Plain Murder

by C. S. Forester

  ‘That’s so,’ agreed Oldroyd bitterly. But Morris was watching Reddy’s face. It was showing a little more vitality and colour.

  ‘All we’ve got to do is be natural. Natural. We don’t know of any enemies he could have. Can’t think of anyone. We can be surprised, sorry, worried, anything you like, as long as we’re natural. Got that, Reddy, old man?’

  Reddy agreed. It was the first word he had spoken since before the killing.

  ‘That’s all right then. And the other thing is – I don’t expect they’ll ask us, but we had better be ready for everything – if they want to know what we were doing this evening, we have been together the whole time. I came here first; we were expecting Reddy, and when I went out to get a paper and some cigarettes I met him and brought him in with me. That’s all. We’re as safe as houses. Why, we weren’t gone twenty minutes altogether, and no one here could give anything like exact times of our comings and goings. Oh, my goodness, we couldn’t be safer!’

  ‘And what about this?’ said Oldroyd, indicating the revolver gleaming on the bed. He hated having to ask Morris anything, but he would have hated more having to pick up the deadly thing.

  ‘Oh, I’ll get rid of it, then. I suppose we’d better. Someone might come across it, and I’ve read in some book or other that they can prove by marks on the bullets which pistol they’ve been fired from. I’ll go down on the Embankment and drop it into the river when I find a quiet place.’

  Morris took the pistol again and thrust it into his overcoat pocket. Then he looked at his watch.

  ‘Eight o’clock. We’ve been talking over an hour! I’ll be late home tonight, seeing I’ve got to go back to town with this thing. And I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch. Anything more to settle? I don’t think there is.’

  The other two were silent as ever. They were both of them a little impressed, all the same, by this man of steady nerves who could talk so casually about eating. Oldroyd had left his supper almost untasted before Morris’s first arrival, and Reddy had not thought of food since lunch-time.

  ‘All right. I’m pushing off now. See you tomorrow; and don’t forget what I said. You two had better go to the pictures or something; you can’t sit there looking at each other all the evening. Yes, you’d certainly better. Come on. Get your coat on, Oldroyd. I’ll come with you as far as the cinema.’

  In the empty train which roared back to town with Morris on board Morris was at last able to indulge in justifiable exaltation; and walking along the dark Embankment from Charing Cross Station he grew, with the pleasant exercise of fast walking, almost intoxicated with the sense of achievement. As the novelist feels when he writes the last few lines of what he knows to be a masterpiece, and as the artist feels when, tired but happy, he sits down at last to contemplate his finished picture, so felt Morris as he strode along the Embankment. The sense of perfect achievement, so perfect that neither mortal man nor artistic conscience can suggest anything which could be an improvement, is attained by few indeed. Morris knew it then in all its flooding pride.

  He had nearly reached Blackfriars before he found the place he sought. Not a soul within a hundred yards of him. He leaned his elbows on the parapet and looked down into the dark water. Then he dropped the weapon in. Twenty feet of water and ten feet of mud made a safe enough hiding place for a very dangerous piece of evidence. Then he turned back to Charing Cross Station again, to his home and his wife and his children.

  ‘Late again?’ said his wife when he came into the sitting-room.

  But this time there was no hot reply from him. In fact, there was no reply at all; he merely lurched to the fireside and sat down. Although he was still glowing with triumph the reaction was beginning to have its way. He knew now that odd pain in the pit of the stomach and the unpleasant sensation of nausea combined with appetiteless hunger which every creative artist comes to know after a long spell of good work. His wife, noticing his flushed cheeks and his uncertain step, came instantly and naturally to the conclusion that he had been drinking, and was surprised. Morris had been a model husband in that respect; he had not come home the worse for drink more than three times in five years of married life. Mrs Morris thought none the worse of her husband in consequence of her suspicion; it did not happen often enough to be worrying, and when it did it constituted a pleasant break in the monotony of a life devoted to children, mending and supper-getting.

  ‘’Ve you been drinking?’ she demanded.

  ‘No,’ said Morris; but, of course, he would have said the same whether he had been drinking or not.

  Mrs Morris came near enough to smell his breath. Curious, but there was no trace of it there.

  ‘Umph,’ said Mrs Morris; then: ‘D’you want any supper?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morris.

  But when it was put before him he found he could not eat more than a mouthful. He drank two cups of tea thirstily and then pushed his chair from the table.

  ‘Don’t you want to eat it after all?’ asked his wife, thoroughly puzzled by this time. If the occasions when her husband was drunk had been rare, the occasions when he was not hungry had been rarer still.

  Morris went back to his fireside chair, but he had not sat there more than five minutes before he was wearily on his feet again. He did not feel as though he could sit still any longer. He wandered round the room, his wife watching him, astonished.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to bed,’ said Morris. ‘Good night.’

  But he was not asleep when his wife came up, nor until long after. His mind was continuing its racing activity long after his body had begun to cry for mercy. No wonder, for his mind was still intoxicated with the pride of achievement.

  And if the iconoclast would point out that Morris had not achieved anything very remarkable, that his way had been smoothed for him at every turn, the reply is that that does not make his success less remarkable. The perfect murder can only be achieved not merely when circumstances are highly favourable, but when the murderer is clever enough to make the most of circumstances and resolute enough to wring every possible advantage from them. The fact that it had been Guy Fawkes’ Day had made the sound of his revolver unremarkable, and had brought Mr Harrison comfortably into range. But a less resolute murderer would have hesitated even then; might have dilly-dallied for the very few hours which would have enabled the golden opportunity to slip out of reach. And it called for quite a clever murderer’s brain to work out, first, that the number of people who would know of his motive was very small indeed, and, second, how to incriminate those people so that they had the best of all reasons – the only reliable reason, in fact – not to disclose their knowledge. And what art and skill Morris had displayed in inducing them into joining him! It had been a brilliant, an unrivalled piece of work. There are very, very few known murderers who can lay claim to a rank nearly as high as Morris’s. Compared with him Crippen was a pusillanimous fool and Armstrong a thoughtless scatterbrain. But this comparative praise says little enough for Morris, after all. He was only the best of a very poor lot.

  6

  Morris arrived early at the office next morning. The blind relief in his own good fortune which obsessed him left him with no lurking fears; he had no desire to postpone the interviews which he was certain were inevitable, and, moreover, Mr Campbell was the soul of punctuality and liked to see his staff arriving five minutes before time. But, early as he was, Maudie was there before him, and as he entered she looked out into the corridor from the typewriting room with its label, ‘Inquiries’.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Morris,’ she said. ‘Something awful’s happened.’

  ‘Somebody pinched the safe?’ asked Morris. It was surprising how cool and self-assured he was.

  ‘Oh, no. Something awful. Mr Harrison was killed last night. There’s a detective here now, and he told me. He’s in the reception room now.’

  ‘Good God!’ said Morris. ‘What was it? Accident or something?’


  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. He wouldn’t tell me. I think it was – worse than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Isn’t it awful! To think he was here talking to me only yesterday!’

  Maudie was one of those people who are utterly unnerved at hearing of the sudden death of the most distant acquaintance. Morris felt a pitying contempt for her as she stood there wringing her hands.

  ‘Well, what had I better do about it?’ asked Morris. ‘Shall I go in and see him?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was Mr Campbell he asked for, and I said he’d be here in a minute. Oh, thank God, here he is!’

  Mr Campbell was received by Maudie in the same fashion and in almost the same words as Morris was. Meanwhile the detective, standing just inside the reception-room door not a yard away, made a mental note that this fellow, Morris, seemed to be all right.

  Mr Campbell received the news with a gravity even more marked than usual. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he turned into the reception room; outside Maudie and Morris heard their voices, of a normal pitch at first, die away into more confidential tones. Then evidently they went through into Mr Campbell’s room. The other typist arrived, and then Shepherd the office boy, and after them Clarence the artist and the two young men who acted as travellers. All of them were drawn into a whispering, startled group outside the typing room. Last of all came Oldroyd and Reddy, together, and late, as Morris had expected. He looked keenly at them as they came in. Both of them, to anyone in the secret, showed signs of anxiety and sleeplessness. Reddy even faltered a little in his steps as he caught sight of the agitated group. But they would pass muster, thought Morris. And little enough strain was imposed upon their powers of acting, because hardly had they arrived when the buzzer sounded in the typists’ room, and Maudie, hurrying into Mr Campbell’s office, emerged directly, and everyone stopped to hear what she had to say.

  ‘We’re to stop this talking,’ said Maudie, ‘and get on with our work as usual. How can I get on with my work? Mr Campbell can’t see his mail yet. Oh, and he wants you to go in to him, Mr Morris.’

  ‘Right ho,’ said Morris. He stopped to take off his hat and coat, hung them up in the composing room, and stepped casually across to Mr Campbell’s door. The others eyed him half curiously, almost enviously, before they dispersed. Morris knocked and entered.

  No one could have mistaken the moustached man sitting beside Mr Campbell’s desk to be other than the police officer he was.

  ‘Good morning, Morris,’ said Mr Campbell. ‘Have you heard about this shocking affair?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Miss Woods told me about it when I came in.’

  ‘You didn’t see anything in the papers about it this morning?’ asked the police officer casually.

  ‘No. I hardly looked at the paper this morning. Mr Marshall – that’s one of our travellers – had seen a bit about it. But not very much.’

  ‘No, not very much, I expect,’ said the police officer, pulling his moustache.

  ‘What this gentleman wants to know,’ said Mr Campbell, ‘is whether you can think of anything likely to throw any light on the matter. I must confess I am quite at a loss myself.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Morris.

  ‘Do you know of anyone who had reason to dislike this man Harrison?’ asked the police officer. ‘Has anyone uttered threats against him to your knowledge?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to think of something like that,’ said Morris. ‘But I can’t think of anything. Mr Harrison got on well with everyone.’

  Morris appeared to think deeply.

  ‘No, he didn’t have a single enemy as far as I know,’ he announced at length.

  ‘Was there anything odd about his behaviour yesterday?’

  ‘Um. Nothing special. He seemed a bit short-tempered last night, but nothing to speak of.’

  ‘Short-tempered about what?’

  ‘Oh,’ said the police officer, clutching at straws, ‘he was angry with you yesterday, was he?’

  Morris saw the danger, and met it with all his bold self-confidence.

  ‘No, not specially. He was a bit irritated about work.’

  ‘This kind of work,’ put in Mr Campbell, ‘is a little bad for one’s nerves at times.’

  The police officer saw this faint hint of a motive disappear.

  ‘Did he ever speak of any danger threatening him?’ he asked, going off on a new tack. ‘Did he ever seem anxious or worried without any particular reason?’

  ‘No,’ said Morris decidedly. ‘He didn’t even worry about money very much.’

  The police officer pulled at his moustache as though he wanted it to come out by the roots.

  ‘Well, now, Mr – er – Morris,’ he said at length, ‘was he ever involved in any trouble with a woman? Did you ever hear of any entanglement in that way?’

  ‘No,’ said Morris, treating the delicate subject with a graceful tact. ‘No, I never heard of anything in that way. Of course it wouldn’t be likely that I would. But he didn’t seem that kind of man at all, did he, Mr Campbell?’

  Mr Campbell agreed. He had answered the same question himself in the same fashion only five minutes ago.

  ‘And the other men working with you,’ went on the police officer, ‘were they all on good terms with Mr Harrison?’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ said Morris definitely.

  Then suddenly the police officer launched the question he had been saving up in reserve – his Old Guard of a question.

  ‘What were you doing yesterday evening, Mr Morris?’ he demanded abruptly.

  ‘Me? I went round to Oldroyd’s place when I left here. I stayed there a bit – until eight, I think, or a bit later. Reddy was there, too. Then Reddy and Oldroyd went to the pictures, and I went home.’

  ‘Reddy?’ asked the police officer. ‘Oldroyd?’

  ‘They are the other two men working with Mr Morris under Mr Harrison,’ explained Mr Campbell.

  ‘Oh, so you spent part of the evening together, did you, Mr Morris? I wonder if you would mind telling me why?’

  Morris allowed a flash of righteous indignation to escape from his eyes at this veiled hint. He caught Mr Campbell’s eye, and Mr Campbell began straightaway to share the indignation.

  ‘We often do,’ said Morris stoutly. ‘We were going to the pictures together, but I didn’t feel much like it, so after talking a bit, they went, as I said, and I came home.’

  ‘And what time was this, did you say?’ asked the detective.

  ‘Well,’ said Morris, allowing the least trace of annoyed irony to creep into his voice – no one but a fool or a guilty person could have ignored the trend of that question – ‘I can tell you exactly, I think. I left here at 5.25 or so, caught the 5.41 at Charing Cross to Meadwell. I did that because my season ticket saved me my fare. Then I took the bus to Oldroyd’s place. I must have got there about twenty past six. We stayed there together – no, we didn’t. I went out again to get a paper and some cigarettes, and as I got back Reddy had just turned up with his motor-bike. Then we stayed until eight, I should think. Then we separated, as I told you.’

  The police officer was entirely convinced, rather against his will.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Morris,’ he said after a pause. ‘I think that will do. Sorry to have troubled you, of course, but in the interests of justice, you know—’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Morris, withdrawing.

  The interview had been worse than he had feared, but he had come through it triumphantly. He assured himself, not without quite good grounds, that he had accomplished a superb performance.

  He came back into the composing room and looked about him. Reddy and Oldroyd were conversing in whispers in the far corner of the room. Clarence, Shepherd and the young traveller were, as was only to be expected, still discussing the tragedy, over by the window. No definite orders had
come to them regarding their work – they could hardly be expected to leave off such an exciting discussion just on account of a few vague words from Mr Campbell brought by one so little in authority as Maudie. But the business of the office had to go on, and Morris could shoulder responsibility with an alacrity unknown to the others.

  He went across and looked at the dated list of work to be delivered still pinned on Mr Harrison’s desk.

  ‘Is that stuff for the Scottish papers ready to send off, Shepherd?’ he demanded.

  ‘No,’ said Shepherd blankly.

  ‘Well, it’s got to go off, hasn’t it? Reddy, will you get hold of it and see that it’s got into shape? There’s a good chap. Mac will rave if it’s not in the post by twelve. Shepherd, let’s have those proofs of the marmalade ads. They’ve come in by now, haven’t they? Oh, and Clarence, we want those other roughs ready for when the Adelphi man comes in this afternoon.’

  The others looked at him stupidly for a moment. But they knew that the work had to be done, and they knew that they ought to be doing it. Morris, as the senior man in the room, had some slight ground for a display of authority, and in the last word, he was right in suggesting that they should start work. They moved slowly to their places; the deciding factor was Morris’s hint that Mr Campbell would soon be asking about what was being done. Yet they had hardly settled down when the buzzer on Mr Harrison’s desk uttered its low note. This time it was Morris who went into Mr Campbell’s room to see what was wanted.

  ‘Send Oldroyd in here,’ said Mr Campbell; ‘this gentleman wants to ask him a few questions.’

  Morris had expected that, of course, but none the less it was a shock to him. Perhaps Oldroyd would falter. Probably he would not – but then the next step would be to send for Reddy. Could Reddy stand the strain? He was looking white and worried. Morris knew now the sensation of extreme pressing danger. The room seemed to go suddenly dark; he hesitated in his steps as though he experienced difficulty in finding his way back to the composing room. But he braced himself at the doorway. Not on any account must he show fear or worry. He pulled his big, solid shoulders back square. His brutal fatalist courage came to the rescue.