“Personally, I can’t find the slightest fault in the scheme,” Briggs argued. “I was there and saw the same phenomenon. The crowd on the underground platform reacted in exactly the same fashion ten times out of ten. You push back and they push forward. You push back and they push forward. Automatically. Like some African tribal dance. I don’t honestly believe they’re even aware of it.”
He leaned forward. “It seems to me that anyone standing along the edge of the platform would be hard put to avoid toppling if, let us say, some careless transportee, stupidly carrying his umbrella at the horizontal, or advance-with-fixed-bayonet, position, just happened to poke him in the kidneys by accident when the crowd surged forward.” He shuddered. “I jump five feet when anyone even tickles me.”
“It’s quite true,” Simpson confirmed, still amazed at the wonders he had seen on his travels. “Push back and they push forward. Mechanically. Almost rhythmically.”
“It’s a natural law,” Carruthers explained, spreading his hands. “Either Galileo’s first, or Newton’s second; I forget which. Every action produces an equal and opposite reaction, I believe it goes.” He nodded pontifically. “I personally can find no flaw in the plan.”
“There is one question,” Briggs said with a thoughtful frown. “How do we know he will be in the front row? What guarantee have we that he’ll be on the edge of the platform when the train comes in, and not in the crowd behind, in the third or fourth layer of crushed humanity?”
But Carruthers dismissed this with an abrupt shake of his head.
“It is easy to see that you are not acquainted with native New Yorkers,” he said with authority. “Particularly with those who look like Mr. Crowley. No, I think we can eliminate that objection. He’ll be on the edge of the platform, first in line, never fear. He may have to trample three old women and several expectant mothers to get there, but this will pose no problem for one of his vast experience.”
He shrugged. “Of course, if there are other native New Yorkers on the same platform at the same time, a problem may ensue, but I consider it unlikely. In that case, of course, we must await another opportunity, when the flood of native New Yorkers is at an ebb.” He considered this statement and was unhappy with it. “I mean, when the spate of native New Yorkers is not in flow…” This version being no more satisfactory, he dropped the entire line of discussion and drew a neat timetable from his pocket. “Our Mr. Crowley should be taking the Green Line west from Aldwych in approximately one hour, give or take a few minutes, and also give or take a previous appointment with a dyed blonde, or to partake of a cocktail. In this case, of course, he may not even appear, and we may be forced to follow the same routine another day. But let us hope that today he favors going home, for, frankly, I am beginning to weary of the Crowleys.”
Briggs rubbed his tiny hands in anticipation. “This one is mine,” he said. “Until now Billyboy here has been doing all the work and I’ve been loafing. Besides, a man of my petite stature is more easily adaptable to underground-platform work.”
“But it was my idea!” Simpson argued, dismayed. “You can kill your own victim with your own method!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Carruthers said impatiently. “Please! No arguments. There will be plenty of opportunity for all. In this particular case I believe Tim is right: a smaller man is much more mobile, and also much less noticeable. Besides, I see that today he has remembered to remember his umbrella, whereas you have not. Don’t pout, Clifford; I promise you your chance will come. All right?”
“Well, all right,” Simpson said a bit ungraciously. Then his frown disappeared and he smiled in an embarrassed fashion. “You’re quite right, of course. I’m afraid I was being a poor sport, and I apologize. The next one will do fine for me.”
“That’s the spirit!” Carruthers clapped the taller man on the shoulder and then turned to Briggs.
“Now, my suggestion is that you get to the platform well ahead of him. If you have to wait through several trains, stay well back, possibly studying the wall map of the system. In any other position you might be swept into a train against your will.” He thought a moment, checking all details in his mind. “You are thoroughly familiar with his likeness? You will not make any mistakes as to the proper person?”
“With that plastered hair? And those frightful jackets he wears? Not likely,” Briggs scoffed. “Of course, if some tout from Ascot happens to come through at the same time, I may have a spot of trouble, but I doubt it.”
“Then off you go,” Carruthers said. “And don’t forget your umbrella. You have coins for the ticket machine? Good.” He lifted his ale glass in a toast. “To the successful conclusion of our first case!”
“Amen,” said Mr. Simpson simply.
“Amen,” said Mr. Briggs reverently; but he was saying it for Mr. Alvin J. Crowley, for Timothy Briggs at heart was a rather devout man.
Mr. Potter emerged from his office with hasty curiosity to determine from which corner of the Club the festivities were being directed, and found to his amazement that they came from the founders’ alcove. His eagle eye immediately noted the brandy glasses and the bottle of champagne nestling in the ice bucket; tiny wisps of smoke coming from the neck were discernible across the room. Mr. Potter’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Must make a note to see they don’t run up any unpayable bills, was his first thought. But they never had, and he knew they never would. Must have been an unexpected windfall for one of them; possibly some job of writing, like “The Mystery Story of Yesteryear” for the Outlook, or something. For one instant a touch of pity nearly scratched his heart, but, ineffective against such indurate material, it faded into oblivion. Let them vegetate, he thought fiercely; and went back into his office. As he slammed the door he could not help but wonder, not for the first time, why they, with nothing, always seemed to be happier than he, with everything.
“No!” said Mr. Simpson with grave humor. “We shall not offer him a drop.”
“I assume,” said Mr. Briggs jovially, paying no attention to either the entrance or the exit of Mr. Potter, “that the cost of brandy and champagne is a legitimate expense against our client at a time like this?”
“I should say so,” Mr. Carruthers judged.
“We still won’t give him a drop,” Simpson insisted.
“Who?”
“Potter.”
“I should certainly hope not,” said Mr. Carruthers, shocked. He turned to Briggs. “Have another.”
“Shall,” Briggs said, and did.
Simpson set down his glass and leaned back comfortably. “So my scheme really worked,” he said musingly. “You know, in books one is never really sure.”
“Worked?” Briggs gave a nervous giggle, clutching his glass as if someone might attempt to wrench it from him. “Worked? Like a bloody charm, is all. Tilted my umbrella at him like Don Quixote and his bloody spear at the bloody windmill. Laid it about three inches from his bloody back and then just leaned back into the bloody crowd. When they pushed, it caught him dead on. I will admit,” he said, a frown erasing for a moment the triumphant smile that had been frozen on his wrinkled face, “that for one bloody frightening moment I thought he was going to leap right over the bloody train, but he couldn’t make it. No athlete.” Mr. Briggs sniffed accusingly and tilted his champagne glass ceiling-ward.
Mr. Carruthers glanced at his pocket watch and cleared his throat significantly. “The success of our first venture undoubtedly augurs well for our future,” he remarked, “and celebration and congratulations are reasonably appropriate. However, I must remind you gentlemen that we have, after all, completed but our first job. Hercules found to his chagrin that knocking off one assignment merely led to another, and I’m afraid we find ourselves in a somewhat similar position.” He eyed the flushed Mr. Briggs a bit dubiously. “Would you like to consider our next … ah, client now, or would you prefer to let it go over until tomorrow?”
“Now! Now!” Briggs insisted, reaching rather unsteadily to r
efill his glass. “Strike while the iron’s hot! Kill ’em all but six!”
Simpson noted the unsteadiness and winked deliberately at Carruthers.
“Tomorrow might be better,” he said with forced casualness. “Possibly we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
But the sharp eyes of Briggs had noted and properly interpreted both the wink and the tone of voice.
“Here, now,” he said indignantly, and not a little more soberly. “I saw that wink. You’ve no need to delay anything on my account.” He set his filled glass once more on the table, pushing it slightly to one side to indicate his proposed sobriety. “It’s just that it was my first time, and it—well, it sort of exhilarated me, is all.” He stared at the other two defiantly. “It does, you know. You’ll find out. But I’m all right now. I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Fine!” said Carruthers with deep satisfaction. “Best, as you say, to strike while the iron’s hot. Now here’s our second case, I should think.”
He drew an already opened envelope from his inner pocket and began withdrawing the folded sheet within.
Sir Percival Pugh, having read his morning Times in his accustomed fashion, by first glancing through the Personal columns, then studying the crime news at greater length, and finishing with the sports, was about to lay the journal aside and tackle his breakfast before it cooled, when a small article set beneath the Wimbledon schedule caught his eye. It was headed in quite succinct style “Fell or Jumped” and scarcely seemed to warrant the rapt attention which he afforded it.
Sir Percival’s eyes glinted. For several minutes he studied the small article, and then nodded as if satisfied. Using his fish knife, he managed to remove the small box; he tucked it into an inner pocket. Later, in his study, he would trim it more neatly with scissors and place it in the file he had begun, for there was no doubt at all in his prodigious brain that he had been reading of the first fruits from the seed planted in that intriguing advertisement of the week before.
He returned to his kipper with good appetite, a soft smile upon his lips.
4
When James Donkin was seventeen years old, his father decided that the time had finally come for the lad to learn the facts of life. To this end, therefore, he led the lad to the village pub one evening after high tea and arranged seats for them in an isolated corner well removed from the normal dart-game traffic. The owner of the pub, having known Jimmy since birth, was well aware that the boy was under age, but this all took place in a small Tyneside settlement where all law was considered with suspicion, and laws dealing with age and closing hours were treated with downright scorn. Besides, the local mines were closed and the shipyards were slow, and any new custom—even under-age custom—was more than welcomed.
The lad stared about himself wide-eyed. It was his first visit to a public house, and the ancient carved woodwork faintly visible through the smog of cheap gaspers, the cry of the dart players, the fine yeasty aroma of warm ale set out in battered pewter mugs, plus the generously endowed barmaid with the low-cut blouse bending over their table to serve them two beers, all combined to entrance him. His eyes followed the swaying hips as their owner returned to the bar; strange and exciting thoughts bubbled through his consciousness. Had he been less preoccupied with the boundary mark left by underclothing against a too tight skirt, he might have noticed his father dosing one of the glasses of beer with a more than generous portion of cayenne pepper.
“James,” said his father.
“Aye, Pa?”
“I think it’s time,” said his father, “for you to learn some of the facts of life.”
“All right, Pa,” said James.
“You trust me, don’t you, Jimmy?”
“Of course, Pa,” said James, wondering a bit.
“Then drink up!” his father said heartily, and immediately gulped his mug of unpeppered beer. James responded at once by lifting his own draft and attempting to duplicate the Herculean feat of finishing a pint in one swallow.
The results were quite disastrous. As the pepper bit into James’s tender young throat, his alimentary system seemed to be of two minds. One demanded the automatic finish of the swallow as being the natural and habitual thing to do. The other categorically rejected all thought of accepting this potent fare. The final and almost immediate resultant of these diametrically opposed forces was an explosion which sprayed beer over a large portion of the adjacent area. One of the distant dart players, going for a double three to clean off, missed the board completely, and favored their corner with a most malevolent frown.
The pain was intense. With his throat in agony and tears welling from his eyes, James turned in mute confusion to confront his smiling father.
“The first, last, and most important fact of life,” said his father in a kindly manner. “Don’t ever trust anyone!”
And James Donkin never did. He never drank beer again, either.
Now, seated across the quartered-oak director’s table that separated him from Mr. Carruthers, his entire person spelled suspicion—suspicion of Mr. Carruthers, of the advertisement in the Times; of everything and everybody. His small wary eyes traveled up and down that portion of Mr. Carruthers which was visible above the polished table top as if each succeeding voyage might unearth some new and startling bit of scenery.
“I’m not easily taken in, you know,” said James Donkin menacingly.
“I shouldn’t imagine so,” said Mr. Carruthers, glancing about the richly appointed offices equably.
“I wouldn’t have gotten where I am,” Mr. Donkin continued belligerently, “if I could be had by the lorry-platform pitch of every market boy who came out of the East End selling chalk.”
“Indubitably,” Mr. Carruthers agreed.
“So now that you know that,” said Mr. Donkin, leaning forward and eying his visitor sharply, “I imagine you want to be on your way?”
“Why, no.” Mr. Carruthers denied the charge gently, his bright eyes fixed upon the florid face of his host in something akin to pity. “I’ve only just arrived, so to speak, and as yet we really haven’t had a chance to discuss our business. Those personal traits of yours which helped you in your rise to fame and fortune are most interesting to hear related, but—” he shrugged, and one hand brushed lightly to remove an invisible mote from the bright surface of the table—"I can’t honestly feel that they contribute greatly toward the solution of your problem.”
Mr. Donkin digested this in silence, and then attempted a second tack. “Say, you!” he growled, almost brutally. “Just what’s your angle?”
Mr. Carruthers provided the very picture of patience. “A very simple one,” he said quietly. “You want a man killed. We kill people. For money, that is. Really, could anything be more simple than that?”
Donkin pounced. “And who said I wanted a man killed, eh?”
Carruthers shook his head sadly. “Please! You answered our advertisement. You saw me as soon as I was announced. You sit there attempting to lead up to the subject with every evidence of quite normal nervousness. Of course you want a man killed. If it will make you feel any better, I can tell you that most people want somebody killed.” His attitude also gave the faintest hint that these other people weren’t so devious in admitting it.
Mr. Donkin hesitated and then adopted still a third ploy. He wanted so desperately to believe, but that youthful lesson of suspicion loomed too large in his subconscious to be subdued in one moment.
“G’wan,” he said sneeringly, reverting for a moment to the language of his youth, “yer havin’ me on!”
“I assure you that I am not, as you put it, having you on at all. I am merely stating a fact. Unfortunately, our group is not in a position to offer testimonials from satisfied clients. You must take us on—” He paused. He had been about to say “trust,” but seemed to sense that this was the wrong word to use with Mr. James Donkin. “You must take the results of our efforts as proof of our sincerity,” he finished smoothly, wondering exactly h
ow effective this ambiguity would be.
Mr. Donkin blinked. His nervous fingers fell still on the table, like spiders pausing before attack. “Assuming,” he said slowly, “just for the sake of argument, assuming for a joke that I wanted to have somebody killed. I don’t mean killed for a joke,” he added hastily. “I mean assuming for a joke. Do you really mean you’d do it?”
“Our organization would. You must understand that I am but an individual; the financial secretary, you might say. Or the advance man, if you prefer. We would do it. Certainly; it is precisely why our organization exists. As I said, at a price.”
“At what price?” asked Mr. Donkin, drawn in despite himself.
“One thousand pounds, plus any incidental expenses, which I believe we could guarantee not to exceed ten per cent. If the victim is in London, that is, or near enough so that excessive travel is not required.”
Mr. Donkin pondered this.
“Look,” he said at last. “Even if you’re pulling my leg, let me tell you that the price is good. My partner, may he burn, robs me of more than that every month.” He sat brooding.
Mr. Carruthers shrugged and waited.
“Tell you what,” Mr. Donkin finally said, “I’ll put it this way. If, by some happy accident or blessed miracle, my—this person I’m talking about just happened to—drop dead, let us say, I’d be most happy to contribute the sum of one thousand pounds, plus expenses, to your favorite charity. Would that be satisfactory?”
Mr. Carruthers heaved a discouraged sigh. This was like trying to draw a tarpon from the Thames with a bit of shop string.
“I’m afraid that we do not clearly understand each other. Our group does not depend upon fortuitous accidents, happy or sad, to accomplish our purposes. Nor, since we are a business organization, can we exist on contributions which depend for their donation on miracles, blessed or otherwise. Allow me to put it this way: for one thousand pounds plus expenses, we will kill your partner—for I have gathered, somewhat laboriously, that it is he whom you wish eliminated. The thousand pounds is to be paid in advance; the expenses are to be paid within one week of rendering a final account.”
The Murder League Page 5
