the night-light, he saw shadowy shapes that leapt and flitted about the room – black and tabby and ginger – up and down, prowling on noiseless feet, thudding on velvet paws from tables and chairs. And then, plump up on the bed – a great ginger cat with amber eyes – and the sleeper waking with a cry – and after that a nightmare of terror and disgust behind the locked and remorseless door. A very old, sick man, stumbling and gasping for breath, striking out at the shadowy horrors that pursued and fled him – and the last tearing pain at the heart when merciful death overtook him. Then, nothing but a mewing of cats and a scratching at the door, and outside, the listener, with his ear bent to the keyhole.

  Mr Egg passed his handkerchief over his forehead; he did not like his thoughts. But he had to go on, and see the murderer sliding through the door in the morning – hurrying to collect his innocent accomplices before Mrs Crabbe should come – knowing that it must be done quickly and the corpse made decent – and that when people came to the house there must be no mysterious miaulings to surprise them. To set the cats free would not be enough – they might hang about the house. No; the water-butt and then the grave in the garden. But Maher-shalal-hashbaz – noble Maher-shalal-hashbaz had fought for his life. He was not going to be drowned in any water-butts. He had kicked himself loose (‘and I hope,’ thought Mr Egg, ‘he scratched him all to blazes’), and he had toiled his way home across London. If only Maher-shalal-hashbaz could tell what he knew! But Monty Egg knew something, and he could tell.

  ‘And I will tell, what’s more,’ said Monty Egg to himself, as he wrote down the name and address of Mr Proctor’s solicitor. He supposed it must be murder to terrify an old man to death; he was not sure, but he meant to find out. He cast about in his mind for a consoling motto from the Salesman’s Handbook, but, for the first time in his life, could find nothing that really fitted the case.

  ‘I seem to have stepped regularly out of my line,’ he thought sadly; ‘but still, as a citizen—’

  And then he smiled, recollecting the first and last aphorism in his favourite book:

  To Serve the Public is the aim

  Of every salesman worth the name.

  THE MAN WHO KNEW HOW

  For perhaps the twentieth time since the train had left Carlisle, Pender glanced up from Murder at the Manse and caught the eye of the man opposite.

  He frowned a little. It was irritating to be watched so closely, and always with that faint, sardonic smile. It was still more irritating to allow oneself to be so much disturbed by the smile and the scrutiny. Pender wrenched himself back to his book with a determination to concentrate upon the problem of the minister murdered in the library. But the story was of the academic kind that crowds all its exciting incidents into the first chapter, and proceeds thereafter by a long series of deductions to a scientific solution in the last. The thin thread of interest, spun precariously upon the wheel of Pender’s reasoning brain, had been snapped. Twice he had to turn back to verify points that he had missed in reading. Then he became aware that his eyes had followed three closely argued pages without conveying anything whatever to his intelligence. He was not thinking about the murdered minister at all – he was becoming more and more actively conscious of the other man’s face. A queer face, Pender thought.

  There was nothing especially remarkable about the features in themselves; it was their expression that daunted Pender. It was a secret face, the face of one who knew a great deal to other people’s disadvantage. The mouth was a little crooked and tightly tucked in at the corners, as though savouring a hidden amusement. The eyes, behind a pair of rimless pince-nez, glittered curiously; but that was possibly due to the light reflected in the glasses. Pender wondered what the man’s profession might be. He was dressed in a dark lounge suit, a raincoat and a shabby soft hat; his age was perhaps about forty.

  Pender coughed unnecessarily and settled back into his corner, raising the detective story high before his face, barrier-fashion. This was worse than useless. He gained the impression that t
he man saw through the manoeuvre and was secretly entertained by it. He wanted to fidget, but felt obscurely that his doing so would in some way constitute a victory for the other man. In his self-consciousness he held himself so rigid that attention to his book became a sheer physical impossibility.

  There was no stop now before Rugby, and it was unlikely that any passenger would enter from the corridor to break up this disagreeable solitude à deux. But something must be done. The silence had lasted so long that any remark, however trivial, would – so Pender felt – burst upon the tense atmosphere with the unnatural clatter of an alarm clock. One could, of course, go out into the corridor and not return, but that would be an acknowledgement of defeat. Pender lowered Murder at the Manse and caught the man’s eye again.

  ‘Getting tired of it?’ asked the man.

  ‘Night journeys are always a bit tedious,’ replied Pender, half relieved and half reluctant. ‘Would you like a book?’

  He took The Paper-Clip Clue from his attaché-case and held it out hopefully. The other man glanced at the title and shook his head.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ he said, ‘but I never read detective stories. They’re so – inadequate, don’t you think so?’

  ‘They are rather lacking in characterisation and human interest, certainly,’ said Pender, ‘but on a railway journey—’

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ said the other man. ‘I am not concerned with humanity. But all these murderers are so incompetent – they bore me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Pender. ‘At any rate they are usually a good deal more imaginative and ingenious than murderers in real life.’

  ‘Than the murderers who are found out in real life, yes,’ admitted the other man.

  ‘Even some of those did pretty well before they got pinched,’ objected Pender. ‘Crippen, for instance; he need never have been caught if he hadn’t lost his head and run off to America. George Joseph Smith did away with at least two brides quite successfully before fate and the News of the World intervened.’