The Nine Tailors

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  Yet, when the moment came, on that night of the 15th–16th April, the thing was not premeditated. Not in any real sense. It just happened. Or did it? That was a thing that even John Scales could not have said for certain. He may have felt a moral conviction, but that is not the same thing as a legal conviction. The doctor may have had his suspicions, but if so, they were not directed against John Scales. And whether they were right or wrong, nobody could say that it had made any difference; the real slayer may have been the driver of the car, or the intervening hand of Providence, sprinkling the tarmac with April showers. Or it may have been Garrick Drury, so courteously and charmingly accompanying John Scales in quest of a taxi, instead of getting straight into his own car and being whirled away in the opposite direction.

  In any case, it was nearly one in the morning of Sunday when they got the film people off the premises, after a long and much-interrupted argument, during which Scales found himself, as usual, agreeing to a number of things he did not approve of but could see no way to prevent

  ‘My dear John,’ said Mr Garrick Drury, pulling off his dressing-gown (he always conducted business interviews in a dressing-gown, if possible, feeling, with some truth, that its flowing outline suited him), ‘my dear John, I know exactly how you feel – Walter! – but it needs experience to deal with these people, and you can trust me not to allow anything inartistic – Oh, thank you, Walter. I’m extremely sorry to have kept you so late.’

  Walter Hopkins was Mr Dairy’s personal dresser and faithful adherent. He had not the smallest objection to being kept up all night, or all the next morning for that matter. He was passionately devoted to Mr Drury, who always rewarded his services with a kind word and the smile. He now helped Mr Drury into his coat and overcoat and handed him his hat with a gratified murmur. The dressing-room was still exceedingly untidy but, he could not help that; towards the end of the conversation, the negotiations had become so very delicate that even the devoted Walter had had to be dismissed to lurk in an adjacent room.

  ‘Never mind about all this,’ went on Mr Drury, indicating a litter of grease-paint, towels, glasses, siphons, ash-trays, teacups (Mr Drury’s aunts had looked in), manuscripts (two optimistic authors had been given audience), mascots (five female admirers had brought Mickey Mice), flowers (handed in at the stage-door) and assorted fan-mail, strewn over the furniture. ‘Just stick my things together and lock up the whisky. I’ll see Mr Scales to his taxi – you’re sure I can’t drop you anywhere, John? Oh! and bring the flowers to the car – and I’d better look through that play of young what’s his name’s – Ruggles, Buggies, you know who I mean – perfectly useless, of course, but I promised dear old Fanny – chuck the rest into the cupboard – and I’ll pick you up in five minutes.’

  The night-watchman let them out; he was an infirm and aged man with a face like a rabbit, and Scales wondered what he would do if he met with a burglar or an outbreak of fire in the course of his rounds.

  ‘Hullo!’ said Garrick Drury, ‘it’s started to rain. But there’s a rank just down the Avenue. Now look here, John, old man, don’t you worry about this, because – Look out!’

  It all happened in a flash. A small car, coming just a trifle too fast up the greasy street, braked to avoid a prowling cat, skidded, swung round at right angles and mounted the pavement. The two men leapt for safety – Scales rather clumsily, tripping and sprawling in the gutter. Drury, who was the inside, made a quick backward spring, neat as an acrobat’s, just not far enough. The bumper caught him behind the knee and flung him shoulder-first through the plate-glass window of a milliner’s shop.

  When Scales had scrambled to his feet, the car was half-way through the window, with its driver, a girl, knocked senseless over the wheel; a policeman and two taxi-drivers were running towards them from the middle of the street; and Drury, very white and his face bleeding, was extricating himself from the splintered glass, with his left arm clutched in his right hand.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ said Drury. He staggered up against the car, and between his fingers the bright blood spurted like a fountain.

  Scales, shaken and bewildered by his fall, was for the moment unable to grasp what had happened; but the policeman had his wits about him.

  ‘Never mind the lady,’ he said, urgently, to the taxi-men. ‘This gent’s cut an artery. Bleed to death if we ain’t quick.’ His large, competent fingers grasped the actor’s arm, found the right spot and put firm pressure on the severed blood-vessel. The dreadful spurting ceased. ‘All right, sir? Lucky you ’ad the presence of mind to ketch ’old of yourself.’ He eased the actor down on the running board, without relaxing his grip.

  ‘I got an ’andkercher,’ suggested one of the taxi-men.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the policeman. ‘’Itch it round ’is arm above the place and pull it as tight as you can. That’ll ’elp. Nasty cut it is, right to the bone, by the looks of it.’

  Scales looked at the shop-window and the pavement, and shuddered. It might have been a slaughter-house.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ said Drury to the policeman and the taxi-man. He summoned up the ghost of a smile, and fainted.

  ‘Better take him into the theatre,’ said Scales. ‘The stage-door’s open. Only a step or two up the passage. It’s Mr Drury, the actor,’ he added, to explain this suggestion. ‘I’ll run along and tell them.’

  The policeman nodded. Scales hurried up the passage and met Walter just emerging from the stage-door.

  ‘Accident!’ said Scales, breathless. ‘Mr Drury – cut an artery – they’re bringing him here.’

  Walter, with a cry, flung down the flowers he was carrying and darted out. Drury was being supported up the passage by the two drivers. The policeman walked beside him still keeping a strong thumb on his arm. They brought him in, stumbling over the heaps of narcissus and daffodil; the crushed blossom smelt like funeral flowers.

  ‘There’s a couch in his dressing-room,’ said Scales. His mind had suddenly become abnormally clear. ‘It’s on the ground-floor. Round here to the right and across the stage.’

  ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear!’ said Walter. ‘Oh, Mr Drury! He won’t die – he can’t die! All that dreadful blood!’

  ‘Now, keep your ’ead,’ admonished the policeman. ‘Can’t you ring up a doctor and make yourself useful?’

  Walter and the night-watchman made a concerted rush for the telephone, leaving Scales to guide the party across the deserted stage, black and ghostly in the light of one dim bulb high over the proscenium arch. Their way was marked by heavy red splashes on the dusty boards. As though the very sound of those boards beneath their tread had wakened the actor’s instinct, Drury opened one eye.

  ‘What’s happened to those lights?’ … Then, with returning consciousness, ‘Oh, it’s the curtain line … Dying, Egypt, dying … final appearance, eh?’

  ‘Rot, old man,’ said Scales, hastily, ‘You’re not dying yet by a long chalk.’

  One of the taxi-drivers – an elderly man – stumbled and panted. ‘Sorry,’ said Drury, ‘to be such a weight … can’t help you much … find it easier … take your grip further down …’ The smile was twisted, but his wits and experience were back on the job. This was not the first or the hundredth time he had been ‘carried out’ from the stage of the King’s. His bearers took his gasping instructions and successfully negotiated the corner of the set. Scales, hovering in attendance, was unreasonably irritated. Of course, Drury was behaving beautifully. Courage, presence of mind, consideration for others – all the right theatrical gestures. Couldn’t the fellow be natural, even at death’s door?

  Here, Scales was unjust. It was natural to Drury to be theatrical in a crisis, as it is to nine people out of ten. He was, as a matter of fact, providing the best possible justification for his own theories about human nature. They got him to the dressing-room, laid him on the couch, and were thanked.

  ‘My wife,’ said Drury, ‘… in Sussex. Don’t startle her … she’s had flu … heart not strong.’


  ‘All right, all right,’ said Scales. He found a towel and drew some water into a bowl. Walter came running in.

  ‘Dr Debenham’s out … away for the week-end … Blake’s telephoning another one … Suppose they’re all away … whatever shall we do? … They oughn’t to let doctors go away like this.’

  ‘We’ll try the police-surgeon,’ said the constable. ‘Here, you, come an ’old your thumb where I’ve got mine. Can’t trust that there bandage. Squeeze ’ard, mind, and don’t let go. And don’t faint,’ he added sharply. He turned to the taxi-men. ‘You better go and see what’s ’appened to the young lady. I blew me whistle, so you did oughter find the other constable there. You’ (to Scales) ‘will ’ave to stay here – I’ll be wanting your evidence about the accident.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Scales, busy with the towel.

  ‘My face,’ said Drury, putting up a restless hand. ‘Has it got the eye?’

  ‘No, it’s only a scalp-wound. Don’t get excited.’

  ‘Sure? Better dead than disfigured. Don’t want to end like Florrie. Poor old Florrie. Give her my love … Cheer up, Walter … Rotten curtain, isn’t it? … Get yourself a drink … You’re certain the eye’s all right? … You weren’t hurt, were you, old man? … Hell of a nuisance for you, too … Stop the run …’

  Scales, in the act of pouring out whisky for himself and Walter (who looked nearly as ready to collapse as his employer) started, and nearly dropped the bottle. Stop the run – yes, it would stop the run. An hour ago, he had been praying for a miracle to stop the run. And the miracle had happened. And if Drury hadn’t had the wits to stop the bleeding – if he had waited only one minute more – the run would have stopped, and the film would have stopped, and the whole cursed play would have stopped dead for good and all. He swallowed down the neat spirit with a jerk, and handed the second glass to Walter. It was as though he had made the thing happen by wishing for it. By wishing a little harder – Nonsense! … But the doctor didn’t come and, though Walter was holding on like grim death (grim death!) to the cut artery, the blood from the smaller vessels was soaking and seeping through the cloth and the bandages … there was still the chance, still the likelihood, still the hope …

  This would never do. Scales dashed out into the passage and across the stage to the night-watchman’s box. The policeman was still telephoning. Drury’s chauffeur, haggard and alarmed, stood, cap in hand, talking to the taxi-men. The girl, it appeared, had been taken to hospital with concussion. The divisional police-surgeon had gone to an urgent case. The nearest hospital had no surgeon free at the moment. The policeman was trying the police-surgeon belonging to the next division. Scales went back.

  The next half-hour was a nightmare. The patient, hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness, was still worrying about his face, about his arm, about the play. And the red stain on the couch spread and spread …

  Then with a bustle, a short, stout man came in, carrying a bag. He took a look at the patient, tested his pulse, asked a few questions, shook his head, muttering something about loss of blood and loss of time and weakness. The policeman, somewhere in the background, mentioned that the ambulance had arrived.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the doctor. ‘Can’t possibly move him. Got to deal with it here and now.’ With a few brisk words of commendation, he dislodged Walter from his post. He worked quickly, cutting away the sodden sleeve, applying a proper tourniquet, administering some kind of stimulant, again assuring the patient that his eye was not damaged and that he was suffering from nothing but shock and loss of blood.

  ‘You won’t take my arm off?’ said Drury, suddenly visited with a new alarm. ‘I’m an actor – I can’t – I won’t – you can’t do it without telling me – you –’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said the doctor. ‘Now we’ve stopped the bleeding. But you must he still, or you might start it again.’

  ‘Shall I have the use of it?’ The expressive eyes searched the doctor’s face. ‘Sorry. But a stiff arm’s as bad as no arm to me. Do your best … or I shall never play again … Except in Bitter Laurel … John, old man … funny, isn’t it? Funny it’s this arm … Have to live on your play for the rest of my days … the only, only play …’

  ‘Good God!’ cried Scales, involuntarily.

  ‘Now, I must have this room clear,’ said the doctor with authority. ‘Officer, get these people out and send me in those ambulance men.’

  ‘Come along,’ said the policeman. ‘And I’ll take your statement now, sir.’

  ‘Not me!’ protested Walter Hopkins, ‘I can’t leave Mr Drury. I can’t. Let me stay, I’ll help. I’ll do anything –’

  ‘The best way you can help,’ said the doctor, not unkindly but with determination, ‘is by giving me room to work. Now, please –’

  Somehow they got Walter, struggling and hysterical, into the dressing-room across the passage. Here he sat, gathered together on the edge of a chair, starting at every sound from outside, while the constable interrogated and dismissed the two taxi-men. Then Scales found himself giving a statement, in the midst of which, the doctor put his head in to say:

  ‘I want some of you to stand by. It may be necessary to make a blood-transfusion. We must get that arm stitched, but his pulse is very weak and I don’t know how he’ll stand it. I don’t suppose any of you know which blood-group you belong to?’

  ‘I’ll do it!’ cried Walter, eagerly. ‘Please, sir, let it be me! I’d give all the blood in my body for Mr Drury. I’ve been with him fifteen years, doctor –’

  ‘Now, now,’ said the doctor.

  ‘I’d sacrifice my life for Mr Drury.’

  ‘Yes, I daresay,’ said the doctor, with a resigned look at the constable, ‘but there’s no question of that. Where do people get these ideas? Out of the papers, I suppose. Nobody’s being asked to sacrifice any lives. We only want a pint or so of blood – trifling affair for a healthy man. It won’t make the slightest difference to you – do you good, I shouldn’t wonder. My dear sir, don’t excite yourself so much. I know you’re willing – very naturally – but if you haven’t the right kind of blood you’re no good to me.’

  ‘I’m very strong,’ said Walter, palpitating. ‘Never had a day’s illness.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with your general health,’ said the doctor, a little impatiently. ‘It’s a thing you’re born with. I gather there is no relation of the patient’s handy … What? Wife, sister and son in Sussex – well that’s rather a long way off. I’ll test the two ambulance men first, but unfortunately the patient isn’t a universal recipient, so we may not get the right grouping first go-off. I’d like one or two others handy, in case. Good thing I brought everything with me. Always do in an accident case. Never know what you may need, and time’s everything.’

  He darted out, leaving behind him an atmosphere of mystery and haste. The policeman shook his head and pocketed his notebook.

  ‘Dunno as blood-offerings is part of my dooty,’ he observed. ‘I did oughter get back to me beat. But I’ll ’ave to give that there car the once-over and see what my chum ’as to say about it. I’ll look in again when I done that, and if they wants me they’ll know where to find me. Now, then, what do you want?’

  ‘Press,’ said a man at the door, succinctly. ‘Somebody phoned to say Mr Drury was badly hurt. That true? Very sorry to hear it. Ah! Good evening, Mr Scales. This is all very distressing. I wonder, can you tell me …?’

  Scales found himself helplessly caught up in the wheels of the Press – giving an account of the accident – saying all the right things about Drury – what Drury had done for him – what Drury had done for the play – quoting Drury’s words – expatiating on Drury’s courage, presence of mind and thought for others – manufacturing a halo round Drury – mentioning the strange (and to the newspaper man, gratifying) coincidence that the arm actually wounded was the arm wounded in the play – hoping that Eric Brand, the understudy, would be able to carry on till Mr Drury was sufficiently
recovered to play again – feeling his hatred for Drury rise up in him like a flood with every word he uttered – and finally insisting, with a passion and emphasis that he could not explain to himself, on his own immense personal gratitude and friendship towards Drury and his desperate anxiety to see him restored to health. He felt as though, by saying this over and over again, he might stifle something – something – some frightful thing within him that was asserting itself against his will. The reporter said that Mr Scales had his deepest sympathy …

  ‘Mr – ha, hum –’ said the doctor, popping his head in again.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Scales, quickly. He made for the door; but Walter was there before him, agitatedly offering his life-blood by the gallon. Scales thought he could see the pressman’s ears prick up like a dog’s. A blood-transfusion, of course, was always jam for a headline. But the doctor made short work of the reporter.

  ‘No time for you,’ he said brusquely, pulling Scales and Walter out and slamming the door. ‘Yes – I want another test. Hope one of you’s the right sort. If not,’ he added, with a sort of grim satisfaction, ‘we’ll try bleeding the tripe-hound. Learn him not to make a fuss.’ He led the way back into Drury’s dressing-room where the big screen which usually shrouded the wash-stand had been pulled round to conceal the couch. A space had been cleared on the table, and a number of articles laid out upon it: bottles, pipettes, needles, a porcelain slab oddly marked and stained, and a small drum of the sort used for protecting sterilised instruments. Standing near the wash-basin, one of the ambulance men was boiling a saucepan on a gas-ring.

  ‘Now then,’ said the doctor. He spoke in a low tone, perfectly clear, but calculated not to carry beyond the screen. ‘Don’t make more noise than you can help. I’ll have to do it here – no gas-ring in the other room, and I don’t want to leave the patient. Never mind – it won’t take a minute to make the tests. I can do you both together. Here, you – I want this slab cleaned no, never mind, here’s a clean plate; that’ll do – it needn’t be surgically sterile.’ He wiped the plate carefully with a towel and set it on the table between the two men. Scales recognised its pattern of pink roses; it had often held sandwiches while he and Drury, endlessly talking, had hammered out new dialogue for Bitter Laurel over a quick lunch. ‘You understand’ the doctor looked from one to the other and addressed himself to Walter, as though feeling that the unfortunate man might burst unless some notice was taken of him soon – ‘that your blood – everybody’s blood – belongs to one or other of four different groups.’ He opened the drum and picked out a needle. ‘There’s no necessity to go into details; the point is that, for a transfusion to be successful, the donor’s blood must combine in a particular way with the patient’s. Now, this will only be a prick – you’ll scarcely feel it.’ He took Walter by the ear and jabbed the needle into the lobe. ‘If the donor’s blood belongs to an unsuitable group, it causes agglutination of the red cells, and the operation is worse than useless. He drew off a few drops of blood into a pipette. Walter watched and listened, seeming to understand very little, but soothed by the calm, professional voice. The doctor transferred two separate droplets of diluted blood to the plate, making a little ring about each with a grease pencil. ‘There is one type of person’ – here he captured Scales and repeated the operation upon his ear with a fresh needle and pipette – ‘Group 4, we call them, who are universal donors; their blood suits anybody. Or, of course, if one of you belongs to the patient’s own blood-group, that would do nicely. Unfortunately, he’s a group 3, and that’s rather rare. So far, we’ve been unlucky.’ He placed two drops of Scales’s blood on the other side of the plate, drawing a pencil-mark from edge to edge to separate the two pairs of specimens, set the plate neatly between the two donors, so that each stood guard over his own property, and turned again to Walter: