The Murder League

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  He studied the empty street carefully, like a general planning a campaign across uncharted, and quite possibly unfriendly, terrain. “Down below, I’d suggest. Something hard, or at least alcoholic. I seem to recall a Pig and Something on my way up this blasted mountain. Certainly wouldn’t care to trust the tea in an area like this!”

  “Now, Mr. Carruthers,” the Inspector began sternly.

  Carruthers seemed to note the actuality of the other’s person for the first time.

  “Inspector!” he said sadly. “Notting Hill! What on earth did you do, you poor man? Send some Personage to jail, or something? However long have they had you here?” And without waiting for a reply he tugged the other from his stubborn stance and set off down the incline, dragging the inspector behind him.

  “Mr. Carruthers! That advertisement! That box number! I really must insist!”

  “Over beer! Over beer!” Carruthers caroled, maintaining a pace that had the stocky officer sweating within yards. “This is a reunion, man!” He looked at the exhausted face beside him with sudden concern, without in any way reducing the steadiness of his pace. “You aren’t looking well at all, Inspector. What have they been doing to you, you poor man?”

  They passed a corner and Carruthers drew up short, holding the panting inspector firmly by the arm.

  “Ah, there it is! I was wrong; it wasn’t the Pig and Something at all. It’s the Boar and Something. Well, it’s there, at least. Let’s go in and toast our reunion, Inspector. Lucky we met during licensing hours.” And before the inspector could properly catch his breath he found himself once again jerked off at a tangent, propelled toward the glass-paneled door of the pub.

  With beer before him and a chance to sit heaving until his lungs had returned to a state of relative normality, Inspector Painter once again became a functioning member of the Metropolitan Police. “Now, Mr. Carruthers,” he began.

  “I thought all police officers started off by saying, ‘Now, what’s all this?’” Carruthers said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Have I been feeding my public misinformation all these years?” He considered his statement and amended it sadly. “I mean, all those years?”

  “Mr. Carruthers,” said the inspector firmly, determined not to be put off any further, “I’m afraid I shall have to ask you for an explanation of that advertisement.”

  Carruthers stared at him in surprise. “But you read it, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I read it! I—”

  “And it wasn’t clear? Oh, dear. Has my writing ability faded to such an extent that I can’t even advertise properly?”

  “I read it and it was clear enough! What I am asking is, what did you mean by it?”

  “Just what do you think I meant by it?” Carruthers asked, honestly interested.

  Inspector Painter sighed. “Look here, Mr. Carruthers. When that advertisement was first brought to my attention by one of my superiors, we imagined it was either a student joke or an initiation stunt, or possibly the entering wedge in one of these new-style sales campaigns. Still, we decided we could scarcely let it pass without investigating. As soon as I saw it was you who stopped by to pick up that envelope, I came to the conclusion that you had probably decided to start writing again, and that this was only a part of one of your confoundedly complicated plots.”

  He sipped at his beer, holding up one beefy hand to forestall any interruption until he could return, refreshed, to the fray.

  “The thing is, however,” he continued, placing his mug once again on the table, “that possibly some of those who answered that advert of yours answered it in all seriousness.”

  “Well, I should certainly hope so!” said Carruthers indignantly. “Eight pounds six and thruppence, that advert cost me!”

  Inspector Painter’s stubby fingers drummed on the table with increasing rhythm. “All right, Mr. Carruthers,” he said finally, controlling his temper with difficulty. “You seem intent upon misunderstanding me. It is therefore pointless to waste time trying to explain anything to you. Bluntly, then, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to deliver that envelope to me.”

  Carruthers took a long drink of his beer and set his mug on the table with precision. When he finally spoke, there was no escaping the fact that the atmosphere of bonhomie, at least as far as he was concerned, had definitely abated.

  “I assume,” he said coolly, “that you have a warrant?”

  “You don’t need a warrant to prevent a crime,” the inspector pointed out. “You know that as well as I do.”

  Carruthers nodded, but it was far from a gesture of agreement. “I see. Using the same brand of logic, one might break into a bank and rob it for the purpose of removing temptation from others who might want to rob it.” His piercing blue eyes suddenly fastened themselves on the inspector’s ruddy face.

  “You also realize, of course,” he went on accusingly, “that the idea of this advert was all mine. As well as the payment for it—eight pounds, you know, plus some six and thruppence tax. If, as you assume, I am planning to use the idea of placing the advert, or any material contained in the replies to the advert, in any future story I might care to write, then you are forced to admit that they are my property. The idea was mine, and all expenses involved to date have been footed by me. So will you kindly explain to me why I should divulge any information to you? Particularly since you have no warrant, and a child would not be taken in with your story of preventing a crime?”

  “Look, Mr. Carruthers,” said the inspector patiently. “I’ve known you since you were a relatively young police reporter and I was a plain P.C. I’ve read every story you ever wrote, and I flatter myself that I’ve even given you some of your ideas for a few of them.” He leaned forward, pushing aside his mug of beer. “I know that your motives are innocent, but I also know that by handing me that envelope you might just eventually save somebody’s life. Inadvertently, you may have struck on more than just an idea for a story. You may have struck on a means of determining in advance potential victims of murder. And potential murderers.” He leaned back, satisfied that his arguments brooked no logical denial. “So I’m afraid I must rather insist on taking possession of that envelope.”

  Carruthers finished his flagon and bounced it loudly on the table as notice for refills. And it was as he was releasing it in response to the barmaid’s nod that a sudden thought seemed to strike him. He turned to the inspector with dawning suspicion in his eyes.

  “Let me see, Inspector,” he said in a cold, formal voice. “Am I wrong, or do I recall your once attempting a bit of writing yourself?”

  Inspector Painter’s face reddened. “That was years ago, Mr. Carruthers.”

  Billy-boy Carruthers searched his memory, and then nodded in satisfaction as it finally came to his aid.

  “Ah, yes,” he said musingly. “Now I remember. They were to be your memoirs, and you intended to title them A Policeman’s Lot, if I’m not mistaken.” Carruthers shook his head sadly, the perfidy of his fellow man obviously painful to contemplate. “That devilish urge to write, to express ourselves, seems to be imbedded in us all. The problem, usually, is not even talent. The problem is where to get a really decent idea. A good idea, like a good man, is hard to find.”

  He pushed his beer mug away from him with revulsion, as if to indicate that one did not take salt with an enemy. “Tell me, Inspector,” he asked softly, accusingly, “does the Department know you are trying to get these letters away from me?”

  “Of course the Department knows!” the inspector answered testily. “They sent me. Good God, man, you can’t possibly honestly suspect—!”

  “But does the Department know your real reason for wanting these letters so desperately?” Carruthers continued, his eyes narrowing. “Do they know that, away down deep within you, you have always harbored a desire to see your name in print? On a book jacket? Are they aware that to achieve this end you would stop at nothing? Nothing? Not even at stealing an idea from another person? Do they know that, Inspect
or Painter?”

  The inspector shook his head as if to clear it of a sudden accumulation of cobwebs. “Now, see here, Mr. Carruthers—” he began desperately, but the elderly white-haired man had already risen and was shoving his hat firmly upon his head.

  “We have nothing further to discuss, Inspector,” he said contemptuously, and before the police officer could make a move he found himself alone, facing a still-swinging door.

  “Mr. Carruthers!” he cried in frustration, but his gazelle-like leap to follow was interrupted by a peremptory and unmistakable motion from the barmaid. By the time he had finished digging money from his pocket and flinging it upon the bar, he was sure his quarry was long gone, and a hasty inspection of the empty street outside confirmed these suspicions. With a muttered curse for all writers, particularly those addicted to the crime field, he started to trudge dispiritedly toward the nearest underground station.

  “No trouble at all,” said Mr. Billy-boy Carruthers serenely. “I told you the police would be no problem. Oh, by the way, I ran into an old friend of ours up that way. Inspector Painter—you may remember him. Stood me a pint, as a matter of fact.”

  And he slit open the first envelope with the edge of his penknife.

  It is doubtful that Mr. Carruthers’ serenity as he slit open that first envelope would have been greatly disturbed had he known that even at that very moment Sir Percival Pugh was reading the advertisement for the first time. In all probability, Mr. Carruthers would have merely thought that a great many people would read the advert, and the more the merrier, including famous lawyers.

  Sir Percival Pugh was undoubtedly a famous lawyer, and the finest criminal lawyer in all of England. He had never lost a case. His legal skills were legendary. He had once defended a drunken hit-run driver who had passed not only an electrical stop signal but also a policeman’s upraised arm, to strike and kill a widowed mother of five who was standing on a safety island across the way. So successful was the defense that his client not only was freed, but was later able to sue and collect from the widow’s pitiful estate for the damages suffered by his vehicle.

  Two loves dominated Sir Percival’s life: the love of defending clients against the tortured confusions of the law, and the love of being paid extremely well for so doing. Sir Percival liked to live well, and this cost money. It was claimed that he had even sold his body, to be delivered on death, to the London Medical School, who wished to study his prodigious brain. (A former client of his, hearing this tale, applied to the Medical School for the famous barrister’s heart, saying he wished to scratch glass, but was refused.) But even his worst enemies could not deny that when Sir Percival tackled a case he tackled it to win; and to date he had never failed.

  At the moment, Sir Percival was settled back in the recesses of his richly upholstered desk chair, going over the newspapers he had missed on a long weekend holiday. As was his custom, he began with the Times of the previous day, and the first thing that caught his eye was the small box in the upper left-hand corner. He read it over several times, frowned in deep thought for several moments, and then, with a nod of decision, reached for his scissors and cut it neatly from the page. He opened a drawer, brought forth a blank folder with a tabulating lip on it, and dropped the clipping within. On the tab, in his clear and precise calligraphy, he penciled in the words Potential Clients, and tucked the folder into the file drawer of his desk in its proper alphabetical position. After which he returned to continue his perusal of the journal.

  But something seemed to bother him, for he could not rivet his attention to the news in his usual manner. Instead, his eyes had a tendency to keep straying to the closed file drawer. At last, with a sigh, he put aside the newspaper, opened the drawer, and brought forth the folder he had inserted there a moment before. With an eraser he carefully scrubbed out the first word on the tab, and then painstakingly wrote again. Satisfied at last, he replaced the folder, and was now able to concentrate on the balance of the news.

  The folder tab now read, with an assurance the previous title had lacked, Future Clients.

  3

  Mrs. Alvin J. Crowley had regretted many impulses in her fairly brief but considerably hectic life, but none quite so much as the one which had led her to post that disastrous letter. The moment the small white envelope had disappeared down the hungry maw of the pillar box, she had stood aghast at her own idiocy. Had it happened in her own native New York City she would have been sufficiently startled by her stupidity, but here abroad it was truly unthinkable. For one mad moment she had even considered remaining rooted to the spot until the collection postman made his appointed rounds, with the idea of attempting to bribe him for its return with either sex or money, her two most plentiful assets. Sober second thought, however, brought the realization that the one was improbable, and the other impractical, especially in broad daylight. Prayer being to her mind something for Sunday—if then—she was left with no alternative but to try and convince herself it had only been some sort of joke, and that nothing untoward would occur to her as a result of having answered that enticing advertisement.

  Mrs. Vivian Crowley, as she had recently come to prefer calling herself, particularly regretted the fact that not only had she signed the letter with her full married name, but she had also been so absurd as to give both her correct address and her telephone number. If this Murder League is a serious organization, she could not but think illogically, they’re certainly what I need, because if a garbage-brain like me tried to kill Al myself, I’d mess it up in five seconds! The chances are I’d even manage to be sorry I ever killed him!

  This thought momentarily sobered her. This, no! she thought; this most definitely no. But I’d sure be sorry I didn’t have it done by professionals in the first place.

  This conclusion led to a natural reversal in her cogitations. So then what in the love of Mike are you worried about, jug-head? That’s why you answered the ad in the first place, isn’t it? And how could they help you if they couldn’t get in touch with you? Ah! said a second, more cautious self within; but, knowing your name and address, they’ve got you by the ears, because they know you want somebody killed. But they don’t know who, she argued back; and then answered this question herself, dismally. Al, of course. Who else?

  Having talked herself in and out of the same corner for the fiftieth time in the day and a half since she had mailed her reply, Mrs. Crowley had just about decided that what she could really use at that point was a stiff jolt of Scotch (for she had never gotten used to simply calling it “whiskey") when the telephone rang.

  Her hand trembled as she answered it. Since her one friend, Marge, had gone back to the States, few calls came to her, particularly at this hour of early evening; and the few that did were either wrong numbers or inquiries in an accent she had never managed to master. She was therefore agreeably surprised to find that not only was the call for her, but she could understand the words.

  “Mrs. Crowley?” It was a man’s voice; a strange voice. Her fears returned, magnified for having been temporarily assuaged.

  “Ye-eeerk?” This came out such an unintelligible squeak that her hand flew automatically to her throat, as if to discover what obstruction had suddenly come in tangled contact with her vocal cords. The drink she had been about to take still stood, inviting and tantalizing, on the bar beyond reach. Would they wait if she said, “Hang on a sec,” and dashed over for a refresher? Probably not. No time, in any event. You’re a great murderess, you are, she thought morosely, and forced herself to answer in a more normal tone.

  “Yes?”

  The voice at the other end of the line exhibited such a tone of Old-World courtesy that she almost relaxed. “Mrs. Crowley, I believe that our organization recently received a letter from you indicating that our services were of interest to you. In my opinion it would be to our mutual advantage to have a meeting where the matter can be discussed more freely and in greater detail.”

  The politeness of the other’s voice calmed
her; her nerve suddenly returned. He’s only a man, she thought, and I never flinched from one of those in my life.

  “Look, Dads,” she said firmly. “That squib was a rib, wasn’t it?”

  The voice at the other end was honestly puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, you’re having me on with the big con, aren’t you?”

  The voice was now plainly perturbed. “This is Mrs. Crowley, isn’t it? Mrs. Alvin J. Crowley?”

  Sudden resolution came to her. So that’s why I answered the ad in the first place, isn’t it? So quit playing so hard to get, stupid! “Look, mister,” she said, now in complete control of herself. “I don’t pretend to know what the gag is, but if it isn’t a fast pitch to sell soap, my idea is you come up here within the next hour and we can do our jabbering in private. I’m not the one to holler over a phone, if you know what I mean. Is it a deal?”

  This was struggled with, but her caller finally managed to untangle it. “It’s a deal,” he said simply, and hung up the receiver and stepped out of the booth.

  “Well?” Briggs asked anxiously.

  “What did she say?” Simpson asked.

  Carruthers wiped his forehead. For the first time in many years his friends saw him a bit rattled. “I’m not quite sure,” he said, a trifle bewilderedly. “I believe she invited me to her flat for a discussion, but in all honesty I can’t guarantee it. She seemed to be speaking some type of code.”

  He led the way back to their table and sank into his chair in relief. They had chosen for their meeting place a corner of a crowded pub where the chances of being overheard were practically nonexistent. Carruthers raised his hand for a beer, and quaffed it gratefully when it arrived; it seemed to do wonders to restore him.

  “Find out how this Crowley travels back and forth from his office, or his club,” Simpson requested in a last-minute instruction to their envoy, leaning forward and speaking quietly in the uproar about them. “The best method is frequently some accident connected with travel.”