His outburst seemed to have taken the edge from his anger, for he continued in a somewhat quieter, if no less aggrieved tone of voice. “I fought,” he said, almost wistfully, “when ‘orses went out of style, like, that me job would be jam on toast, but people is worse nor ‘orses.” Memory returned of the vandalism he had just seen committed. “Like yer!” he said accusingly. “Frowin’ fings from bus winders! Litterin’ the streets!”
“I’m truly sorry,” said Mr. Carruthers placatingly. He rose hastily to leave the bus, but paused before pushing past the bony knees to deliver himself of his apology properly. “You are quite right. And I promise that in the future I shall reserve my detritus for the standard containers provided by the city for that purpose.”
“And yer don’t need to get sarcastic, neither,” said the little man sulkily, moving aside with a jerk. Carruthers choked down the reply that automatically rose to his lips. The grubby little man had a point, and Carruthers was honest enough to see it. From the standpoint of murder theory it was fine to kill someone in broad daylight on a crowded street, but there was no denying that it undoubtedly did litter the city. Still, Carruthers thought, descending at the next stop, if one went about stuffing dead bodies in corner rubbish bins the collectors would undoubtedly complain. They could scarcely help being displeased at the extra weight. Oh, well, he thought philosophically, you can’t please everyone.
Crossing the street to catch a bus back to the Club, he suddenly paused, frowning. Trudging toward him, eyes cast pavementward, was the familiar figure of Inspector Painter. It had been some time since the inspector had bothered them, and Carruthers had come to consider the matter of police interference a closed book. However, coming so soon after his recent escapade, it gave him several chilling moments until he remembered that, after all, Inspector Painter lived in this neighborhood. A glance at the turned-down corners of the inspector’s mouth, and a further evaluation of the woebegone visage, completely dispelled any disquieting thought.
“Well, hullo there, Inspector!” he said in a hearty voice. “Still hot on my spoor?”
The inspector looked up in surprise; it was clear his mind had been elsewhere. “Oh, hullo there, Mr. Carruthers.” He shook his head with a grimace that was anything but humorous. “No, you’re safe as far as I’m concerned. Or, rather, to be honest, as far as that asinine machine is concerned!”
This last was added with a bitterness that rather startled Mr. Carruthers. He had seen Inspector Painter pass through many emotional crises, but the bitter mood had seldom resulted. He had no idea of what the inspector was talking about, but the harsh tone bothered him.
“Oh, come, now, Inspector,” he said genially, taking the other by the arm. “I don’t know what the problem is, but I’m sure it doesn’t warrant a face that long!”
The inspector stared at him with a little-do-you-reck expression that was heartrending. Mr. Carruthers was touched. “I believe I owe you a beer, Inspector,” he said gently. “This seems as good a time as any to repay my debt.”
Inspector Painter allowed himself to be drawn into the closest pub—the Vixen and Something—and to be seated in the quiet darkness of one corner, where the tragic expression on his face could not be noted by the other denizens, who were also his neighbors.
“Now, then,” said Mr. Carruthers in warm sincerity, for he had always felt a kinship with the overworked and underpaid servants of the Crown. “Just what seems to be the problem?”
Inspector Painter picked idly at the scarred table top at which they were seated. “Problem?” he asked at last, his voice fraught with misery. “Problem? There are no bloody problems—that’s the problem!”
Mr. Carruthers paused for a second in ordering their drinks; for a moment he thought the inspector might already have had one too many. A second look at the sober figure across from him, however, dispelled this theory, and he therefore made their necessities known to the barmaid. With this vital task accomplished, he turned his attention once again to the sad figure beside him.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, raising his bushy brows. “The problem is that there are no problems?”
“No bloody problems,” Inspector Painter corrected him dolefully, and then placed his two clenched fists firmly upon the table. “Look, Mr. Carruthers, you’re an old-timer, so I can talk to you. And I’d better talk to you while I can, because in a short while the chances are there won’t be any inspectors at Scotland Yard. Or superintendents either,” he added darkly.
“Really—”
“I’m serious, Mr. Carruthers. We’ve installed an IBM. One of these American electronic brains, you know. And it does all our thinking for us. In a short time,” the inspector predicted broodingly, “we’ll just feed the report sheets of the beat P.C. into the blasted thing, and then go out and make the arrest.”
“But—”
“For example,” the inspector went on, warming to his subject. “Take the case of you and the Murder League. Oh, I know; to you it’s simply a means of gathering material for a book. And to the press and others it’s some lead-up to an advert campaign. But I felt, and I still feel, that if I could have gotten my hands on some of those letters, we might have been able to discover a few people who wanted to kill a few other people. But—” Their beer came and he drank deeply, as if from vital need, and then wiped his lips before continuing.
“Where was I? Oh, yes! But the blasted machine thought differently.”
“It did?” said Mr. Carruthers in pleased surprise. “The machine thought differently?”
Inspector Painter laughed harshly. “D’you know that stretch in Bermondsey from London Bridge to Chamberly Street? Well, it’s dock area, and it happens—by pure chance, mind you!—to be exactly three miles in length. And I’ll even go so far as to admit that it carries the highest crime rate in the city. But even so!” He drank again and then stared at Mr. Carruthers evenly.
“The machine,” he pronounced in deep disgust, “claims that this is the murder league!”
“Three miles in Bermondsey? The machine claims …?”
“Oh, we had to feed it the dictionary,” the inspector explained gloomily. “The thing had to know the difference between a tram and a streetcar, and a bonnet and a hood, and things like that. After all, it was American, you know. And we had to feed it a map of London, so it would be able to tell us where to go to make an arrest. Apparently when it was digesting the dictionary it came to this word ‘league,’ picked up this distance thing, and hasn’t been able to get it out of its—its—” He gave up his search for the proper word. “Thing has a one-circuit brain!”
Understanding flooded Carruthers, and he fought down a desire to laugh. His presentiment of danger passed away as the thought of the IBM’s idiocy-cum-ignorance struck him. He wiped the humor from his voice. “You poor man! But didn’t any of your superiors …?”
“They swear by the machine!” Inspector Painter said bitterly. “Nobody can say a word against it. Swear by it!” And then for the first time that afternoon he smiled, although admittedly in grim fashion. “But just you wait until I type up my next report!”
Mr. Carruthers completed his drink, placed his mug on the table, smiled at his friend in kindly fashion. “Your next report?”
“That’s right. Can’t tell you about it now, but just you wait.” His smile, if anything, became even grimmer. “I can’t wait to see the faces of the brass in the Department when they read my next report!”
“I’m sure,” Mr. Carruthers said soothingly, and glanced at his timepiece. He looked apologetic. “Speaking of not being able to wait, I’m afraid that describes my situation exactly.” He came to his feet, placed some money on the table, patted the inspector on the shoulder in a commiserating manner, and moved to the door. “Things to do, you know.” He raised a hand. “Ta.”
Behind him, as he swung through the door, he could still hear the baleful mutterings of Inspector Painter.
“Delicious!” Briggs said with a wide gr
in. “The Murder League a three-mile stretch in Bermondsey!”
“We ought to drink to that,” Simpson said with a broad smile, and bent over for the bell.
“All machines are scatty,” Carruthers said decisively, and ended the discussion. “Well, enough of that. Shall we get back to work?”
Item from the August 10 Morning Reporter:
LORD PARKINSON-COLLINGSWORTH DEAD!
Found Smiling Beneath Wash-Cloth
Friends of Reginald Cyril Courtney, Lord Parkinson-Collingsworth, will be saddened to learn that the eighty-year-old knight of the realm passed away peacefully last evening in his London flat at 774 Park Lane. Giving the lie to a host of previous table-companions who claimed he never took one, Lord Collingsworth was found dead in his bath.
The body was discovered by Archibald Green, valet to the dead man, who was off duty on the fatal night, but returned early today to his duties. In the course of cleaning up the bath, Mr. Green lifted a floating washcloth from the tub and discovered the smiling face of his master beneath.
The nephew and heir of Lord Collingsworth, Mr. Charles Parkinson Smyth, when interviewed, brushed aside a tear and said, “He was a great old boy, even though he did rob his sister—my mother—blind. I thought for a time there he was going to live forever. It was only recently that I realized he was, after all, only mortal. It is this deep philosophical thought that comforts me in my great loss.”
Well, what actually happened was this:
Timothy Briggs arrived at 774 Park Lane well in advance, and thereafter waited patiently on the bench in Hyde Park until he saw the valet break from the servants’ entrance and make for the nearest pub. Their client, a Mr. Smyth, had assured them that the valet was the only servant in the flat, and that on his night off he was most punctual in escaping and returned home only when the last precious second of freedom had faded precariously into the shadows of tardiness. Briggs, however, did not overlook the possibility of the valet’s returning for some small item such as a forgotten purse. Brute Bill, the villain of Limehouse Terror (by none other than Timothy Briggs), had been apprehended because he had overlooked this possibility, and Mr. Briggs certainly did not want to fall foul of a trap he felt he himself had at least partially invented.
When fifteen minutes had passed, however, and no returning valet appeared, he felt the time was ripe. Employing the edge of a plastic playing card to slip the door-latch, he entered the servants’ doorway and rode the service elevator to the eighth floor. He pressed the kitchen bell firmly, well aware that eighty-year-olds were often faulty in hearing. Lord Parkinson-Collingsworth finally answered the bell after a considerable wait, but the delay was not due to auricular difficulty. Actually, his Lordship had been soaking his ancient bones in a tub of hot water and was of two minds as to whether or not to answer the bell at all. Its persistence, however, left him small choice. He padded to the door in understandable irritation, wearing a Turkish towel several sizes larger than himself, and leaving a wobbly trail of wet footprints on the hall carpet.
“Yes?” said his Lordship, peering in comprehensible pique around the edge of the door.
“Plumber,” said Briggs succinctly, and edged inside. His Lordship automatically gave ground, frowning in thought.
“Plumber?” he asked. “Did I ring up for a plumber?” He honestly did not think so, but he recognized his memory for what it was.
“Well,” said Briggs graciously, allowing the man a means of saving face, “somebody did. And if I were you,” he added solicitously, “I’d get back in the tub before you catch your death of pneumonia.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” his Lordship conceded, and then paused, viewing Briggs with sudden suspicion. “You’re pretty old to be a plumber,” he said accusingly.
“Some of us ain’t as lucky as others,” Briggs returned coldly, glancing about the chromed kitchen with calculated bitterness, and then allowing his prejudiced eye to fall upon the dripping man before him.
“Oh. Ah,” said his Lordship unhappily. He was honest enough to recognize that he had nobody but himself to blame for having invited this typically Socialist rejoinder, but it still seemed a shame a man couldn’t voice an opinion these days without getting a Marxist lecture in return. And then something intruded upon his intelligence which gave his suspicions greater leverage. “You haven’t brought your tools with you,” he pointed out.
“First inspection,” Briggs explained curtly. He thrust his bowler aggressively to the back of his small head. “Tool part comes later, when we know what we’re about. Silly to trot the entire shop around when one may only want a spanner. You should be able to see that.”
“I suppose so,” said his Lordship thoughtfully. “Except, of course, I’ll be charged twice for whatever’s required. Well, I’d best get back to my bath and let you get on with your work.” A sudden disquieting thought struck him. “But the bathroom—won’t you be requiring it?”
“Big enough for two, ain’t it?” Briggs asked, chin thrust forward, arms akimbo, and sharp antagonism in his icy eyes. It was not the first time in his eighty years that Lord Parkinson-Collingsworth had faced the implied accusation of being undemocratic, and, while it didn’t particularly bother him, whenever possible he avoided the subject or changed it.
“I beg your pardon,” he said coldly. “It’s actually big enough for four or five, if you wish to be factual.” He wrapped the towel firmly about his sparse figure and started off down the hall. “It’s this way,” he called back over his shoulder.
They arrived at the bathroom in the fashion of tandem bicycle riders, and his Lordship entered the water gingerly, although attempting to do it in a manner that at least appeared republican. Briggs, faced with the wealth of pipes that projected from all walls, tapped and tugged, and was about to bend down in a listening attitude toward the geyser when Lord Collingsworth saved him from continuing the fiction.
“I say,” said his Lordship, turning up the tap, “I don’t want to be a bother, but would you mind? The soap, I mean. It’s right there on the sink, behind you.”
“Why, not at all,” said Mr. Briggs cooperatively.
("Fantastic cosh,” he later told his colleagues over the usual brandy and champagne. “Bar of soap in a damp washcloth. Never saw anything like it in my life. Absolutely effective, and doesn’t leave the slightest mark. A bit of suds, of course, but nothing really suspicious. Tremendous!")
Item from the August 19 Gentlewoman’s Weekly:
FATAL PLUNGE
FROM BRIDAL SUITE!
Quick Footwork Saves Spectators
By Julia Halpern, Special Correspondent
I had the glorious opportunity last evening of being present (as a guest!) at the wedding of Lady Gwendolyn Chatwood and Mr. Roger Manley, age 24. Mr. Manley will be remembered by my readers as the handsome athlete who has already come up to ranking contender position in the middleweight division of British fisticuffs. (And, girls, he’s divine!)
Spectators who remember Lady Chatwood’s previous four marriages will agree with me that she never looked more attractive than when she was standing (veiled) before the Bishop of Dulwich, who performed the ceremony. Mr. Manley wore lemon; her Ladyship appeared in madder-yellow and saffron. Only the Bishop broke the simple harmony by presenting himself in black with a bit of white about the throat.
After the wedding, which was held in the lounge of the Swan and Pike, the bride excused herself and left for their suite on the third floor of the famous old inn, while a group of her friends gathered below her window to serenade her. In a few moments she appeared at her enclosed balcony and leaned forward to fling her bouquet of flowers to the eager, upstretched hands below.
(Oh, yes! This is what I wanted to mention!) Eyewitness accounts of what followed vary greatly. One school of thought has it that she tripped, while a second stoutly maintains that when she threw her bouquet to the happy group below, she simply forgot to let go of it….
Well, what had actually happened was th
is:
When the fatal episcopal words had finally been pronounced, and the crowd about him was pumping his hand and pounding him on the back in a manner which would normally have led him to complain vociferously to the referee, Mr. Roger “Slugger” Manley forced himself to smile weakly. Using the occasion as an excuse, he retired to the bar and proceeded to break training.
His contract with the Murder League (paid for in advance) was now in effect, and he wondered, as he hastily slugged down gin after champagne after ale after whiskey, how long it would take them to get cracking. He sincerely hoped it would be before the marriage was consummated, for, while Slugger Manley liked girls as much as some—and better than most—he was still a young fellow who had been raised with taste. It had been only by pretending that her Ladyship was his Aunt Maude that he had been able, after slipping on the ring, to lift the veil and kiss those bulbous lips. The thought of carrying the affair beyond this point was patently disturbing, and he hoped that the old codger with the slick tongue from the League who had interviewed him appreciated that fact.
Whatever fears he had were multiplied when his new bride appeared in the archway of the bar and beckoned imperiously with diamond-studded fingers. Lady Chatwood, born with the authority that comes with unbounded wealth, was not an easy person to deny. Even had she been passionless, which she was not, it is safe to say that her previous four husbands would have found their way to the grave with equal thankfulness. Mr. Roger Manley had no intention of becoming number five in this sweepstakes. However, when he realized that he could easily become heir to the Chatwood millions, and when this realization was coupled with the knowledge (as yet not public) that he seemed to have inexplicably developed a glass jaw, he felt he was being wafted down a warm, breezy corridor almost without volition. He had enough intelligence, however, to search for a handhold on his trip, and this he found in the advertisement of the Murder League. He only hoped his confidence in the rotund gentleman with the white hair had not been misplaced.
The Murder League Page 8
