The authoritative fingers of his new bride repeated their gesture from the archway.
“Hullo, there, dear,” he said, grinning in a sickly fashion, and hoping she would not feel it necessary to remove her veil in front of people who might know him.
“Beddy-bye time, lover,” she replied, with an attempt at coyness that was ghastly.
He sought the answer to this in a long draught of beer, but when he finally realized he could not hold his breath forever, he set his mug down and did his best at improvising.
“You go along, dear,” he said at last, smirking painfully. “Get ready, you know. I’ll be along in a minute.” He hoped he sounded like a confident groom, but he acknowledged that the scratchiness of his voice might have betrayed him.
His new bride eyed him a bit oddly through her veil. Good heavens, did the boy really think that after four husbands she needed to be sent off alone to get ready? And then she suddenly understood. It was the lad who was nervous. Poor lamb, she thought, her heart flooding with tenderness; we’ll get you over that in a hurry!
“All right, dear,” she agreed.
With a flicker of her gloved hand she left her new husband and trampled resolutely up the stairs, while Mr. Roger “Slugger” Manley turned blindly to grasp the nearest drink at hand. He was certain it contained alcohol, because one part of his brain registered the fact that the barman rang up six and four on the register, but for all the effect it had on him it might have been his usual glass of milk. I hope those Murder League blokes come out scrapping at the bell, he prayed fervently. I hope they don’t stall and waltz for the whole bloody ten rounds!
He need not have worried.
For when his unblushing bride entered their third-floor suite, she was surprised, but not excessively perturbed, to find that she was not alone. Her first thought was that the lanky figure was one of the wedding guests who had decided he wanted his nightcap in the nuptial chamber, although, in that case, what he was doing on his knees on the balcony frankly puzzled her. It was not until she had advanced farther into the room that she noted the leather apron and the polishing rag; it was only one of the inn employees shining the inlaid tile of the balcony with languorous vigor. Beyond the waist-high solid wall that separated the balcony from the sheer drop beyond, she could hear the voices of her friends serenading her in drunken song.
“Will you be long?” she asked a trifle impatiently.
“Just this minute started,” said Simpson, looking up. He thought a moment, squatting on his haunches in a manner to block her entrance to the balcony. “However,” he said, conceding a point, “if you simply want to toss your flowers down, I can slide over a bit.”
“Toss my flowers down?” she asked, amazed at this weird suggestion. “Why on earth would I want to do that? My dear man, four guineas these flowers cost!” She lifted her eyebrows at the poor man’s madness.
“However,” she went on, “if you could slip just a bit to one side, I should like to look down and see my friends.”
“Certainly,” Simpson said, always the gentleman, and edged to one corner of the balcony, being careful not to allow any part of himself to appear in sight beyond the balcony wall. Two strong feet shod in sensible yellow rhinestones came to stand beside him, and he glanced up to see her hand being raised in greeting to raucous songsters below.
It was but the work of a moment to grip the ankles firmly and, by lifting, upend the lady. The sharp protest which greeted this unwarranted familiarity was cut short as Lady Chatwood found herself falling. Her last conscious thought was that inn servants were a dashed sight ruder these days than she had ever previously recalled.
(“Wouldn’t toss over her flowers!” said Simpson, still shocked at this penuriousness, and he reached for his brandy, shaking his head at the parsimony of the rich.)
And the summer days moved smoothly into autumn, and they all purchased new topcoats, and Briggs had a spare set of plates made, and Simpson set in a fair stock of Corona-Coronas.
And the file in the folder of that excessively brilliant barrister Sir Percival Pugh grew with every assignment the Murder League successfully completed.
6
It was one of those fine, sunny days that London occasionally produces if only to test everyone’s credulity, and the three had met as was their custom for morning tea. Both Briggs and Simpson were deeply engrossed in copies of different morning journals, for they both loved to read of their feats. William Carruthers, on the other hand, was staring into space with an odd expression on his face, but the other two were so intent upon perusing the erroneous reports of their action the previous evening that they did not even notice. It was only as they were leaning over to exchange newspapers, and Carruthers spoke, that they noticed he was not his usual self.
“Gentlemen,” he said heavily. They paused, newspapers still extended, and glanced at each other frowningly. There was something in their confrere’s voice that was mildly disturbing, and in concert they shifted their glance to him. He hesitated a moment and then with a massive sigh, began to speak his piece.
“Gentlemen. I think it is time for us to consider our present position.” They watched him with the round-eyed vigilance of children expecting punishment but without the faintest idea why. “We have, on deposit in various banking houses, the sum of—” he fumbled in his wallet and withdrew a slip, which he consulted—"nine thousand and forty pounds, eight shillings and fivepence. The forty pounds and change is the result of rounding out expenses in the various cases we have handled, and can be treated as you wish.”
He continued to eye them quietly. “We are within one thousand pounds of our professed goal,” he went on, “and all this within three months of our establishment. All in ten weeks, less two days, to be exact. It is really quite a good record, and what I am wondering is, if we should not be satisfied.”
The owlish silence that had prevailed as he spoke was suddenly broken by the shocked intake of breath on the part of his two associates. The newspapers fluttered to the floor.
“Satisfied? But why?” Briggs cried incredulously. “Actually, why stop at ten thousand quid? Why even set a limit? Why not keep going as we are forever?”
“And it isn’t even the money,” Simpson added, placing his Corona-Corona in an ashtray and pushing it aside as if to give force to his argument. “Why, I haven’t had this much pleasure in years, and I’d bet a bottle you haven’t, either. I feel ten years younger than I ever felt, even when I was ten. Why on earth stop?”
“Well,” Carruthers said unhappily, frowning at the toes of his boots, “call it a presentiment. We can pat ourselves on the backs all we want, but we’ve been quite lucky, you know.” His eyes suddenly came up, washing the other two with cold seriousness. “And I have a strange feeling that our luck is about to run out.”
“I’ll tell you what that feeling is,” Briggs said, nodding his head sagely. “Years ago at school we used to call it ‘tape fever.’ It’s the feeling that came over you when you were miles ahead in a foot race—the feeling that the earth would suddenly open at your feet, or that the chap you knew very well you had beaten might develop wings and reach the tape ahead of you despite your lead. It’s quite natural, but—” he paused for effect—"the fact is you always did win from that position, and afterwards, when they were handing out the pewter cups, you knew you had simply been a victim of tape fever.”
“Rather a complicated explanation,” Simpson said. “I should be more apt to put it down to a touch of liver.”
“Possibly,” Carruthers admitted. “Either explanation is possible. But I don’t believe so. This feeling is so strong…” He shook his head and stared at them somberly. “In any event, I felt it only right to communicate to you my feelings.”
“I think we should postpone this entire discussion until we have reached our goal of ten victims,” Simpson said firmly, leaning over once again to draw his cigar within range. “I believe that before we have accomplished what we set out to do, there should
be no talk of quitting. After that…” He trailed off into silence.
“After that,” Briggs suggested, savoring the even fit of his teeth, “we may all feel quite differently about the whole thing. I go along with Cliff. Let’s at least wait until we have completed our original program.”
Carruthers looked at them curiously. “That’s your decision?” The two nodded. The portly man spread his hands. “Two to one,” he said sadly. “In accordance with another article of our still-unwritten bylaws, I am forced to bow to the will of the majority.” He sighed deeply. “So on we go to number ten. Well. I suggest that at least we select number ten with inordinate caution.”
The others nodded agreement at this quite reasonable request, and Carruthers pulled himself slowly to his feet.
“In that event, I’ll go down and pick up the latest batch of answers. There is nothing among the remainder of our last haul that appears worthy of consideration. And I’m afraid I shall be quite exigent in our final selection.”
“Our next selection,” said Briggs stubbornly. “Let’s discuss whether or not it’s our final one, after it’s over.”
“And have a brandy before you go,” Simpson suggested kindly, bending down and ringing for a waiter. “It’ll be good for your morale.”
“A bit early,” Carruthers began, glancing at his watch, and then smiled wryly. “You are probably right.” He watched the waiter pour his glass and leave the bottle; he reached over and lifted it, tossing the drink down his throat in one gulp.
“It is seldom indeed,” he said, feeling the brandy warm his stomach, “that I pray to be wrong. This, however, is one of those times. Ta.” And with a brave lift of his fingers he trudged from the Club.
“Poor Billy-boy!” Briggs said, taking advantage of the bottle within reach by pouring himself a drink. “He’s getting old.”
“Too much good living,” Simpson said explanatorily, drawing the Corona-Corona beneath his nose and savoring the rich aroma. “A classical example of the fear of loss that plagues the haves, as distinguished from the insouciance of the have-nots.”
“Oh, he’ll get over it,” Briggs prophesied lightly. “He’s just having one of those days. If it’ll make him any happier, we’ll pick a real softy for number ten.”
Mr. Carruthers, emerging from the Waterloo offices (this time) of the Times, was actually not too surprised to encounter Inspector Painter marching along the pavement in his direction. It is true it did strike him that either London was getting smaller or Inspector Painter more numerous, but, since his sense of impending disaster was so strong, he expected trouble at any moment in any form, and certainly Inspector Painter represented the form most possible.
“Ah, there, Mr. Carruthers,” the Inspector said, and smiled at him in quite friendly fashion. He certainly did not appear like a policeman about to make an arrest, and Carruthers found himself relaxing. It was not, unfortunately, a relaxation that was to endure.
“Ah, Inspector,” he replied, and smiled in return. “You seem a bit chirpier than the last time we met.”
“Oh, I am! You recall that report I spoke of last time we met?”
“Ah, yes. That report. I gather, from your tone, you completed it?”
“And stuffed it down their throats!” Inspector Painter said with gruff triumph. “Now that the brass are choking on it, I suppose I can tell you what it was all about.”
Mr. Carruthers stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch; unfortunately, there was no great reason to rush off and be spared the boring details. He sighed. “Ah?”
“D’you know what that idiot machine did?” Inspector Painter almost chortled. “It predicted exactly forty-four murders in Greater London in the past ten weeks. And do you know how many there actually were? As pointed out in my report? Well, I’ll tell you—there were thirty-five!” He beamed triumphantly at his companion. “The machine was nine short! Ha! Nine short! That’s pretty disgraceful for a machine that’s supposed to be infallible!”
A chill swept Mr. Carruthers; he attempted to swallow, but found that his tongue had inexplicably grown and was blocking the space. “M-m-most interesting,” he finally managed to say, and swung his head about, as if seeking escape.
“Interesting?” Inspector Painter frowned at him. “Is that all you can say? I’d call it pretty disasterous!”
“A much better word,” Carruthers agreed fervently, glanced at his watch once again, and smiled a ghastly smile. “I really must run now, Inspector. Disasterous. Yes. Well, ta.”
Inspector Painter watched the scurrying figure of his old friend for several seconds and then shrugged. Nobody, it seemed, wished to congratulate him on his brilliant finding, nor to pat him on the shoulder for his excellent report. Selfish, he said to himself sadly, and shook his head. The whole world is turning more selfish every day.
By odd coincidence, that same evening Sir Percival Pugh found himself a guest at a cocktail party that included the Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, and in concert with that gentleman he escaped to the library, where the inane chatter of the other guests could be avoided, and where decent brandy was available rather than the sickening punch bowl that graced—or, more properly, disgraced—the table in the outer premises.
The two men relaxed in deep chairs and smiled at each other, for, although they often found themselves on opposite sides of the criminal fence, they were in fact good friends.
“And what’s new at the Yard?” Sir Percival asked genially, more to make conversation that for any other reason.
“Science,” replied the A.C.
“Science? I thought you chaps always relied greatly on science.”
The Assistant Commissioner smiled. “This is a step further,” he said, and sipped from his glass. “We’ve installed a computer. It’s quite a remarkable machine.”
“Oh?” Sir Percival’s gigantic intelligence was digesting this information. “In what way?”
“In many ways. For example, one thing it does is to predict the number of crimes we may expect,” the A.C. explained. “Takes into account the weather, past experience, time of day, even the current unemployment figures. Remarkable. It hit the number of smash-and-grabs on the nose, and was within one per cent of the number of stolen cars. Equally accurate on most other things, too.” He frowned at his glass. “I will admit we were a bit disappointed in the work it did on murders, but…” He shrugged.
Sir Percival’s eyes narrowed momentarily and then returned to their original innocence. “Disappointed in what way?”
“Well,” said the Assistant Commissioner, stretching his long legs before him, “the machine missed the number of murders over the past ten weeks by nine. Said there would be nine more than there actually were.” He smiled across at Sir Percival. “Not, you understand, that we mind having fewer murders.”
Sir Percival studied his friend’s face. “That figure you mentioned was nine, was it?”
“That’s right. Nine. Rather a high percentage, when you think about it.”
Sir Percival masked his feeling of triumph. His folder, at that moment, had nine interesting newspaper clippings in it. “Probably just a loose connection, I should imagine.”
“I should imagine,” the A.C. said and raised his glass. “Have to check it, though, I suppose.”
“What you need is a brandy,” said Briggs decisively. “You yourself said that all machines are scatty!”
“But still,” Carruthers argued stubbornly, “nine short. Their wonderful machine is nine murders short! They’re bound to check up. They’re not complete fools, you know.”
Briggs contemplated his old friend in amazement. “They accept this Bermondsey bit and they’re not complete fools?”
“Now, look,” Simpson interjected firmly. “We agreed on a program. We agreed to do number ten before we became involved in any of these discussions. So let’s keep with that program. Let’s take a look at that envelope Billy-boy is hanging on to like grim death.”
Carruthers released
his grip and placed the envelope on the table, but immediately laid his hand squarely on top of it. “All right,” he said slowly. “I still have that feeling, and stronger than ever now, but all right. One thing, however: this time we take our time selecting. This time we really take no chances. None at all. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Simpson readily.
“Of course,” Briggs said, with a faint touch of disdain.
Carruthers sighed and slit open the envelope. The first smaller envelope that fell out carried an impressive array of initials in the upper left-hand corner, and Briggs pulled it to him.
“Let’s start with this one,” he said. “It looks prosperous.”
7
The Jarvis Greater-Love-Hath-No-Man Foundation received the income that supported its worthy and sizable contributions from the estate of the late Harley P. Jarvis, who had founded his fortune in the deep jungles of equatorial Africa. At the time he was piling up the stuff, Mr. Jarvis certainly had no intention of being charitable in its distribution; in the hinterland he was known far and wide as a man who was not even generous with praise, let alone money.
And then, one day, a native bearer sprang between Harley and a charging rogue elephant, earning himself a blow from the trunk that reduced him to a pulp. The incident particularly impressed Mr. Jarvis because but moments before he had found it necessary to chastise the bearer severely; yet the man did not hesitate to insert his body between the irate elephant and his master. This exhibition of unselfishness so affected Mr. Jarvis that in his will he set aside a major portion of his wealth for the purpose of establishing a foundation dedicated to paying large awards to future self-sacrificing individuals. In addition to this praiseworthy cause, the foundation also contributed heavily to the Anti-Violence Committee, the Atoms Without Fallout Group, and Peace Lovers, Incorporated (a transplanted American organization).
The Murder League Page 9
