“In advance?” Despite Mr. Donkin’s control, this came out as a muffled scream.
“In advance. And in cash, Mr. Donkin. Our refusal to accept checks is as much for your own protection as for our own. I’m sure you can understand this.”
“But I don’t even know who you are!” Donkin’s tone indicated that the suggestion was the most shocking proposal he had yet encountered in a life spent in a recognizably naughty world.
“True,” Mr. Carruthers agreed. “But then, one can scarcely discuss the murder of one’s partner with one’s closest acquaintances.”
Mr. Donkin bit his lip, twisted his fingers violently, loosened his collar, wiped his face, scratched his head, and grimaced fiercely at the ceiling. He then shook his head from side to side, rubbed his nose, pulled his cravat around to the left, scuffled his feet, twiddled his fingers, and stared angrily out the window. He then shoved his tongue tight against his cheek, crossed his legs, yanked his cravat to the other side, uncrossed his legs, drummed on the table, and breathed heavily. Then, to his own utter surprise, and against all the principles so burningly inculcated in him by his fond father, he came to a rather startling decision.
“D’you know what?” he cried excitedly, amazed to hear his own words fall from his own lips. “I’ll do it!”
“I was rather hoping you would,” said Mr. Carruthers with just the faintest touch of chiding. “First, then, the money.”
“Naturally! Of course! Of course! Certainly!” Mr. Donkin said with complete understanding, and bustled to the tall safe that filled one corner of the office. He counted out a number of bills, hesitated momentarily, and then shook his head. He sighed happily, handed over the money, and, for the first time in twenty-five years, smiled.
“You’ll never know what a pleasure it is,” he said, his voice warm with honesty. “What a real pleasure! To trust someone again, I mean. After twenty-five years.”
“I understand.” To his own surprise, Mr. Carruthers actually did. “’What does it gain a man to win the world …’” He floundered. “You know?”
“Exactly!” cried Mr. Donkin enthusiastically. “I couldn’t have put it better myself! People seldom realize the pure pleasure of just trusting other people!” His face fell as sudden dark thoughts entered his mind. “Of course, if I could have trusted that robbing, stealing, cheating, lying, miserable partner of mine—”
“And speaking of your partner,” Mr. Carruthers interrupted smoothly, placing the bank notes with care in his pocket, “a few facts might be in order. Facts about his person, his habits, his appearance, his whereabouts.”
Mr. James Donkin wrinkled his lip viciously. It was plainly seen that whatever milk of human kindness had momentarily entered his soul had instantly curdled at mention of his partner.
“His person? He’s a drunk. His habits? Drinking. His appearance? Drunken. His whereabouts? Wherever people drink. But mainly,” he added honestly, in an effort to be factual, “at the Lizard and Something down at the corner.”
He thought a moment. “And in his spare time—that is, when the pubs are shuttered—he robs people. Anyone he can, but mainly me. He is a thief, a liar, and an absolute blot!” He leaned forward, opening his heart to this savior who had brought the wonderful peace of trust and faith once again into his warped life.
“Look, sir, do me a favor. Poison him by dropping something into his beer. Poisoned pepper or something.”
His head fell heavily upon the table and he wept. Mr. Carruthers used the time to rise and sharpen his pencil at the apparatus for that purpose located on a desk in one corner. He then returned to his place, took out his notebook, and waited patiently for their client to pull himself together.
“In our next advertisement, should we require one,” said Mr. Carruthers firmly at the end of his review of the day’s events, “we must absolutely put in a few qualifying statements. I feel this to be essential. Things like ‘If you don’t trust us don’t call us in the first place.’ And, even more important, ‘When speaking with our representative, kindly control yourself.’”
His companions nodded absently, their minds already busy with the problem of earning the fee Mr. Carruthers had shown them.
“You know,” Simpson mused thoughtfully, “that’s really not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.”
“Of course it’s not a bad idea,” Carruthers replied a bit testily. “You didn’t see the tears this man shed. Cost another four or five shillings at the most to insert, and in the long run it will undoubtedly save—”
“I didn’t mean about the advert,” Simpson interrupted with more than a touch of impatience. “I mean Donkin’s idea of poisoning his partner’s beer.”
“It really shouldn’t be too difficult,” Briggs agreed. “I remember I had the notion all during the late Forties that the beer was being systematically poisoned by the brewers, but the thought never stopped me from drinking it. Turned out later they were only watering it, but the principle remains.” He expanded upon his theory. “If you have a suspicion there’s something wrong with your drink, you finish it if only to convince yourself you were wrong. It’s only natural.”
“Briggs is right,” Simpson affirmed. “And a busy bar just before closing, with everybody trying to get in enough to last until ten the next day, or eleven some places! And waiters and barmaids rushing about like crackers! You ought to be able to put a pail of poison in a man’s glass without a soul being the wiser!”
“If one happens to have a pail of poison about,” Carruthers said dryly.
“Well, maybe a pail was an exaggeration,” Simpson conceded. “But I certainly have enough around my digs to handle the problem of one small business partner!”
“And if you don’t, I do,” Briggs said, and snorted. “Do you remember some of the silly stories we used to write? Where the killer was caught because he was traced through a packet of Winifred’s Weed Killer purchased in Harrod’s basement on a Friday?”
“Or discovering he had enough chemical laboratory equipment in his house to distill pure hemlock from tree branches?” Simpson grinned. “Good Lord! We were really innocent. In those days our idea was that the human body was resistant to almost everything except exotic compounds obtained by third-degree distillation from rare plants.”
His grin faded; he shook his head. “In my bathroom at this moment I have enough poison—under honest trade names—which, used injudiciously, could keep at least three quarters of the undertakers in the West End busy for months!”
“That may be,” Carruthers said in a tone that indicated his doubt. “But in this case, where an inquest and subsequent autopsy could well result, you would require a material that would evade analysis. And one which,” he added after due consideration, “the drinker would manage to get down, curious or not. Now, do either of you have anything like that?”
“But of course!” Simpson stared at Carruthers curiously.
“Certainly!” Briggs said, absolutely amazed. “Several, in fact. Don’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do not. Or, if I do, I am unaware of their potency,” Carruthers admitted. “But that is neither here nor there. If either of you do, that is all that is required. No,” he added, holding up his hand abruptly, “don’t tell me. The day may come when the minutes of these meetings may be disclosed, and it would not do to place such a dangerous weapon in the hands of a public which has so often demonstrated its complete irresponsibility. Besides, we might be courting competition.”
“Well, all right,” said Briggs grudgingly. “But it seems incredible to me that in the course of treating your scalp you have never even considered the possibility of—”
“No,” Carruthers insisted firmly. “I do not want to hear.”
“Or,” Simpson said, “that when combating an occasional attack of itching toes, you have never noticed—”
“Please! No more! Let us drop the matter. Suffice that you gentlemen feel that no problem exists in this direction.”
“
Well, if you insist,” Briggs conceded, in a tone that clearly indicated his surprise at this sturdy aversion to learning. He shook his head in wonderment. “All right, if that’s the way you want it. Now, just who is this person, what does he look like, and which pub is it in which I shall put an end, once and for all, to his terrible thirst?”
Simpson’s lanky frame almost ejected itself from his chair in outrage.
“You?” he cried. “Do you want them all?” He lifted his eyes skyward in pleading supplication. “How do you like the nerve of the man?” he inquired of the chandelier.
The fixture refused comment, but Carruthers did not. “All right!” he said sharply. “Enough of these petty scenes! One successful murder seems to have turned your heads! We still have a minimum of nine more to go, and you both insist upon hogging the footlights.” His white head swung about, measuring the mood of his companions. “At the risk of appearing dictatorial,” he said softly, “I am afraid I must suggest a central direction to our group, and since the original idea was mine, I must insist upon assuming this responsibility. Democratically, of course.”
Silence greeted this statement. He spread his hands apologetically. “Believe me, I do not like taking this attitude, but it does seem that we have struck upon a good idea, and it would be a pity if we lost the advantages simply because we have each become too selfish, or too bloodthirsty.”
The silence continued. He studied his two friends quietly and then, satisfied by his inspection, went on as if no discussion had taken place. “In this case I agree with Clifford. Not only is it his turn, but it would not do for Tim to appear at the scene of too many accidental deaths in too short a space of time. We agreed at the outset that there is no sense in compounding our risk. So Cliff it shall be.” The other two continued to watch their new commander in chief owlishly. “Now. Where were we?”
“His picture,” Simpson reminded him quietly. “And the name of the pub where he spends half his life.”
Carruthers delved into his pocket and came up with a small copy of an extremely clear portrait photograph, which indicated a person quite pleased to be himself, although to the casual observer the reason for this enthusiasm might have remained obscure.
“You see him,” he said simply. “His name is Wallingford Lynch, if you can possibly accredit such an appellation. He can be found each day from ten-thirty until one in the afternoon, and from five until eleven in the evening, at the Lizard and Something in Bixby Street. He is rumored to drink anything, but since the source of this information is undoubtedly prejudiced, I should not necessarily assume this to be fact. Anything alcoholic, possibly; but even this may be carrying assumption too far. All I can say is, I would not attempt to poison his chaser, should it be water. Nor would I slip any deadly dose into an idle orange drink on the offhand chance that he might drink it. Beyond these impressions, Cliff, you are on your own.”
With little Briggs hovering behind him, Simpson studied the picture. They found themselves facing the miniature likeness of a rather coarse-looking but handsome man whose nose, even in the nonchromatic scale of black and white, seemed suspiciously darkened. The photograph presented him seated in a trellised bower of artificial flowers, clutching his trilby manfully, but it was easily seen that a beer mug would have reposed with more naturalness in the heavy fingers.
Simpson thrust the picture from him sufficient distance to bring it into focus, and then twisted it to allow all manner of shadow to distort the frozen image. When the puffy features of Mr. Wallingford Lynch were indelibly engraved upon his memory, he returned the copy to Carruthers.
“He’s mine,” he said simply, but with a conviction that brooked no denial. “Whether I see him in the Lizard and Something, or in the Wild Gnu and Something, or merely staggering down the street, he’s mine. I’ll know him.”
He glanced at his timepiece with theatrical impatience. “My digs, with my medicine cabinet, are less than five minutes from here, walking briskly, and a Swiss Cottage omnibus can get me to the pub before festivities have advanced too far.” His appraisal of the other two was questioning, albeit in a slightly condescending manner. “I can see no good reason to waste time on this assignment?”
The other two seemed a bit taken back by the sudden businesslike tone of Simpson’s voice; they nodded in a slightly dazed manner.
“In that case,” said Simpson, rising and stretching his gaunt frame, “if you’ll pardon me…”
They watched him thread his way across the room, past the secretary’s office, past the southeast corner without a glance, and disappear around the half-opened door that hid the view of the stairwell.
“If I were a gambling man,” Briggs said softly, “I would be willing to wager at fairly decent odds that we will have earned our money before someone calls ‘Time, gents!’ tonight.”
“We are gambling men,” Carruthers pointed out. “However, in this case I should judge our optimism to be well founded.”
He took a last, sad look at the photograph of Mr. Wallingford Lynch, and then, with a deep sigh, tucked it back into his wallet. It was not a face that particularly pleased him, but then, he thought charitably, de mortuis nil nisi bonum.
The Lizard and Lion (for that is what it finally turned out to be) nestled comfortably in Bixby Street between a greengrocer’s and a tall building used by strange people for mysterious affairs such as business. These odd folk occasionally disturbed the even tenor of noontime custom in the pub, ordering such queer concoctions as Pims 6, or martinis, or even gin and Swiss. However, by six in the night they were long gone to their semi-villas in Golder’s Green or St. John’s Wood, and the premises were then free for the more accepted clientele, the drinkers.
These began to sidle in at five o’clock sharp, wearing the air of people who, having nothing better to do at the moment, might—just might, that is—have a quick one while deciding. These first arrivals could easily be identified by the feverishness with which they waited for the barman to put on his apron, and the eagerness with which they gulped his first offering. About seven, the residents of the area made their appearance; tea behind them and the overwhelming desire to let off the accumulated steam of the day before them, they sprawled in the more desirable seats, catching at the sleeves of all potential listeners. These were more the leisurely type, more the kind to sip between pronouncements.
Ninish was the hour for the crawlers. The Porpoise and Something down the road having given of its all in entertainment, the crawlers now came to the Lizard and Lion. Within moments they would be on their way to the Elephant and Something around the corner, poor lost souls who would keep up this odyssey until financial embarrassment, closing hours, or possibly even the police would put an end to their sad routine.
One exception to this ever-changing kaleidoscope could be noted. This was Mr. Wallingford Lynch. This worthy entered at five with the sidlers, but thereafter remained in one corner through the residents and the crawlers, drinking steadily. The barman, from long practice, and when other custom did not demand his immediate attention, saw to it that an empty mug never remained before Mr. Lynch for very long; Mr. Lynch not only paid promptly, but also tipped well. This barman-to-Lynch-to-throat combination worked wondrous well; it had all the appearance of one machine being fed parts-in-progress by another. To Mr. Simpson, seated beside his intended victim and nursing a pint of ale, the operation was disturbingly rhythmic; the continuous up-and-down elbow action had a hypnotizing effect, and he found he had to shake his head several times to clear his brain and return his thoughts to his mission. And it was during one of these head-clearing shakes that he suddenly discovered he was being addressed by his neighbor.
“Headache?” asked Mr. Lynch solicitously. “Or twitch?” He immediately went back to his drinking, made the required number of swallows to allow another pause, and returned to the conversation. “Ale!” he said, glancing contemptuously at Mr. Simpson’s drink. “Does it every time!”
Despite the serious nature of his assig
nment, Mr. Simpson could not help but be intrigued by this new theory. “Which?” he inquired with polite interest.
“Which what?” Mr. Lynch asked between gulps.
“Which does it do every time? Headache or twitch?”
“Both. It’s the truth. Used to happen to me before I switched off. Also carry pills with me for it. Works every time.” He drank and paused once more. “Want one?”
With blinding suddenness a new plan replaced the one which Mr. Simpson had been considering. “Carry my own,” he said lightly. “Never without them.” He fumbled in one of his cavernous pockets and finally unearthed a small pillbox, from which he extracted a tiny pellet. “Care to try one of mine?”
“Trade you,” said Mr. Lynch abruptly, with typical British fairness. He examined the pellet critically. “Really ought to give you two of mine, though; they’re smaller.” Mr. Simpson denied the necessity of carrying equity to this extreme. His eye traveled swiftly to the bar; the clamor of outthrust arms with empty glasses was increasing, and the barman’s frantic eye at the moment was elsewhere.
“Tell you what,” Mr. Simpson suggested softly. “Let’s take them together and see which works better, yours or mine.”
Mr. Lynch ran a suddenly sober and expert eye over the aging figure of his companion; his examination seemed to satisfy him. “Fair enough,” he agreed. “Good show.” He noted that his mug was not only empty, but was not being refilled. Irritated by this breakdown in the conveyor system, he rapped sharply upon the table and found himself in a reasonable time in possession of additional liquid.
The Murder League Page 6
