The Amazing Test Match Crime

by Adrian Alington

  “Maybe you’ll have to, my young friend,” says the Big Boss very nasty.

  “Let me give him the woiks, Boss,” I say. “I gotta kinda wistful feeling I’d like to croak that guy.”

  But the Boss says no we’ll put him in the cellar because he’ll have time to think and maybe before long he’ll get the idea that he’d like to change his mind, and anyway he won’t be around tomorrow when the ball-game starts. And it is plain to one and all that England will be in a tough spot with their captain not around, in fact it will not be so good.

  “Do your worst,” says this Blood guy, very highbrow. “I will never let down my side.”

  “Okay,” says the Big Boss. “Sew him up.”

  So Ralph the Disappointment comes in and we tie the guy up good and tight and put a gag in his kisser, and carry him down to the cellar. And the Boss says to me I am to stay and guard him all night.

  So there I am guarding this cricketing guy and everything is hunky-dory. But it is not so snappy guarding a guy who is all sewed up and can’t talk any. So presently I get to thinking about my aged mother, since it is well-known to one and all that us killers are sentimental guys and often get thinking about our aged mothers, especially if these aged mothers are grey-haired dames with sweet expressions, and my aged mother has got an expression so sweet a guy could tell without difficulty that she was a killer’s aged mother.

  Well, there I am thinking plenty about my aged mother and the tears come into my eyes because I am such a sentimental guy, and then I get thinking about my pure young sister and wondering whether I shall have to shoot up any swell guys when I get home. Especially if any guy has been giving my pure young sister jewellery, since it is well known to one and all that when a guy gets around giving jewellery to pure young dolls, it is not so good, and there is nothing for the pure young doll’s loving brother to do but give this guy the heat in a big way. To wit bang bang.

  Well, then I get thinking about my childhood days and how I croak my baby brother Benjamino with a penknife, and then I get very sentimental indeed because there is nothing that makes a guy so sentimental as thinking about his childhood’s days.

  So there I sit with the tears running down my face, and presently I think I’d like a drink, because nothing makes a guy so thirsty as feeling sentimental about his childhood’s days. So I leave this cricketing sap all sewed up on the floor, and go upstairs. The Big Shot has gone to bed and everything is okay and hunkydory. I mix myself a highball, or maybe two or three, and think some more about my innocent childhood, and presently I remember the cricketing palooka all sewed up downstairs. So I ease back to the cellar. And there is the guy all sewed up okay and everything is hunky-dory. So then I sit down and guard him some more.

  It is after daylight when presently the Big Shot eases in and says is everything okay. Okay, Boss, I says. Then the Boss goes and looks at this cricketing guy and presently he uses an old-fashioned word.

  “What’s biting you, Boss?” I says.

  “You poor mutt,” he says very nasty. “This is the wrong guy. Where’s Norman Blood?”

  Well, it seems to me that one cricketing guy is much like another, but the Boss is sure mad. He pulls off the guy’s gag and says,

  “Who in heck are you?”

  So it seems that this guy is a sap called Prestwick, and it seems like he unsewed this Blood palooka while I was upstairs thinking about my innocent childhood and my pure young sister and this and that. And the Boss is sore because this Blood guy has made a getaway and will be able to muscle in on this ball-game again.

  “You poor mutton-headed fool,” he says to me, together with some other nasty cracks of a discouraging nature. “You have ruined my carefully thought-out plans.”

  “See here, Boss,” I says, “if a guy calls me names like that his loving relations are around next day ordering flowers. If you had let me croak that Norman Blood guy, instead of fooling around with this highbrow super-criminal stuff everything woulda been okay and hunky-dory.”

  “You’re telling me,” he says still nasty.

  “Yeah,” I answered, “I’m telling you.”

  The Big Shot looks at me very old-fashioned.

  “It’s my own fault,” he says. “I ought never to have employed a poor mutt like you in a high-class international crime.”

  Well, that gets me sore and I feel like I’m ready to give the Boss the well-known stream of lead, like I give Al Camponoli and other disobliging characters, but the Big Shot goes on talking,

  “We gotta scram outer here good and quick. This Blood guy will set the dicks on this hideout. I’ll give this punk a shot of something to keep his puss shut. Then we’ll beat it.”

  So he tells Ralph the Disappointment to get the auto ready and we’re going to beat it. But it seems this Blood palooka has gotten into our auto and made his getaway, so it looks like we’re in a tough spot, because it is plain to one and all that the G-men will be here pronto and that is not so good. So the Boss looks very mysterious and says, “We must use it now, instead of waiting for Plan C.” And then he says some more about us being caught like rats in a trap, if we don’t use It pronto. And once again he calls me an old-fashioned name because he says I mess up Plan B. And Ralph the Disappointment also hands me one or two nasty cracks of a similar nature. In fact it seems I am loathed and despised by one and all.

  Now all this is very painful to me, because if I hadn’t got around thinking of my aged mother and this and that, this Blood palooka would never have made his getaway in our auto, and everything woulda been okay and hunky-dory. But I guess a guy has gotta feel sentimental sometimes, especially a guy like me who as is well-known to one and all has gotta great big hearta gold. And I guess if some of us quick-shooting guys hadn’t got great big heartsa gold and didn’t get all hit up when they thought about their aged mothers, the movies and the tough writers might as well go out of business.

  So what?

  ***

  If, when making up a book,

  You invent a super-crook

  Always let him get away

  You’ll need that guy again some day.

  From Technique for the Toddlers or

  Earn Big Money During Infancy

  Escape

  It is impossible to do justice to the mortification and despair felt by Norman Blood as he lay bound and gagged in the cellar beneath the eyes of Sawn-off Carlo. Never, perhaps, since the day when he scored a duck in his first Gentlemen v. Players Match had life seemed so black. His gloomiest predictions had come true. Unless a miracle occurred, it would be impossible for him to resume his innings at the Oval at the appointed hour. His fevered imagination pictured the ringing of bells, the clearance of the ground, the solemn entry of the umpires, followed by the Imperian fieldsmen. And then—the incredible news would go about the Oval that England’s Captain was not there. Rage caused him to tremble all over again, as he thought of the foul proposal put forward by the mysterious hooded man, that he should allow Imperia to win the Test Match. The man, Norman concluded, must be a madman, one of those madmen, no doubt, whose brain worked with devilish perverted cunning. No-one, surely, but a lunatic would put forward such a plan.

  Slowly the dark hours went by and he was helpless. He could not even appeal to the sporting instincts of this big man who sat guarding him, for the gag in his mouth precluded any form of speech.

  “Never despair,” he repeated to himself, “a game is not won until it is lost,” together with other tags of an optimistic nature which he had found helpful in many a tight corner on the cricket field. But now they brought him little comfort. There was no hope anywhere. So plunged was he in bitter gloom that he hardly noticed that presently his burly guard got up and left the room. Indeed, how could this help him, since he could not move hand or foot?

  “I am as surely out of this match,” he groaned aloud, “as if Bumper had clean bowled me.”

  He could scarcely believe his ears when he heard a familiar voice whisper,


  “All right, Skipper. It’s me. Prestwick (J.).”

  For a moment he suspected another trick. These blackguards who had impersonated the Selection Committee were equally capable of impersonating a rising young professional. But a glance showed him that it was indeed Joe. In a few moments Norman’s bonds were torn off and he was free.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” he gasped.

  Joe blushed.

  “I happened to be on the back of the car, Skipper. I’ve been hanging about waiting for a chance to get to you. Just now I noticed that the man who has been guarding you was upstairs having a drink. I thought I’d take a chance. Luckily the cellar door was unlocked. You must get away now, Skipper. To the Oval.”

  “Have you any idea where we are?”

  “I think we are in the heart of Loamshire. One of the minor counties,” he added, as Norman Blood looked puzzled.

  “Ah yes, I remember. A curious egg-shaped place. I think they have a wicket-keeper named Huggins. F. Huggins.”

  “Yes, yes. But you must get away, Skipper. The car is still outside. Take it and drive like mad for London and the Oval. I’ll stay here and take your place.”

  “Why not,” Norman asked, “come with me?”

  But Joe argued eagerly,

  “No. I’ve thought it all out. If they come and find no one here they will see that the game is up, but if they see a lifeless form of some sort the villains may not suspect anything. They will remain here and that may give the police a chance to catch them. When you get to the nearest town, go to the police station and telephone to Detective-Inspector Posse at the Yard. We want to exterminate these enemies of England.”

  Norman Blood without further argument held out his hand.

  “You are a noble fellow, Prestwick. I will tie you up.”

  “Quickly, Skipper, before anyone comes back.”

  In a very short while Joe lay gagged and bound. Norman Blood prepared to take his leave.

  “Goodbye, Prestwick,” he said in farewell, “I shall never forget this. And by the way, it doesn’t matter about that chance you failed to accept in the Gritshire match. At least, not very much.”

  Joe could not speak, because he was gagged, but his eyes expressed his gratitude. Norman Blood stole away.

  He passed through the door and crept up a short flight of steps into a passage. All was in darkness. He paused to listen, determined that if any of the villains, who had so basely posed as the Selection Committee, discovered him he would sell his life dearly. There was no sound, however. He crept on towards the front door. In another moment he was in the open air.

  The big car still stood at the front door. He jumped in, started up, and within a few moments was driving across the moor in the growing daylight.

  * * *

  Steady as a Rock Posse was asleep. It is difficult to imagine that massive and majestic man lacking the symbols of his office, which struck terror into the hearts of the criminal classes, his bowler hat, his pipe, his ever-ready notebook. But even that tireless machine of a man required rest, and it is satisfactory to note that, even while unconscious, his face wore its accustomed stern, set expression. Only occasionally a little smile of satisfaction, which upon the face of one of less solid and unrelenting character, might have been called a smirk, disturbed the set expression of his features. For like lesser men, Steady as a Rock dreamed.

  Rosily he dreamed that he had “pulled in” the Bad Men. Exactly by what dazzling stroke of police work he had achieved this triumph was misty in his dream, but the scene itself was very clear. The super-criminal, for whom the police of half Europe had hunted in vain, cowered before him while he cross-examined him in his characteristic manner, so famous at the Yard.

  “So you admit that you had Hugh and Crigh drugged, eh? Come on, spill it!”

  The super-criminal cracked beneath the relentless fire of questions and confessed.

  “I have defied,” he whimpered in broken accents, “the police of half the world. But this man, Posse, is too hot for me.”

  “Put the darbies on him, boys,” said Steady as a Rock. “The Test Match case is over.”

  The news of his triumph was received with acclamation. Constables all over the metropolitan area shouted aloud, “Three cheers for Posse!” No less a personage than the Commissioner observed with emotion in his voice,

  “It would be hypocrisy upon my part to remain at the head of an institution which contains a man of Posse’s ability. I resign at once and hand over my exalted office to him.”

  His colleagues of the Big Six crowded about him, hands extended in congratulation, and he answered with manly modesty,

  “It is the Yard that matters, boys, not me …”

  Steady as a Rock’s dream had reached this interesting and satisfactory climax, when he was rudely torn from it by the shrill note of the telephone. Instantly his trained senses were on the alert. A call was being put through to him from the Yard. And soon he was wondering if he were not still dreaming, as he listened to the story of Norman Blood’s adventures and learned that even now Prestwick, England’s twelfth man, lay bound and gagged in the heart of Loamshire.

  “Loamshire?” echoed Steady as a Rock in surprise.

  “A minor county,” Norman’s voice explained, “shaped like an egg. They have a wicket-keeper named F. Huggins.”

  Steady as a Rock flashed the question,

  “Do you suspect that this egg-shaped Huggins is one of the Bad Men?”

  “Good heavens, no. He is the Loamshire wicket-keeper. Chap with a little moustache. Not at all a bad bat, either, when he gets going. But in any case it’s not Huggins who is the shape of an egg, it’s the county,”

  “What has this Huggins to do with the crime?”

  “Nothing whatever. I’m just trying to explain to you about Loamshire. It’s a beastly place, anyway. I don’t wonder it never got among the first-class counties.”

  “Now, just let me have the chief facts, Mr. Blood.”

  A few quick rasped out questions and Steady as a Rock had made his plans. To the Local Inspector he gave orders that all available men must be rushed at once to the spot and the stone house surrounded.

  Then, still from his bedside, he called up the Chief Constable of Loamshire. The Chief Constable’s senses were not at first so clear as Steady as a Rock’s, but presently he appeared to grasp the situation.

  “The Bad Men? I say, they’re the blighters who are foolin’ about with the Test Match.”

  “That’s it, sir. If we act swiftly we’ve got ’em. I want every available man in Loamshire out on the moors at once. Everyone is to be arrested at sight. There must be no loopholes anywhere. I’m coming down myself at once.”

  Within a few minutes Steady as a Rock, having dressed himself and explained to a bewildered Mrs. Posse that he was about to make a dramatic dash for Loamshire to achieve the greatest triumph of his career, was on his way to the Yard. Quarter of an hour later, with two carefully picked men behind him in the police car, he had begun his dramatic dash for Loamshire.

  Almost exactly half-way he passed Norman Blood, who was making a dramatic dash for the Oval.

  They passed each other with stern, set faces, eyes relentlessly fixed upon the road ahead.

  On arrival at Loamshire, Steady as a Rock found the vast expanse of moor almost entirely covered with policemen. No-one, however, had been seen or arrested. He continued his dash towards the old stone house.

  Here he found the local Inspector, with a number of his own men, conscientiously surrounding the building.

  “This is the place, sir,” said the Inspector. “There’s no sign of anyone, but maybe they’re still inside. No-one has passed in or out.”

  “Stand back,” exclaimed Steady as a Rock, unable to keep a thrill of excitement out of his voice. “I’m going in.”

  Followed by three or four stout men he entered the house. Through every room he passed courageously, methodically. It was quite deserted except for the luckless Joe,
who was still bound and under the influence of the drug.

  “The birds have flown,” snapped Steady as a Rock, aptly if a little tritely.

  No clue of any kind was to be found except several lumps of discarded chewing-gum which Steady as a Rock put carefully away in small envelopes, a few bullet-holes in the walls of the sitting-room and an envelope which lay in a prominent position upon the table. Steady as a Rock picked it up and tore it open.

  The envelope contained a single sheet of paper on which was scrawled a short message.

  “We shall meet again at the Oval: The Bad Men.”

  * * *

  The bell was ringing for the ground to be cleared when Norman Blood steered the purloined car through the gates of the Oval. Springing out he made a dash for the pavilion, brushing aside anxious questions as he went. Thank Heaven he had just time to plunge into flannels and pads and take his place at the wicket!

  On entering the pavilion he encountered his father.

  “Well, well, my boy,” said Sir Timothy. “That was certainly a pretty lengthy meeting of the Selection Committee.”

  “Father,” Norman replied, “I cannot tell you all now. But that masked messenger who called at our house last night was an impostor. I was kidnapped and imprisoned in the heart of Loamshire.”

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Sir Timothy. “The heart of Loamshire! Well, really this match is the most extraordinary that I ever remember.”

  ***

  “The concluding stages were packed with thrills.”

  From thirty-seven separate accounts of the match

  Plan C

  The welcoming cries of “Good old Norman!” were music in the ears of Norman Blood as, with little Teddy Trimmer at his side, he walked to the wicket. He thought how but for Joe Prestwick’s gallant sacrifice he would have been at this all-important moment lying helpless in the cellar on the Loamshire moors. Despite his nocturnal adventures he felt in good fettle. He was grimly determined to win the match for England and thus foil his enemies of last night. Something of his determination seemed to communicate itself to the crowd for they cheered him all the way to the wicket.