The Amazing Test Match Crime

by Adrian Alington

  For a while the two statesmen conversed in this amicable manner. Presently the Colonial Secretary rose to go.

  “Oh, by the way, P.M., about this Test Match business.”

  The Prime Minister waved his hand.

  “That’s your pigeon entirely, my dear chap. I have every confidence in your ability to handle it.”

  “Thanks very much. As far as I can see everybody is doing everything that can be done.”

  “I’m sure of it,” replied the Prime Minister warmly. “I’ll have a statement issued that His Majesty’s Government are in full agreement.”

  “Fine. Splendid. It’s a pleasure to work with a man like you. I’ll make a point of mentioning in my speech at Basingstoke next month that unanimity among His Majesty’s ministers has never been stronger.”

  “Do, my dear fellow. That always goes down well.”

  “It’s always a blessing when these things happen when the House isn’t sitting. None of those infernal questions. Well, well, I’ll be off. I suppose, for the look of it, I’d better show up at the Oval tomorrow. Man on the spot and all that sort of thing. I think we ought to beat them, if we can get Lethbridge out. Our bowling is pretty good, you know. If only Truth can find a spot!”

  Something of a cloud settled upon the Prime Minister’s hitherto serene brow.

  “In my opinion,” he said, “Prestwick should be playing.”

  The Colonial Secretary regarded him with amazement, not untinged with indignation.

  “I entirely disagree,” he replied sharply. “I dislike this modern mania for spin-bowling. Truth will supply all we want. If you ask me, a good fast medium bowler like Swerver of Gritshire is the man we want.”

  The Prime Minister smiled in the superior fashion which so greatly irritated Opposition leaders and out-of-work ex-cabinet ministers.

  “Swerver! An adequate stock bowler, no doubt, for county cricket purposes. Entirely lacking Prestwick’s subtlety.”

  “Rubbish!” snorted the Colonial Secretary rebelliously. “If I may say so, you don’t know the first thing about bowling.”

  The Prime Minister smiled no longer. He was famous for his tolerance, but there are some insults which cannot be swallowed. Placing his feet upon the table and looking up abstractedly at the ceiling, he observed very coldly,

  “The Right Hon. Member for Upper Peebles is exceeding the limits of reasonable intercourse.”

  The Colonial Secretary was not to be outdone.

  “I suggest,” he replied, for he had had a legal training, “that the Prime Minister is not uninfluenced by the fact that he was born in Glebeshire.”

  The Prime Minister continued to stare at the ceiling.

  “Shouts of withdraw,” he murmured frigidly.

  “I shall certainly not withdraw. I meant every word that I said. Why, dash it all, my dear Prime Minister—”

  The Prime Minister’s voice held the edge of a knife, as he interrupted,

  “When people address me as ‘My dear Prime Minister’ it is usually an indication that they are about to resign. Am I right in assuming that that is your intention?”

  “Certainly not,” the Colonial Secretary replied hotly. “I never heard such nonsense. Why, I should have the entire Cabinet behind me over the question of Prestwick. You would be completely out-voted, and you know it. You would either have to knuckle under or else go to the country. Either would be fatal to you. And in my opinion quite rightly. If I may say so, a man who prefers Prestwick to Swerver is no longer capable of directing the affairs of a great empire.”

  The Prime Minister’s reply was not in the best parliamentary tradition. Taking his feet off the table and sitting upright, he said curtly,

  “Stuff and nonsense! Swerver could not bowl out a preparatory school eleven.”

  “There is no need to get angry,” replied the Colonial Secretary, feeling that he had scored a point. “I am talking the soundest sense and you know it. Moreover, I shall take the opportunity to make it perfectly clear at Basingstoke that, though outwardly unanimous, the Cabinet do not by any means always see eye to eye with one another on questions of the gravest importance.”

  “You can say what you like at Basingstoke,” snapped the Prime Minister. “No-one takes your speeches seriously, anyway. How can they when you bring in that tag about the ‘length and breadth of the land’ in every second sentence.”

  The Colonial Secretary, greatly hurt at this slighting reference to his oratorical powers, replied with deadly calm,

  “There is no more to be said. I shall be present at the Oval tomorrow in conscientious discharge of my duties, and after that I shall return to Scotland to shoot.”

  “The sooner the better so far as I am concerned. But for heaven’s sake don’t be photographed again shooting in that ridiculous hat with the feather stuck in it. You look a perfect fool in that hat, in fact a menace to the whole stability of the party.”

  “I disagree. That hat is a human and personal touch. It endears me to the great masses of newspaper readers.”

  “On the contrary, it merely supplies cartoonists and music hall comedians with ready-made jokes. I wonder you have never seen that for yourself.”

  The Colonial Secretary was very pale and breathing hard, as he answered,

  “Since we are speaking with the gloves off, Prime Minister, I will take this opportunity of saying here and now that I have never understood how your constituency or the country as a whole ever stood for that picture of you building a wall. It made you a laughing stock throughout the length and breadth—er, that is to say, all over the place. Even the veriest nincompoop must have known that you didn’t in the least know what to do with the brick you were clutching.”

  “It was a very good picture. Much more full of human interest than your hat. At any rate, I was doing something useful instead of worrying inoffensive birds who haven’t even any political views. True the wall fell down almost immediately, but I was setting an example of industry and thrift. And I did not wear a comic hat.”

  It is possible that this regrettable argument would have endured for a considerable time, but just then a knock came on the door. The truth was that the Prime Minister had pressed a secret bell three times which was the signal for a secretary to enter with a despatch box full of papers. The Prime Minister immediately assumed a weary air and began to study them. The Colonial Secretary who knew all about the trick, having seen it worked more than once upon unwelcome visitors, withdrew with a stiff bow.

  When he appeared upon the door-step of Number 10 the Colonial Secretary was seen to be wearing a heavy frown. A wave of pessimism immediately swept over the waiting crowd. An enterprising journalist who contrived to get near enough overheard him mutter irritably,

  “Dash it, the man is nothing but a pigheaded old fool.”

  Instantly the journalist wrote in his notebook the glad words,

  Cabinet Split.

  Upon the following morning his paper, which happened to be the Daily Haywire, was able to announce exclusively that, as a result of the events at the Oval, an important resignation was imminent, which would entail sweeping changes in the constitution of the Cabinet. That great newspaper thus secured another scoop.

  The conference at Downing Street was not the only one which took place that day.

  The Home Secretary impressed upon the Commissioner of Police that something must be done.

  “All this,” he said, “has aroused strong feeling in the country. Besides, I want to get away and take a cure. If the Bad Men aren’t arrested, I shall have to stay in London until this wretched match is over. And if this chap, Lethbridge, gets thoroughly set, it may last until September.”

  “Surely,” protested the Commissioner, “nothing really matters except that England should win the match.”

  “Perhaps,” replied the Home Secretary bitterly, “you do not suffer from an acid stomach. Besides, anyway, I was a rowing man when I was up at Oxford. Please see that something is done.”

&nbs
p; The Commissioner returned to the Yard and informed the Big Six that something must be done quickly.

  The Big Six took counsel together. Since yesterday’s close of play the Yard had been working at fever-heat. In an effort to find the mysterious red-haired woman two hundred and seventy-five indignant female crooks had been pulled in, brought to the Yard and questioned without mercy. All, however, had produced unimpeachable alibis. At one time it had been hoped to pin something on Champagne Hetty, but her alibi had finally remained unshaken, or as they say, cast iron.

  Shoot-first Mavis had also been under considerable suspicion and Steady as a Rock Posse had grilled her relentlessly. But she was able to prove definitely that at the time of the Oval drugging she was acting as decoy for a smash and grab raid in an entirely different part of London. Steady as a Rock was forced reluctantly to let her go.

  “I guess that lets you out, Mavis,” he growled. “Heaven help you, if you’re hiding up anything.”

  It must be confessed, then, that no material progress had been made with the case when Steady as a Rock faced his colleagues in conference. Before him lay the photographs of Hugh and Crigh in their prostrate condition, the only exhibit so far attained in this remarkable case.

  “This is a difficult case, boys,” he observed. “We’ve got to face it. We’re up against the most dangerous gang in the world.”

  The others sucked their pipes and agreed gloomily.

  “There’s nothing to go on,” said Who Dies if England Lives Narkley. “No body, no remains, no clues.”

  “The Bad Men,” answered Steady as a Rock, “don’t leave clues. Their leader is said to be a super-criminal, or what the late Sherlock Holmes called a Napoleon of Crime.”

  “Well, if it comes to that,” countered And What is More You’ll be a Man, my Son, Darby, “we are the Pride of the Yard so we ought to be equally matched. I never believed in this super-criminal business, anyway.”

  “If only there was a body!” sighed Who Dies if England Lives Narkley. “Or even a few limbs in a parcel. I mean to say, that’s something. As it is, I’m hanged if I can see where to start.”

  “As a start,” suggested Dogged Does It Cordon, “we can watch the ports.”

  “They are still watching the ports in Guamelia,” said I am the Captain of my soul Phillpots sadly, “and, I believe, in Gloritana.”

  “If you ask me,” said What Can a Little Chap Do Tomkins, “it’s a Secret Service job. That’s the kind of thing the Bad Men go in for. We ought not to be mixed up in it all. Perhaps this red-haired girl is a celebrated female spy. Perhaps Hugh and Crigh were carrying important diplomatic papers.”

  “My dear fellow,” replied Steady as a Rock testily, “men don’t go in to bat in a Test Match carrying important diplomatic papers.”

  What Can a Little Chap Do Tomkins was about to answer warmly, but at this point the telephone rang. Dogged Does It Cordon answered it and reported to Steady as a Rock Posse.

  “It’s a message from the Oval.”

  “Ah! Any news?”

  “The officer in charge says that amateur detectives of all sexes and nationalities keep arriving and demanding to have a look round. They are all quite certain they can catch the Bad Men. The officer wants to know if he can give his sentries orders to shoot.”

  A wistful look appeared on the face of Steady as a Rock Posse.

  “It seems a pity,” he said sorrowfully, “but I’m afraid the Old Man wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “He says that a particularly infuriating young man called Mr. Chance has just arrived with a peculiarly loathsome line in comic back chat. The officer in charge seems to want to shoot him very much.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll have to control himself,” replied Steady as a Rock Posse. “Of course if one of his sentries happened to get a little excited … but I’m afraid we can’t give him official permission. No, I’m very much afraid not. Now, boys, to get back to the case—”

  The discussion proceeded without, however, advancing the case in the slightest degree.

  The conference finally broke up without any line of action being agreed upon, except that the Big Six unanimously decided to drop all other cases in which they were engaged and be present at the Oval on the morrow.

  * * *

  Two conversations took place that day, which, had they been able to overhear them, would have enlightened the Big Six considerably.

  One of these conversations took place in Golders Green between a middle-aged husband and wife of impeccable respectability.

  The husband, who had just finished his breakfast, looked up from the Sunday Crime Sheet and remarked, “You know, my dear, I shouldn’t be surprised if this mysterious red-haired woman that everyone is looking for, was our Alice.”

  It was the first time that the name of their errant daughter had been mentioned between them for some years. The respectable mother winced.

  “Could she have come to that, do you think? To drugging first-class cricketers?”

  “Who knows?” replied her husband. “You know what it is when girls start on the downward path. And certainly she had very red hair.”

  “True,” sighed his wife. “What a pity it is that she was made Miss Bogpool-on-Sea for 1932! She was such a good girl before that happened. Ah well, we might have guessed what would come of it. Should we inform the police, do you think?”

  “I don’t think we need go as far as that, my dear. In a way, I can’t help feeling that we are a little to blame for Alice’s shame. Perhaps if we had gone to Bournemouth for our fortnight that fatal summer. Besides, we do not know for certain that it is Alice the police are looking for …”

  The other conversation took place in the heart of Loamshire, whither the Bad Men had repaired by separate routes at the conclusion of Saturday’s play. Here Sabbath calm prevailed, as the Professor and Ralph the Disappointment strolled a little before the old stone house. All about them swept the deserted immensity of the moors, the utter silence broken only by the cries of the correct wild birds. From time to time upon the skyline appeared the form of a wild pony or an escaped convict from the great prison a few miles distant. But that was all. It was a scene of almost unbelievable desolation.

  The smooth working of yesterday’s plans had put the Professor in excellent spirits.

  “Everything, my dear Ralph,” he observed, pulling gently at one of his thin cigars, “proceeds according to plan. Our modest intervention in this absurd contest of crickets has already shaken the Empire to its foundations. I venture to think that when my plans are completed this affair will prove to be my masterpiece.”

  But Ralph the Disappointment failed to share his elation.

  “I wish it were safely over,” he said, and his voice trembled. “I cannot think that Providence will allow us to succeed in our dreadful purpose.”

  “Nonsense, good Ralph.” The Professor’s voice was almost gay. “My plans are far too subtle to admit of failure. Flash Alice is already safely out of the country and all goes well. Before the last shout of ‘Chukka and Tiffin!’ has filled the Oval, the great English Sporting Public will have seen what the admirable L. E. G. Glance has described in his monumental work as a ‘dramatic finish.’ And now, excellent Ralph, with regard to Plan B, which I shall put into execution tomorrow …”

  For a while he spoke in his dry, precise voice. The effect of what he said upon Ralph the Disappointment was remarkable. That unhappy man trembled violently as he listened and presently a hoarse cry broke from him.

  “Professor, I cannot do this fearful thing. You ask too much of me. I am smirched, I know, with every kind of foulness; I am, I readily admit, the filthiest of fellas, but that I cannot do.”

  As on a former occasion, the Professor did not stoop to argue. He merely said with dreadful softness,

  “Look at me, Ralph.”

  The effect was the same as ever. Weakened will gave in to mighty will.

  “Very well,” Ralph groaned, his eyes dropping, “I will do as
you say.”

  The Professor smiled.

  “Listen then, Ralph. The Blood town house is situated in the fashionable thoroughfare known as Sleek Street…”

  Back in the old stone house, meanwhile, Sawn-off Carlo was writing a letter to his dear old mother in her bum apoitment house in New Yoick.

  “DEAREST MOMMA,

  “This England is sure a bum country. Do the citizens hand you the dead pan or do they? It is also very old-fashioned. I haven’t shot up a guy in weeks and feel like I’m nothing but a big sissy. Also Ralph the Disappointment says this crime we are engaged in is not so good, because it looks like the cops is getting all hit up owing to them cricketing guys being doped, because Ralph the Disappointment says it is well known to one and all that you can dope any guys in this country except cricketing guys, them being regarded as the cat’s lingerie. But I guess them British Cops is dumb, anyway, dearest momma, and the Big Shot knows his onions. So what?

  “We gotta swell dame in this crime, dearest momma. Her name is Flash Alice and has she got plenty of this and that, or has she? Oh, boy. But the Big Shot says this jane has gotta disappear, which is not so good, because had that frail got swell curves or had she? I’m telling you.

  “I hope that you are okay, dearest momma, and that my little sister Guinevere is acting old-fashioned and not getting around with any smart guys since it is well known to one and all that us killers get sore when our blue-eyed little sisters start getting around with smart guys like Pietro the Wop, especially if they feel like they wanna fall for him in a big way, because we get thinking about our happy childhood days and then we get mad and start something and perhaps this smart guy gets ironed out to the grief of one and all.

  “I see this English ball game yesterday, dearest momma. I guess a smart mortician could put on a snappier act.

  “Goodbye, dearest momma, I’ll be seeing you.

  “Your tough but loving son,

  “CARLO.”

  His artless epistle concluded, he shifted his gum from one side of his mouth to the other, and pulling a revolver from beneath his arm practised a few shots at imaginary cops. He was just a big simple-hearted fellow, and found an English Sunday in the heart of Loamshire not a little tedious.