by Q. Patrick
“Although she was my first love, Mrs. Bernard-Moss was never in love with me. Why should she be? A beautiful, charming woman like that had no time to waste on a stupid young pup who saw himself as a kind of Chekhov-cum Belasco.
“But she has always been sweet and kind, and I hope she’ll allow me to say that I consider her one of my best friends.”
These memories of youth and romance seemed strangely inappropriate in the dreary atmosphere of the headmaster’s study.
Mrs. Bernard-Moss and Mr. Heath moved their feet slightly. Apart from that, the room was absolutely still. Even Sir Wilfrid had been caught up by this narration. His red face was puckered with deep lines of astonishment and his monocle lay forgotten on his waistcoat.
The English master regarded one of his perfectly polished shoes with gravity. “I think you must all admit now that the definite evidence against Mrs. Bernard-Moss and myself is not so definite after all. Every fact of the case can be used equally effectively by substituting Franz or Anna.”
He picked up the newspaper-cutting which still lay on the table in front of him.
“Now let’s return to my little mystery story.” He glanced at Inspector Saunders. “The constable is still outside the door?”
Saunders nodded. “Yes, y-yes, sir.”
“Good. Well, I must ask you all to accept for the moment that the murders really were committed by the Hellers. It is our job now to discover Franz or Anna or both. I think we shall find whom we want in this very room.”
There was a slight rustling sound. Everyone moved in their chairs and exchanged wide-eyed glances.
“Our story begins with the discovery of a body in the East River, New York City—the headless body of a man, which is identified by relatives and from certain articles of clothing as being that of Franz Heller. Clothes mean nothing, obviously. And in this case, relatives mean nothing either. The only fact that really means anything is that the body was decapitated to hide its true identity. You see, the man in the river was not Franz Heller. A man X was killed by the Hellers, decapitated so that it would be difficult to tell who he really was, dressed in some of Franz’s clothes and thrown in the river. The Hellers wanted us to believe that Franz was dead, and this was their pleasant method of convincing us. They knew that the body would be washed up in time. That was the moment for one of the family to go round and identify it and thus kill off their brother as far as the police were concerned. That may seem a preposterous theory, but it happens to be true. You see, the person I called yesterday on the ’phone was not the notorious Pop Baxter. It was my perfectly good father.”
Harvey smiled at McFee a trifle deprecatingly. “In spite of the rude things I’ve said about him in the past, Father is the head of one of the largest manufacturing concerns in America. He is also an extremely efficient man. After I called him, he got in touch with the police immediately and cabled me this morning to say that they have discovered who the dead man X really was. The mother has identified the body without a shadow of doubt. An innocent man was murdered just so that the Hellers could carry out their plan with less likelihood of detection.”
He paused, throwing a glance at Sophonisba, who was sitting bolt upright on the edge of her chair.
“Now you will ask me who this man was that was sacrificed on the altar of the Hellers’ revenge. I will tell you. He was a man who was intending to travel to Europe. He was a man whose appearance and age were sufficiently like those of Franz Heller to make it possible for him to use his passport. For remember, Heller was a marked man. It would have aroused attention with the police if he’d been known to leave the country. X was a man who had never been in England before, so that it was perfectly possible for Heller to assume his identity over here. He was a man with official papers and a definite object which suited Heller down to the ground.”
At this instant, there was a mad scuffle outside the door. A policeman shouted: “Hey, there!” A small, squeaky voice clearly and noisily replied. The door burst open to reveal the dishevelled figure of St. John Lucas. All respect for his elders had vanished, all fear of the police swallowed up in the great excitement of the great moment. He did not even seem to notice his father. He dashed to Sophonisba’s side, waving a piece of paper with dramatic abandon.
“Miss Soapy, Miss Soapy, I’ve got it! I’ve worked out the code.” Then, in a high, chanting voice he shouted: “Police have discovered and identified body stop danger stop leave at once. That’s it, Miss Soapy! I’ve found it out! I have!”
The whole assembly stared at the boy in helpless bewilderment. Only Harvey remained calm.
“Well played, Lucas.” He snatched the deciphered cablegram and threw it to the startled Chief Constable.
“I didn’t expect to have such definite proof, but here it is. This is the cablegram that was sent in code to the guilty party this morning. It was sent by Anna—and was probably the last thing she did before her arrest.”
“Arrest? Anna arrested?”
“Yes.” Harvey held out his hand to Sophonisba, who passed him another cablegram. “I got this from my father this morning. Read it out, Sir Wilfrid.”
The Chief Constable took the envelope and screwed the monocle into place. His face purpled with astonishment as he read:
“Body in East River definitely identified by mother as that of Stephen McFee late of Drummond Detective Bureau stop Anna Heller arrested this morning and warrant out for Franz who believed in England stop come home on your own terms affectionately Pop.”
“But what—how—who—why?”
“I think I can explain,” put in Sophonisba demurely. “Two cablegrams came this morning. One was for Mr. Harvey, which you’ve just read. The other was in code and was addressed to—Stephen McFee.”
“But Stephen McFee isn’t Stephen McFee,” echoed Harvey swiftly. “The real McFee was murdered and thrown in the river. This man is—Franz Heller.”
A babel of voices followed this remark.
“Yes.” Harvey pointed at the ex-porter. “This is the man who killed Stephen McFee, stole his papers and presented himself at the Drummond agency in London as the man whom he had murdered. This is the man who killed the Moss twins and then tried to throw the blame on Mrs. Bernard-Moss. He’s darn clever, I admit. It’s incredible, but then everything played into his hands. He’s have had a tough job pinning it on Myra if it hadn’t been for me. As it was, by the merest chance, I gave him the perfect case—two guilty lovers trying to kill off three people to get their money.”
While he was talking, McFee had been sitting at the headmaster’s desk, his eyes half-closed. An amused smile played around his lips and occasionally revealed his perfect teeth.
“Very ingenious and—to use your word—very impertinent. I suppose it’s my turn to congratulate you. All I can say is that I half suspected this and have prepared one or two little questions which you may find it awkward to answer.”
“Don’t trouble to ask them.” Harvey’s voice was now deadly, dangerously suave. “You’re going to say Sir Wilfrid okayed your papers. Of course they may have been forged, but my guess is you put your own photograph on the originals. Since you’re such a good psychologist, you probably know that no official ever bothers about height, weight or color of eyes.”
The two young men smiled at each other again.
“Then there’s the skirt which Lucas is supposed to have heard in the dormitory. That’s simple. It was the porter’s apron you always wore at night to collect the shoes in.”
The ex-porter rose to his full six feet four inches and looked at the Chief Constable impatiently. “I’ve had about enough of this, Sir Wilfrid. With your permission I’ll go to my room and get those papers. Of course,” he added sarcastically, “you’d better send a constable with me.”
“No. Don’t let him go.” Harvey’s voice rang out sharply. “Before he leaves, Sir Wilfrid, there’s something I must say. McFee never had anything definite on Myra and me, but I’ve got something absolutely damning agai
nst him. Something which—if I may say so—has been staring you in the face all the time.”
Sir Wilfrid snorted and gazed a trifle uneasily at the young man.
“I happened to talk to old Kettering after you’d interviewed him yesterday. He told me just what he told you. He saw McFee going to the village at about six o’clock with what he picturesquely referred to as a ‘sack o’ taties.’ Now, by sack o’ taties he presumably meant a sack full of potatoes. But why should McFee have been going to the village to get the potatoes when his sack was already full? The answer is simple. The sack was not full of potatoes at all. It was full of—the murdered body of Irving Bernard-Moss.”
This gruesome revelation was followed by a profound silence. Everyone sat or stood in their places like awkwardly posed dummies in a dressmaker’s shop. Everyone, that is, except St. John Lucas, who had crept to the window and was gazing inscrutably along the sunlit drive towards his father’s old Vauxhall which stood in front of the school steps.
“There’s only one answer to all this goddam nonsense, Sir Wilfrid. I’ve got to get those papers.”
Throwing open the door, he nodded to the unprotesting constable and hurried down the hall.
“Stop him … stop him, you fool,” cried Sir Wilfrid.
“After him, after him. Quick!”
They hurried to the window. Outside they could see Sir Wilfrid and the two police Officers boarding their car and starting down the drive after the Bishop’s fast disappearing Vauxhall.
“They’ll never catch him,” exclaimed Sophonisba.
“Oh, yes, they will,” Lucas turned to her, a disdainful smile on his freckled face. “He won’t get very far.”
“Why—what on earth do you mean?”
“You see, Miss Soap—Miss Dodd, when I deciphered that cablegram, I knew at once there was a criminal in Craiglea.” His eyes fixed the English master with a basilisk stare. “I—I thought it was you, sir, and I thought you might get away. I knew Dad always left his key in the car, and since you’d driven in with him, I guessed you knew it, too. So you see”—St. John Lucas had assumed a Napoleonic attitude—“before I came in here, sir, I slipped out to the drive and let the air out of all the tires. He can’t get very far, sir. …”
About the Author
Patrick Quentin, Q. Patrick, and Jonathan Stagge were pen names under which Hugh Callingham Wheeler (1912–1987), Richard Wilson Webb (1901–1966), Martha Mott Kelley (1906–2005), and Mary Louise White Aswell (1902–1984) wrote detective fiction. Most of the stories were written together by Webb and Wheeler, or by Wheeler alone. Their best-known creation is amateur sleuth Peter Duluth. In 1963, the story collection The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow was given a Special Edgar Award by the Mystery Writers of America.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1936 by the Estate of Q. Patrick
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5559-8
This 2019 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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