The Mad Hatter Mystery

by The Mad Hatter Mystery (retail) (epub)

  Snorting, he produced his cigar case and offered it round as the waiter took away the glasses. But with the first healing puffs of smoke he settled himself back benignly against the alcove.

  “I hadn’t meant to draw a crowd, gentlemen,” he rumbled, making an immense gesture with the cigar. Heads, which had been poked through the doorway to the restaurant adjoining, were discreetly withdrawn. One of the business men, who had almost swallowed the stick skewering the cherry in his drink, had settled down again to conversation. “But my young friend here will tell you, Hadley, that I have been working for seven years on the materials of my book, The Drinking Customs of England from the Earliest Days, and I blush to have to include such manifestations as these, even in the appendix. They sound almost bad enough to be soft drinks. I—”

  He paused, small eyes blinking over his glasses. A quiet, impeccably-dressed man, who seemed like a manager of some sort, was hesitating near their alcove. He appeared to be ill-at-ease, and feeling slightly ridiculous. But he was contemplating Dr. Fell’s very picturesque shovel hat, which lay across the cloak on a chair. As the waiter brought three rounds of beer, this man entered the alcove.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but may I make a suggestion? If I were you, I should be very careful of this hat.”

  The doctor stared at him for a moment, his glass halfway to his lips. Then a bright and pleased expression animated his red face.

  “Permit me, sir,” he requested earnestly, “to shake your hand. You are, I perceive, a person of sound taste and judgment. I wish you could talk to my wife on this matter. It is, I agree, an excellent hat. But why should I exercise more than my usual care in guarding it?”

  The man’s face was growing pink. He said, stiffly, “I had no wish to intrude, sir. I thought you knew. That is to say, there have been several such outrages in this vicinity, and I did not wish to have our patrons incommoded. That hat—well, hang it!” the manager exploded, volplaning down into honest speech, “that thing would be too much. He couldn’t miss. The Hatter would be bound to steal it.”

  “Who?”

  “The Hatter, sir. The Mad Hatter.”

  Hadley’s mouth was twitching back, and he seemed about to burst out laughing or leave the table in haste. But Dr. Fell did not notice. He took out a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  “My dear sir,” he said, “this is most refreshing. Let me see if I follow you. Am I to understand that there is in this neighborhood a hatter of such notoriously unbalanced mind that, as I walk innocently past his shop, he would be apt to dash into the street and steal my hat? That is carrying the aesthetic sense too far. I must courteously but firmly refuse,” continued Dr. Fell, raising his voice warmly, “to run up Piccadilly pursued by impassioned hatters. I am too old, my dear sir; and I am too fat; and, if you want still a third reason, I am convinced that among your friends you are known by the playful nickname of The March Hare.”

  In contrast to the manager’s low, nervous tones, he had been trumpeting across the room. The business man with the cocktail gave a slight moan, put on his coat, and moved hastily towards the door. The other business man stayed grimly at his table.

  Even the chief inspector, in his own quiet way, was flustered. He said, sharply, “Thank you very much. This gentleman has just arrived in London; he knows nothing about it. I can explain.”

  As the red-faced manager hurried towards the restaurant, Dr. Fell sighed.

  “Now you’ve driven him away,” he protested, querulously, “and I was just beginning to enjoy it. I perceive among London hatters a bustling, up-to-the-minute, go-get-’em spirit. Still, I hope you don’t have mad tailors who rush out of their shops and remove the trousers of casual passers-by. That would be a trifle alarming.” He took a deep drink of beer, and shook his great head of hair like a mane. Then he beamed on his companions.

  “Blast you,” said the chief inspector. He struggled with dignity, and lost. “Oh well. Confound it, I hate scenes, and you seem to revel in them. All the same, he was talking perfect sense.”

  “Eh?”

  “He was talking perfect sense,” Hadley repeated, with some irritation. He fingered his close gray mustache. “It’s a kid’s prank, of course. But it keeps on and on. If he’d stopped at stealing one or two hats, and this infernal newspaper ragging hadn’t begun, no harm would have been done. But it’s making us look foolish. And it’s got to stop.”

  The doctor adjusted his glasses.

  “Do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that a real hatter is going about London stealing—”

  “‘Mad Hatter’ is what the newspapers call him. It was started by this young cub Driscoll, the free-lance. Driscoll is Bitton’s nephew; it would be difficult to muzzle him, and if we did try to muzzle him we should look foolish. He’s doing the damage. Laugh, by all means!” Hadley invited, frigidly.

  Dr. Fell lowered his chins into his collar. The twinkle in his eye had become more pronounced.

  “And Scotland Yard,” he asked, with suspicious politeness, “is unable to apprehend this villainous—”

  Hadley retained his repose with an effort. Hadley said, in a quiet voice, “I don’t give a damn, personally, if he steals the Archbishop of Canterbury’s miter. But the effect of a police force’s being laughed at is not at all humorous. Besides, suppose we catch him? To the newspapers the trial would be much funnier than the offence. Can you imagine two solemn wigged counsels battling as to whether the defendant did, or did not, on the evening of March 5th, 1932, abstract the helmet of Police Constable Thomas Sparkle from the head of the said constable, in or about the premises of Euston Road, and did thereafter elevate the said helmet to the top of a lamp-standard before the premises of New Scotland Yard, S.W.—or whatever it is they say?”

  “Did he do that?” Dr. Fell queried, with interest.

  “Read it,” said Hadley, and drew the newspaper from his pocket. “That’s young Driscoll’s column. It’s the worst, but the others are almost as facetious.”

  Dr. Fell grunted. “I say, Hadley, this isn’t the case you wanted to talk to me about, is it? Because if it is, I’m damned if I help you. Why, man, it’s glorious! It’s like Robin Hood. It’s like—”

  Hadley was not amused. “That,” he answered, coldly, “is not the case. But out of what I have on hand, I hope to put a brake on Driscoll. Unless—” He hesitated, turning something over in his mind. “Read it. It will probably delight you.”

  Rampole glanced over the doctor’s shoulder as the latter read:

  HAT FIEND STRIKES AGAIN!

  IS THERE A POLITICAL SIGNIFICANCE IN THE MOVEMENTS OF THE SINISTER MASTER MIND?

  By Philip C. Driscoll, our special correspondent in charge of the latest Mad Hatter atrocities.

  London, March 12. Not since the days of Jack the Ripper has this city been so terrorized by a mysterious fiend who strikes and vanishes without a clue, as in the exploits of the diabolical criminal genius known as the Mad Hatter. On Sunday morning fresh exploits of the Mad Hatter challenged the best brains of Scotland Yard.

  Passing the cab-rank on the east side of Leicester Square about 5 a.m., P. C. James McGuire was struck by a somewhat unusual circumstance. A hansom cab was drawn up at the curb, from which certain not untuneful noises indicated that the driver was asleep inside. The horse (whose name has subsequently been ascertained to be Jennifer) was chewing a large stick of peppermint and looking benevolently upon P. C. McGuire. What especially struck the quick-witted policeman, however, was the fact that on her head Jennifer wore a large white wig with flowing sides—in fact, a barrister’s wig.

  Though some caution was manifested in taking steps when Mr. McGuire reported to Vine Street Police Station the presence of a horse in a barrister’s wig eating peppermint in Leicester Square, ultimate investigation proved it true. It became obvious that the Hat Fiend was again at large.

  Readers of the Daily Herald are already aware how, on the preceding day, a beautiful pearl-gray top hat was discovered
on the head of one of the lions on the Nelson Monument in Trafalgar Square, looking towards Whitehall. By its inscription it was found to belong to Sir Isaac Simonides Levy, of Curzon Street, the well-known member of the Stock Exchange. Under cover of a light mist, that cloak of evil-doers, it had been twitched from Sir Isaac’s head as he was leaving his home the preceding evening to address a meeting of the Better Orphans’ League. It will be obvious that Sir Isaac, in a pearl-gray top hat for evening wear, was (to say the least) conspicuous.

  The origin of the wig on Jennifer’s head was, therefore, clear to the authorities. At the present moment its owner has not been ascertained, nor has he come forward. This modesty has led to all sorts of speculations, but clues are few. Mr. Aylmer Valence, the driver of the hansom cab, could shed no light on the matter. Detectives believe that the Mad Hatter must have been near the cab-rank only a few moments before the arrival of P. C. McGuire, inasmuch as the stick of peppermint was scarcely a third gone when the policeman first saw her. It is further inferred that the criminal was well acquainted with Leicester Square, and probably with the horse Jennifer, since he took advantage of her liking for peppermints to place the wig upon her head. Beyond this, the police have little to work on.

  This is the seventh reported outrage in the last week. It would not be too far-fetched to wonder whether any sinister political scheme underlies this.

  “There’s more of it,” Hadley said, when he saw Dr. Fell fold over the paper at this point, “but it doesn’t matter. I hate this damned ragging, that’s all.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Dr. Fell, sadly, “you police are a persecuted lot. And no clue, I suppose. I’m sorry I can’t take the case. Perhaps, though, if you sent your best men to all the sweet-shops near Leicester Square, and inquire who bought—”

  “I didn’t bring you down from Chatterham,” Hadley retorted, with asperity, “to talk about an undergraduate prank. But I may stop this young pup Driscoll from writing such tosh, and that will stop the rest of them. I wired you that it had something to do with Bitton; Bitton is this boy’s uncle, and holds the purse strings. One of the most valuable manuscripts in Bitton’s collection, he tells me, has been stolen.”

  “Ah,” said Dr. Fell. He put aside the paper, and sat back with his arms folded.

  “The devil about these thefts of manuscripts or rare books,” Hadley continued, “is that you can’t trace them like an ordinary theft. In the case of precious stones, or plates, or even pictures, it’s fairly simple. We know our pawnshops and our receivers of stolen goods too well. But you can’t do it with books or manuscripts. When a thief takes something like that, he has a definite person in mind to whom he intends to dispose of it; or else he’s acting under the buyer’s orders, to begin with. In any case, you can be sure the buyer won’t tell.”

  The chief inspector paused.

  “And the Yard’s intervention in the matter is further complicated by the fact that the manuscript stolen from Bitton was one to which he had—well, a rather dubious right himself.”

  “I see,” murmured the doctor. “And what was it?”

  Hadley picked up his glass slowly, and set it down hastily. Nobody, least of all the business man who remained drinking in one corner, was prepared for another stormy entrance to the bar that afternoon. Feet clattered on the brass stair-rods. A tall man in a flapping greatcoat strode down into the room; the bartender drew a deep breath, resignedly, and tried not to notice the wild look in the stranger’s eye. The bartender murmured, “Good afternoon, Sir William,” and returned to polishing glasses.

  “It’s not a good afternoon,” Sir William Bitton announced, violently. He passed the end of his white scarf across his face, moist from the thickening mist outside, and glared. His white pompadour stood up like the foam on a beer glass. “It’s a hell of an afternoon, that’s what it is. Ah, Hallo, Hadley! Now, look here, something’s got to be done. I tell you I won’t—” He strode into the alcove, and his eye fell on the paper Dr. Fell had discarded. “So you’re reading about him, are you? You’re reading about that swine who steals hats?”

  “Quite, quite,” said Hadley, looking about nervously. “Sit down, man! What’s he done to you?”

  “What’s he done?” inquired Sir William, with deadly politeness. He raised the forelock of his white hair. “You can see for yourself what he’s done. It was an hour and a half ago, and I’m still boiling. I boil every time I think of it. Right in front of my house—car standing there—chauffeur down buying cigarettes. I went out to it. Misty in the square. Saw what I thought was a sneak-thief putting his hand into the side pocket of the car door through the window in the tonneau. I said, ‘Hi!’ and jumped on the running-board. Then the swine shot out his hand and—”

  Sir William gulped.

  “I had three appointments this afternoon before I came here; two of ’em in the City. Even going to make monthly calls. Call on Lord Tarlotts. Call on my nephew. Call— Never mind. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t go anywhere, because I hadn’t got one. And I was damned if I’d pay three guineas for a third one that swine might— What’s he done?” bellowed Sir William, breaking off again. “He’s stolen my hat, that’s what he’s done! And it’s the second hat he’s stolen from me in three days!”

  The business man in the corner uttered a faint noise, shook his head despondently, and hurried out of the bar.

  II

  Manuscripts and Murder

  HADLEY RAPPED on the table. “A double whiskey here,” he said to the waiter. “Now sit down and calm yourself. People think this is a madhouse already. And let me introduce you to some friends of mine.”

  “D’ye do?” said the other, grudgingly, and bobbed his head at the introductions. He resumed in his high, argumentative voice as he sat down. “It’s infuriating. It’s maddening. All those visits; make ’em regular as clockwork, every month. The only reason I came here was because I’d got to see you if I’d had to come without my boots. Ha. No other hat in the house. Think of that! My daughter’d made me give the others to my valet; wouldn’t wear them in a pigsty; just bought two new hats last week—top hat and Homburg. And Saturday night this maniac pinched the top hat, and this afternoon he got the Homburg. By God! I won’t have it! I tell you—” He glared round as the waiter appeared. “Eh? Oh, whisky. Just a splash, thanks. That’ll do. My daughter said, ‘Why not chase him?’ Me? Chase my hat? Ha. Sheila has no brains. Never had.”

  Spluttering, he sat back to take a drink, and Rampole studied him. Everybody knew, by hearsay, of this man’s fiery humors. Jingo newspapers frequently dwelt on his career: how he had begun in a draper’s shop at the age of eighteen, become a whip in Parliament at forty-two, managed the armament policy of one Government, and had gone down still battling for a bigger navy in the peace reaction after the war. He had been the prince of jingoes; his speeches were full of reference to Drake, the longbow, and hurrah for old England; and he still wrote letters vilifying the present Prime Minister. But his best-known activities were before the war, and he had retired completely from public life at little more than forty-five. Now Rampole saw a man hardly past his prime at seventy; wiry, vigorous, with a long neck thrust out of his wing collar, and uncannily shrewd blue eyes. His fingers were restless and tapping. The face was bony, with a high, frail forehead, the eyebrows like white mustaches, and the mouth at once thin and mobile—an orator’s mouth.

  Suddenly he put down his glass and stared at Dr. Fell with narrowed eyes. “Excuse me,” he said, in his jerky but wonderfully clear fashion, “I didn’t catch your name at first. Dr. Fell? Dr. Gideon Fell?—Ah, I thought so. I have been wanting to meet you. I have your work on the history of the supernatural in English fiction. But this damned business about hats—”

  Hadley said, brusquely, “I think we’ve heard quite enough about hats, for the moment. You understand that according to the story you told me we can’t take official cognizance of it at the Yard. That’s why I’ve summoned Dr. Fell. There’s no time to go into it now, but h
e has—helped us before. I am not one of those fools who distrust amateurs. And it is particularly in his line. All the same—”

  The chief inspector was troubled. Suddenly he drew a long breath. His slow gray eyes were almost black now. Evenly he continued.

  “Gentlemen, neither am I one of those fools who call themselves thoroughly practical men. A moment ago I said we had heard quite enough about hats; and before I saw Sir William I thought so. But this second theft of his hat—has it occurred to you that in some fashion—I do not pretend to understand it—this may relate to the theft of the manuscript?”

  Sir William seemed about to utter a snort of protest, but the lines tightened round his eyes, and he kept silent.

  “It had occurred to me, of course,” Dr. Fell rumbled, beckoning the waiter and pointing to his empty glass, “that the theft of the hats was more than an undergraduate prank. It’s quite possible that some scatterbrained chap might want to collect stolen hats; a policeman’s helmet, a barrister’s wig, any sort of picturesque headgear he could proudly display to his friends. I noticed the same habit when I was teaching in America, among the students. There it ran to signs and signboards of all kinds to decorate the walls of their rooms. Is that right, my boy?”

  Rampole nodded. “Yes. And it went to fantastic lengths sometimes. I knew one chap who made a bet that he would steal the street sign from the corner of Broadway and Forty-Second Street in broad daylight. And he did it. He put on overalls, slung a bucket of paint over his arm, and carried a short ladder. Then he propped the ladder against the post, climbed up, unscrewed the sign, and walked away. There were thousands of people passing at the time, and nobody even glanced at him.”

  “For a collection, yes,” said the doctor. “But this is a different thing, you see. This chap isn’t a lunatic collector. He steals the hat and props it up somewhere else, like a symbol, for everybody to see. There’s one other explanation.”

  Sir William’s thin lips wore a wintry smile as he glanced from Rampole to the absorbed face of the doctor; but shrewd calculation moved in his eyes.