Portrait goes tomorrow via plane. No models available in London of non-existent things. So I had to use my own imagination as to the 4-dimensional cube.
Harold.
DOCUMENT XXVI
Pen portrait of Xenius Jones, by Harold DeLay, shipped November 15, 1936, via mail-plane “Atlantic Eagle,” for publication in December issue of “Criminology Magazine,” issued at St. Louis, Missouri.
DOCUMENT XXVII
Telegram, bearing date of November 20, 1936, and office of dispatch as Bern, Switzerland, from Jane Trotter, former second-maid in the Marceau ménage at Little Ivington, England—though now working under the name “Dora Riverton” for old Mrs. Stuyves-Cherryvant, of 15 Redcliffe Square, London—to Aleck Snide, American detective, residing at the Hotel Russell, Russell Square, London.
Will tell all. Dont do nothing. Long handwrit letter on way.
D. R.
DOCUMENT XXVIII
A letter, received at Chicago, Illinois, on November 23, 1936, written by X. Jones, of 136 Grey’s Inn Road, London, England.
Dear S:
I enclose herewith a simple diagram showing exactly what I had reference to in my long night-letter cablegram sent you on October 31st. I.e: the “discovery” which made me anticipate a possible “confession” in the Marceau Case.
Though I have, since then, to be sure, revised my opinion that such “confession” is a very probable eventuality—since my belief was based on the supposition that some eventual newspaper “rehash” of the Marceau Case would carry—for the sake of economy with respect to space—a combined diagram of the two principal features of the Marceau Case i.e., a map of the rear grounds, easily and amply obtainable by anyone who might be possessed of a steel tape measure; and the map of the famous footprint trails, a photostatic copy of which could be obtained, on petition, from Scotland Yard, because of its being in the “unofficial dossier” there. And what I mean by “combined diagram” is one in which the latter map would be actually depicted upon the former, and to scale of course. And accomplished, as I thought it might probably be, by a fusing—through mere photo-engraving—of the two in some newspaper syndicate office which prepares the so-called “mats” for feature articles.
But, as you no doubt saw, when my anticipated “rehash” did eventuate—and I refer to that gargantuan story put out 5 days ago by the All-America News Service, which I got in toto over here in The American Traveller’s Gazette, published at Liverpool, which evidently catches the same material by way of the Inter-World News Service—well, as I started to say above, the A-A most assuredly did not stint for space; and, as you also saw, they put forth two separate maps: one of the grounds—and one of the footprint trails.
But, old man, had they but printed those two items together—by reduction to identical scales, and fusing—I am certain that some publicity-hungry creature of circus-land, somewhere in this wide world—one who, of necessity, was a Lilliputian—would assuredly have seen a glorious chance for his name to appear in headlines all over the world—at least for from a few hours to 24 hours, anyway!—and would have “confessed” the killing of André Marceau.
And herewith exactly why.
This fellow Whittimore who wrote the story—and his map-maker, some very efficient man from London—went out there to Little Ivington on a day when the people who now occupy the old Marceau estate were away in Hertford. And they made up the complete map which you saw printed in that story. But they did not know that, since that famous night of May 10th, 1935, the concrete garage has been moved off its brick foundations onto rollers, transported an approximate 62½ feet westward, and the old foundations taken down and built up underneath it again in the new position. Or, regarding it more simply, and in round numbers, if two twin garages were there today—one in the old position—and one in the new—an even 50 feet would lie between their sides which faced each other. (And just as the garage was moved, so too, in fact, the concrete milkhouse, which at that time lay back of the garage—or southward—with respect to the driveway, was likewise transported slightly further westward, and put up again to the west side of the garage.) Though—no wonder Whittimore and his map-maker did not know all this! For not a single trace exists today of the change of site of both structures, so excellent was the re-landscaping done.
And, in the present position of the garage—which, please remember, it did not hold then!—a straight line connecting the imbedded Captain Kidd anchor barb (which, by the way, is still there, in the angle of the northeast corner of the garage) with the huge powerful left bracket—the Guy Fawkes gallows beam brace (also still there!)—under Marceau’s window—passes exactly over the outer extremities of the footprint trails made by the small shoes.
Such a happening—which, geometrically and mathematically at least, could occur but once in a thousand million blue moons!—and which did, by gad, happen here!—would be practically prima facie evidence that the whole occurrence of that night was a wire-walking job—and not an autogiro job at all: that some potential killer, Lilliputian in size, with wire-walking experience, had somehow connected those two points by a wire, walked out in the bright moonlight upon his improvised bridge, from the garage roof—to which, of course, access was possible from the ground by way of the attached bamboo ladder—let down some kind of a rope “escape ladder” from the point “J”—gone backward on the wire fifteen feet or so and let himself down via a rope or something at “E”—“sapped up” behind the kneeling Marceau—done his work—gotten back to his escape ladder—then up on the wire, taking everything up—and getting back to terra firma—i.e., the garage roof!
And the piece of photostat I have pasted here on the next sheet for you, old man, is from a large one that I made myself: by “fusing” the erroneous grounds map in the A-A news story—and the correct and accurate footprint trail map: on it, in dotted form, I have drawn this beautiful “theoretical wire.” Astounding, is it not, the way that “wire” just exactly connects those four points?
You will note, of course, that I have not only stricken out, very vigorously, that false position of the garage and milkhouse (false, that is, with respect to conditions of May 10, 1935) but have drawn in, somewhat crudely—to the right—the correct position of both i.e., their positions at the time Marceau met his death. And I have, moreover, connected—with a very real and undotted line!—what would have been the position of the imbedded anchor barb, in the original location of the garage, with the “gallows brace” under Marceau’s window.
Under which conditions, of course, a “confession” in re—and via—“wire-walking” would be entirely out of order! For it would involve the necessity of the wire-walker—and he a Lilliputian, don’t forget!—proceeding to point “E”‘ (after, of course, placing his descending and escape ladders) and jumping from “E’” to “E”—a mere distance of 37 feet, more or less, horizontally alone. And of doing what he had to do at C-F-I, returning to “J”—and, from “J,” jumping a distance of 26 feet horizontally (and Heaven knows how many feet vertically!) to “J’”!
All of which is quite impossible, of course, no matter how one might look at it.
As impossible, indeed, as that even a wire had been looped around and completely about that tiny but stable structure, the milkhouse, and the latter used in entirety as the southwest anchorage of an aerial bridge—for the milkhouse, as I have already pointed out, was not, on May 10, 1935, where it was shown on the All-America News Service map—but was approximately where I have shown it, i.e., in behind—rearward of—in back of—the garage!
On the day I went out to Little Ivington to make my first survey of the premises and general terrain, I noted, immediately of course, that the milkhouse did not lie behind the garage southward, as it did on the grounds map in the dossier. But I fatuously attributed my sense of things having been appreciably shifted about, to the mere fact that that little structure alone had been moved to a new point where it would face directly on the driveway. Oddly enough, I discovered t
he “error” in the dossier’s ground map with respect to the position of the garage—and, incidentally, there are no other discrepancies I find, between all the details of house and grounds as they are today, with what they were in May, 1935—well, as I started to say, I discovered the “error” in the garage’s position because of having planted small flags in the lawn where those miniature footprint trails had ended—for, remember, I had the full dossier footprint trail map, too, with everything marked up radially as well as by vertical and horizontal co-ordinates. And, lying on my belly in the snow, and sighting across the tops of those flags to find what windows in the McNulty house giving on to those flags were cut off by the Marceau house, I noted that the flags lined up exactly with the nearest angle of the wall under Marceau’s window; indeed, with the frontmost (with respect, that is, to the rear lawn being considered “front”!) windowbox brace itself. And a truly gigantic thing, that windowbox brace was, too. And all of this made me reflect that, did the flags but line up behind me thus, with some rigid support, a perfect hypothetical picture would be presented of—And lo, turning about on my belly, I found that that was exactly what they did! They lined up exactly with the nearest angle of the garage. Only, unfortunately for any “hypothetical hypotheses” I might have had, I became a bit suspicious then as to whether, if milkhouse had since been moved, garage might not also have been. And, thanks to a couple of boys who at this juncture ran down the driveway to watch the fascinating sight of a man working on his belly, I found that the garage had indeed been moved a year back—and they, moreover, had watched the procedure! (All of which was subsequently corroborated for me by the local contractor who moved it.) And, referring in privacy to the original grounds map I had with me—I saw that in my “hypothetical hypothesis” was falsity aplenty. And that what might have been—decidedly was not! Though let me state that more correctly: that what might seem to have been—could not properly thus seem to be!
And so the “confession” which I anticipated might take place has not taken place. At least, not yet; for I hear no newsboys, from Kings Cross tube station near here, calling underneath my window where I am writing this letter. The reason the confession has not taken place is, I believe, chiefly because the American public does not have time to reduce maps found in murder mysteries to identical scales —and to fuse them photographically—and to derive deductions from them. Including, of course, in this so-called American Public, Lilliputian wirewalkers—or ex-wirewalkers—out of jobs, or out of popularity with their own public, who have sufficient complex upon point-bridging to perceive immediately from such a fused map that therein lies a chance for one such individual to make all the newspapers—of all the world. For a few hours at least!
Perhaps later, one such small individual with a complex on the crossing of horizontal space without walking on the actual ground, may yet be driven to fuse these two maps to see how he might have perpetrated all that was perpetrated, had he been of a mind etc., etc., and, finding that everything is in harmony with his own profession, may decide to interview the reporters of all the news syndicates, whose policy is, of course, to print the story first—sell many copies—and then repudiate it afterwards!
At any rate, do not bother to return this piece of photostat. It is of no consequence, of course. I have just been re-reading your interesting letter of quite a number of days back, concerning the Brooklyn investigation. Strange, is it not?—the “red herrings” that life draws across trails? Now one would be almost certain that—however—another “happenstance” is it not?
As “happenstantial,” truly, in its way, as your unearthing there in New York that George L. McNulty who, some years back, was in a branch of the sporting goods business i.e., arms; and mixed up with a Negro Lilliputian as well. Now there, I say unreservedly, was a red herring that smelt to high heaven—for some deserving hound—at the time! However, since you find that the George T. McNulty who was Marceau’s neighbor has been with the American Sporting Goods Company for 20 years, while this other McNulty is now running a notions store in Newark (a long call, indeed, from selling illicit pistols, eh?) no doubt some enterprising American newspaper cub long since went up that false trail—and felt more than a bit sheepish when he got to its end!
X.
DOCUMENT XXIX
Bill, of date November 23, 1936, mailed to Aleck Snide, American detective staying at the Hotel Russell, London, by Messrs. Rommick and Custin, Shoe Lane, London.
DOCUMENT XXX
Photograph of Jane Trotter, alias “Dora Riverton,” in possession of Gerald Wilkins of 3 Westagte Terrace, off Redcliffe Square, London.
DOCUMENT XXXI
Letter, of date November 24, 1936, from Gerald Wilkins, of 3 Westgate Terrace, off Redcliffe Square, London, England, to X. Jones, of 136 Grey’s Inn Road, London.
Dear Mr. Jones:
Boy oh boy—am I chidden!—for having bought a small £5 diamond ring—and gotten myself engaged to Jane Trotter! I know, Mr. Jones, that you did not tell me nor ask me nor even expect me to take any such measures, but I did so want to help on this famous case. And so—I did all that.
And please don’t be put out with me!
For at least, Mr. Jones, I have the satisfaction of being able to report to you herewith that I have gotten results.
And how!—if now I may be able to use an Americanism which I have run across in The Windsor Magazine!
Mr. Jones, prepare to be surprised!
Marceau knew the name of his murderer—at least the person most likely to murder him!
And Marceau knew, also, the general method that would probably be utilized to kill him!
And those are the two things that Jane Trotter has been concealing!
And those two things, unfortunately, Mr. Jones, have fallen into the hands of some American detective named Aleck Snide. Who, like you, is working on the Marceau Case; though, as I gather, for some chain of American newspapers.
You see, I got a long letter today from Jane. From Bern, Switzerland. (Hotel St. Ursanne.) Where she went, more or less unexpectedly, with Mrs. Stuyves-Cherryvant, who has something to do there concerning an estate of her brother’s. And, believing that I am going to marry her—well—Jane told me all. Or at least a great deal. Though, Mr. Jones, I’m not altogether certain but that maybe she’s keeping a little back—even from me!
I’m not going to be altogether the 100 per cent rotter now—and show you her complete letter—for much of it concerns just herself and myself—but I am going to give you all the facts set forth in it—concerning André Marceau.
It seems, Mr. Jones, that Marceau, whenever he got angry with or at anybody, went up to his room and wrote a short-story, in which he either made his enemy the villain or else put him in some ridiculous light. He would keep these scripts for from a few weeks to a month in his desk, and finally destroy them. Jane actually read one, at least—and surreptitiously, of course—in which a character in it—a dung-heaver!—was positively our Labor Prime Minister. She so swears.
However, in the week before Marceau was murdered, Mr. Jones, he received two tiny bright green envelopes—miniature size!—by post—from London. Jane brought each one of them in to him. Each bore his name and address, handprinted in ink. And that was all. They came on, respectively, her birthday—and that of her brother Tom’s. The communications in each of the tiny envelopes—whatever they were—Marceau read, she says, and flushed angrily—and burned up. Including, each time, the envelope. In the first instance she up and out and out asked him what was wrong. And he told her that he’d received a “thret”—and that while it might be just a “joak”—somebody ribbing him—it was nevertheless from a member of one of the greatest tribes of cowards the world had ever spawned i.e., a “person 2 yellow to sine his own name.” (Jane’s spelling used in a couple of places above!) What sort of “tribe” did Marceau mean, I wonder? Was he referring to anonymous letter writers in general? Or was he referring out and out, to Lilliputian? Or what?
In the second instance, she didn’t more than see the “skornful” curl of his lip when he read the communication. (And that she saw in a corner of a mirror, for his back was turned almost squarely to her.) And the communication, whatever it was, must have been very brief, she tells me—for after hardly more than one perusal of it, he tossed it into the grate fire burning in front of him. Following it, too, with the envelope.
And, Mr. Jones, not long after he received each of these communications, he went up to his studio room off the sunken rock-garden and pounded out one of his “story manuscripts.” In the first case—that of the communication of May 4th—he was abstracted all of that day of May 4th—in a deep study, as she puts it, like a man who “suddently realized that life was unsertin if one had enemies. And irritating if one was beset by joaksters.” And he was still that way, part of the next day too. But finally, on the afternoon of May 5th, he went up and hammered out a script. It was a longer one than he usually wrote, she says, and he “revizzed it” as he “alwiz” did—as he went along—copying the revised sheets, and burning them up in the grate. And this story, appearing in a pigeonhole of his desk next morning (and she alone, it seems, took care of his room) was entitled “Strange Romance”; and there was a notation on the top, she claims, in his handwriting—in pencil—to the effect that, concealed within the script somewhere, was an explanation of how his death, in case he was ever found dead under mysterious circumstances, was brought about.
In the second instance he had, it appears, as a result of that second green communication received May 8th, something far more specific to code into his resultant script—though he coded it no more specifically (at least according to her, confound it!); at least this manuscript was definitely the shorter of the two, and he wrote it the afternoon of the morning he received that second threat. And again, as before, there was a handwritten signed notation on the top of it—this time in red ink—to the effect that in one of the lines of the story was coded the name of the person responsible for his death, in case he were ever found dead under mysterious circumstances. This story, she tells me, was entitled “A Cheque for 200 Guineas.”
X. Jones—Of Scotland Yard Page 6