It would be logical to assume, therefore, that the central offices of such a philanthropic organization would reflect this sense of amity and brotherhood, but the assumption would be wrong. Mr. Carruthers, sitting quietly before the large and forceful woman facing him, was finding this out.
“Bosler has absolutely no right to be secretary,” Mrs. Whimple was insisting with considerable heat. “Leaving aside the fact that she’s the most hated woman in the place, and with good cause, there’s still the fact that after all it was I who did all the initial work, and Mr. Jarvis himself promised me, just before he passed on, that I should not suffer for my devotion.” She nodded impressively. “Those were his exact words, that I should not suffer for my devotion.” She fixed her eye on Mr. Carruthers, defying him to disprove the accuracy of this statement. Carruthers merely sighed.
“I believe you, Mrs. Whimple. Now, leaving that to one side for a moment—”
“Leaving that to one side?” Mrs. Whimple shook her head at him. “But that’s the whole thing—or most of the whole thing. Bosler has no right to be secretary! She didn’t even come into the organization until the groundwork had all been laid!”
Mr. Carruthers shook his head wearily. His presentiment was working overtime, and he wished, somehow, that Mrs. Whimple had come from the colonies and had been a confirmed drunk. But they had screened the letter most carefully, and it had certainly seemed to be the safest of all. At the back of his mind he could not help but wonder what the Yard’s IBM would say if faced with the inner turmoil of the J. G. L. H. N. M. Foundation.
“Mrs. Whimple,” he said slowly, “bear with me. Normally, our group prefers to divorce itself from the motives of our clients, but in this case I’m afraid we must make an exception and question them. You see, in view of the publicity which accrues to the winner of your annual award, we must be extremely careful, for we differ from most organizations in that we eschew publicity as much as possible. Forgive the question, but I cannot help but wonder if the rivalry between you and Mrs. Bosler might not, in truth, have a financial basis. Are you both, by chance, candidates for this year’s award?”
Mrs. Whimple was honestly shocked.
“My dear sir!” she exclaimed. “In the first place, nobody knows who the candidates are until the award is granted. In the second place, no employee or member of his family can be a candidate; that is clearly explained when one starts here. Both of these points are explicitly stated in the Principles; the awards are determined solely by Lord Hough and the other members of the committee.” Her eyes pleaded with him for understanding. “Believe me when I tell you there is nothing selfish in my desire to replace Mrs. Bosler. I simply feel it is my just due. Mr. Jarvis himself, just prior to passing away, said—”
“Yes, yes,” Carruthers agreed hastily. He rubbed his hands together in desperation, searching for some excuse to refuse the case. After all, he could scarcely return to his friends and tell them he had tossed away a thousand quid just because the woman had eyes like rancid clams. Then, at last, he shook his head sadly.
“Still, it seems a bit high just to take over the secretaryship.”
“What seems a bit high?” Mrs. Whimple asked suspiciously.
“Our fee,” Mr. Carruthers said apologetically. “It’s a thousand pounds, you know, plus any additional expenses involved.”
But Mrs. Whimple accepted the figure with perfect aplomb. “It may be a bit high,” she admitted, “but really not too bad. You see,” she added, leaning forward and, of all things, blushing, “there really is a bit more to it than the secretaryship. You see, both Mrs. Bosler and I are widows, and Lord Hough—well, his Lordship is a widower. And the secretary comes in contact with…” She started to simper, but thought better of it.
Mr. Carruthers had but one last hope of escape. “The fee,” he said almost hopefully, “has to be paid in advance, you know. Now, as a matter of fact.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Whimple agreeably. Her confession seemed to have done her good; with her red cheeks and the hint of her simper still fresh on her lips, she looked far different from the shrewish woman Carruthers had first encountered. Carruthers suspected, quite correctly, it was due to the thought that her rival would soon be eliminated.
She reached into her purse, extracted a thick packet of notes, counted off a portion and shoved it across the desk to him; the balance was returned to her bag. “Actually,” she confessed in rather a shy manner, “I had thought it would be much more.”
Mr. Carruthers counted the money and placed it in his pocket. Well, he thought, mentally shuddering, here we go.
“Now,” said Mrs. Whimple in a businesslike tone, returning chameleon fashion to her former, and much less attractive, self. “Just what is it you need to know from me?”
“Well,” Mr. Carruthers began, “her habits, information regarding the routine of the office, its accessibility, the presence of third parties. Things of that nature.”
“Oh, that!” said Mrs. Whimple almost contemptuously. “Oh, I’ve prepared all that!” And, reaching once again into her voluminous purse, she withdrew a packet of papers. “Now,” she said, spreading her wares out before her, “here are pictures of Bosler; you’ll note I’ve furnished one full-face and one profile. And here are the architect’s plans of the building. Bosler’s office is here, on the fifth floor. And a brief dossier of most of the people in the building.” She paused and reached into her purse again. “Oh, yes—and these are the keys to the building and to the office itself. Not that I think you’ll need them.”
She looked up to interpret an odd look on Mr. Carruthers’ face.
“Well!” she said a bit archly. “You needn’t look so surprised. I may only be a subsecretary, it’s true, but we are an organization, you know.”
“And that’s it,” Mr. Carruthers finished glumly, and leaned over to take up his glass of ale. There was a moment’s silence.
“But it’s really too good to be true!” Briggs declared, wriggling in delight. “Keys, plan of the building, everyone’s movements detailed according to time and place, and our lovely victim alone in her office! My heavens, we were certainly right in selecting this one!”
“And the building empty after seven,” Simpson added, almost in awe. “And her with the habit of working late and alone!” He shook his head at their fortune.
“And Lord Hough, even if he had any amorous ideas involving his secretary, away for a protracted visit to the Continent,” Briggs continued happily, and then paused to stare at Carruthers’ long face. “Now what, for heaven’s sake? What possible fault can you find with this one?”
“I don’t know,” Carruthers confessed miserably.
Simpson suddenly set aside his glass. “Did you have any Scottish grandparents?” he asked. “On either your mother’s or your father’s side?”
Carruthers shook his head. “Hull,” he said simply.
“Any great-grandparents from Scotland?” Briggs asked, and added to be extra sure, “or from Wales?”
“Hull, as far as I know,” Carruthers said, thinking back. “Hull, for four generations at least.”
Simpson relaxed. “Then it’s only a bit of indigestion. A touch of liver, as I suspected. Probably the result of too much brandy and champagne.” He lifted his ale mug in a brave salute. “Here’s to too much brandy and champagne!”
Carruthers smiled. It certainly did seem to be the easiest case they had ever tackled, and for a moment his fears abated. “You may be right,” he said, although despite himself doubt crept into his voice. “You probably are. At least I hope so.” He forced his presentiment into the background and attempted to speak with his old authority. “However, we must still take every precaution to see that all goes well.”
He reached over and drew the papers closer. “First of all, who is to get the assignment?”
“Why, me, of course,” said Briggs, setting down his ale mug in surprise. “It’s my turn.”
Carruthers shook his head decisively.
“This is not the time to consider turns. This time we must select a method that fits the person, and the person who fits the method.”
“Bosh!” Briggs said witheringly. “Pure bosh! This is the time, it strikes me, when we could send a nine-year-old up there with a blunt instrument and have him get clean away with it!”
“Tim’s right, you know,” Simpson said. “All alone in an empty office—what problem is there? You could drown her in the water cooler, strangle her with the wrapping twine, or simply beat her to death with a sheaf of income-tax forms.”
But Carruthers was adamant.
“When you two get around to considering this case seriously,” he said coolly, “you’ll see it isn’t all that simple. For example, it is most essential that this one appear to be an accident. Suicide in this case is out; you have both read Mrs. Bosler’s dossier—there is no reason for her to kill herself. So it must be an accident, and an accident that is foolproof. Completely foolproof!”
His stern eye held them in attendance. “For look! An accident that later turned out merely to be an unsolved murder would be a disaster; the greatest possible disaster. Why? Because it would be certain to confirm the Yard’s faith in the IBM computer. And if they found one accident-cum-murder, they would start looking for the other nine murders the machine claims they are short!”
Respectful silence followed this speech. Briggs cleared his throat. “What’s your idea?” he asked in a much more subdued tone of voice.
Carruthers leaned forward. “As I see it, the thing must be arranged as the type of accident that could happen to anyone working alone in an empty office building at night. And particularly anyone working alone on an upper floor. And for the plan I have in mind, I’m afraid only Clifford has the physical characteristics to bring it off.”
“What’s he supposed to do?” Briggs asked with a slight return of his old ebullience. “Charm her to death?”
“Partly.” Carruthers nodded his head. “At least, may I say he is not to frighten her to death. But it is not for his personal attractiveness that I believe it necessary to employ Cliff. Were it only for this, I should undertake the assignment myself. No; for my plan we shall require his extraordinary height.” And, holding them with his Ancient Mariner’s eye, he began outlining his scheme to his two friends.
When he had finished, the others looked at him with a respect that bordered on awe.
“Beautiful,” said Briggs reverently.
“Excellent!” said Simpson.
“I’m glad you gentlemen are in accord,” Carruthers said modestly, although his pleasure at the accolade did nothing to remove his still present fears. “There is one small problem, however. That is the porter. You will note that according to the information furnished us by the uncharming Mrs. Whimple, he is on duty in the lobby until ten in the evening, and by this time Mrs. Bosler is normally long gone.”
“His dossier says he likes his little nip,” said Simpson, trying to contribute. “Between seven and eight he may well buzz off for a quick one at the local.”
“Or he may not,” Carruthers observed dryly. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Think! We can scarcely plan a murder and depend upon a potential witness to be absent from his normal duties by sheer accident. We must do better than that!”
“I have an idea,” Briggs said slowly. “I used it in The Grotesque Skull some years ago. At least the critics liked it,” he added modestly, and then outlined the stratagem. Carruthers, after considering it from all angles, nodded in satisfaction.
“That should do it.” He considered some more, drumming on his chair arm, and then nodded once again. “Yes, that should do it nicely. All right, gentlemen, if we are agreed let us get on with it.” He swung his head about. “Tonight is satisfactory with you?” Simpson nodded. The white head swiveled in the other direction. “And you’ll arrange the package for Cliff to take along? And the necessary tools?” Briggs also nodded.
Carruthers came to his feet, raising his ale mug. “Then, gentlemen, to the finish of my fears; to the end of my forebodings. To success!” They touched glasses and drank deeply. But, for all his bravado, the drink nearly stuck in Carruthers’ throat.
The Grafton Building, home of the J. G. L. H. N. M. Foundation, as well as several of the other organizations which existed on its beneficence, was located on Clayton Street off Shaftsbury Avenue. It formed a standard chunk in the solid phalanx of six-floored edifices of weathered brick and dusty windows that lined the thoroughfare, remarkable in no way from its neighbors.
At seven that evening the Grafton Building, which had absorbed its quota of employees by slow osmosis that morning, was now busily pumping them out, and Mr. Simpson, facing the full force of this flood, was compelled to put his head down and battle to get into the lobby. The one self-service elevator in the corner was doing a land-office business, and Mr. Simpson therefore pressed himself against a wall and waited until the herd of chattering typists and famished clerks had thinned out a bit.
The timing at this point was vital, for while he did not wish to delay his program until all movement had ceased, still it was essential to the master plan that he find one of the upper floors unoccupied when he finally made his ascent. Judging the time appropriate at last, he slipped by the final outgoing passenger of an emptying lift load and, entering, pressed the button for the sixth floor. Since he was going up he found himself alone, and passed his time by examining the details of the cab. True, Mrs. Whimple had furnished quite exact information on this as well as the other marvels of modern engineering employed in the Grafton Building, but Mr. Simpson was an independent who liked to verify facts for himself.
Arriving at the sixth floor, he was pleased to find (as Mrs. Whimple had so accurately predicted) that the inhabitants of this level were indeed the quickest off the mark at quitting time. He faced an empty areaway and a series of huge doors whose frozen look clearly indicated that they had been locked for the night. With no hesitation he walked to the small push button marked “Porter” which was imbedded in the wall, and pressed it firmly. He then walked nonchalantly to the stairwell in one corner of the area and, humming softly to himself, trotted quickly down them.
As he had expected, the lobby was vacant when he arrived, and he took the opportunity to pass by the cubbyhole the porter used as an office. Pleased, but not surprised, to find it empty, he leaned over the small counter and gently laid a small package on top of the mail desk. A small grate was burning cheerfully in one corner, for the evening was turning chilly, and for an instant Simpson was tempted to decant the pile of other mail into this avid throat. Second thought, however, indicated that finding the package alone would be too suspicious, and he therefore forbore from any foolish act. Besides, the whisper of humming cables advised that the porter was returning, so, with a last fond look at his packaged gift to the porter, he headed for the door.
His initial tasks had been completed, and he therefore prepared to spend the next forty-five minutes having tea at the nearest Corner House.
While Mr. Simpson had been pleased to find the sixth floor unencumbered of people, the same could not be said of Arthur Corby, porter. As he came off the lift in answer to the mysterious buzz and discovered the empty hall and the battery of locked doors, he shook his head in disgust. From force of habit he examined the bell itself with suspicion, as if it might have rung itself, but he knew better. Pranksters! he thought sourly. Young flibbertigibbets! And you to become the future mothers of England! With a loud sniff to cover his thoughts, he got back into the lift and returned to the first floor.
He swung back the barrier of his tiny domain and seated himself wearily at the mail desk before the coal grate, prepared to dutifully stamp the multitude of correspondence that seemed to him to be the major reason for the building’s existence. And there on top of the precarious pile of envelopes stood a battered package which some fool had wrapped so inexpertly that the contents were nearly visible.
He shook his head in irritation; it would have to be
rewrapped and he didn’t even know if there was enough brown paper about for the job. He next looked at the address to see if the careless sender might be identified, but to his surprise neither return name nor office number was attached. Even worse, the address of the receiver appeared to have been soaked in water and was completely illegible.
Well! thought Porter Corby. They get more careless every day! I suppose I’ll have to open it and see if at least they had the sense to include a note. That might give me a clue.
Opening it presented no problem; the package was practically open already. He bent back the torn cardboard and noted, a bit enviously, that someone was in line to receive a pint bottle of one of the better whiskeys. It was a brand he had tasted but once, and that time at a posh wedding, but it was one whose taste he had never forgotten. With a sigh at the good fortune which always seemed to attend others but never himself, he withdrew the note wrapped about the bottle and read it. His eyes opened, for the missive, written by typewriter on mauve notepaper, had the following to say:
Dear Chickie:
Here’s a bottle of the boss’s best; what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. In any event, he’s got so much he’ll never even miss it. At least he never did before.
Hope this manages to get to you—I know you’re off on a long trip, so this is by way of being a bon voyage present. But even if it doesn’t get to you, it’s small loss. There’s plenty more where this comes from.
Tickey-boo.
Pinky
Mr. Arthur Corby’s first reaction was shocked horror at the larceny implied in the contents of the note. Then his brow furrowed as he placed himself in the picture. Here he was in possession of a pint of the best, stolen by one unknown and to be handed over to another unknown, and no means whatsoever to identify either. And, further, would he not be compounding a felony if he attempted to identify them for the purpose of making delivery? Returning it being impossible, the proper thing, of course, would be to turn it in to the Dead Mail Office, but the thought of having the bottle disappear into either the storage bins or the stomachs of the Postal Department did not strike him as the proper solution.
The Murder League Page 10
