The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  “ ‘They can search it from the keel downwards,’ said Spooky gloomily when I told him. ‘You don’t believe in Holling, Felix, but I do. Those diamonds are gone.’

  “And then what I expected happened. The ship’s police took charge of the firemen’s and stewards’ quarters; nobody was allowed in or out and we were ordered to get ready to make a complete search of passengers’ baggage. The tug came up about nine o’clock and it was crowded, not with French police but with Scotland Yard men who had been waiting at Cherbourg.

  “The police interviewed the Russian and got all they could out of him, which was very little, and then the passengers were called to the main saloon and the purser said a few words to them. He apologized for giving them trouble, but pointed out that it was in the interests of the company that the thief should be discovered.

  “ ‘We shan’t keep you long, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘There is an adequate force of detectives on board to make the search a rapid one, but I want every trunk and every bag opened.’

  “The ship slowed down to half speed, and then began the biggest and most thorough search I’ve ever seen in all my experience of seagoing. Naturally, some of the passengers kicked, but the majority of them behaved sensibly and helped the police all they knew how. And the end of it was—not a loose diamond was brought to light.

  “There was only one person who was really upset by the search, and that was Charley. He was as pale as death and could hardly keep still for a second. I watched him, and I watched Miss Penn, who was the coolest person on board. He kept as close to the girl as he could, his eyes never leaving her, and when the search of the baggage was finished and the passengers were brought to the main saloon again, he was close behind her. This time the purser was accompanied by a dozen men from headquarters, and it was the Inspector in Charge who addressed the crowd.

  “ ‘I want, first of all, to search all the ladies’ handbags, and then I wish the passengers to file out—the ladies to the left, the gentlemen to the right—for a personal search.’

  “There was a growl or two at this, but most of the people took it as a joke. The ladies were lined up and a detective went along, opened each handbag, examined it quickly, and passed on to the next. When they got to Miss Penn, I saw friend Charley leave the men’s side and, crossing the saloon, stand behind the detective as he took the girl’s bag in his hand and opened it. I was close enough to see the officer’s changed expression.

  “ ‘Hullo, what’s this?’ he said, and took out a paper package.

  “He put it on the table and unrolled it. First there was a lot of cotton wool, and then row upon row of sparkling stones. You could have heard a pin drop.

  “ ‘How do you account for having these in your possession, Madam?’ asked the detective.

  “Before she could reply, Charley spoke.

  “ ‘I put them there,’ he said. ‘I took them last night and placed them in Miss Penn’s handbag in the hope that her handbag would not be searched.’

  “I never saw anybody more surprised than Miss Penn.

  “ ‘You’re mad,’ she said. ‘Of course you did nothing of the sort.’

  “She looked round the saloon. The stewards were standing in a line to cover the doors, and after a while she saw Spooky.

  “ ‘Simms,’ she called.

  “Spooky came forward. As he came, Miss Penn spoke in a low voice to the detective.

  “ ‘Simms, do you remember that I sent you down to my cabin for my bag?’

  “ ‘No, Miss,’ he said, ‘you never asked me for a bag.’

  “She nodded. ‘I didn’t think you’d remember.’ And then: ‘That is your man, Inspector.’

  “Before Spooky could turn, the police had him, and then Miss Penn spoke.

  “ ‘I am a detective in the employment of the company, engaged in marking down cardsharpers, but more especially on the Holling case. I charge this man with the willful murder of John Holling on the high seas, and with a number of thefts, particulars of which you have.’

  “Yes, it was Spooky who killed Holling—Spooky, half mad with the lunatic idea he’d die in the poorhouse, who had robbed and robbed and robbed, and when he was detected by Holling, who woke up and found Spooky going through his pocketbook, had slashed him with a razor and invented the story of the face in the mirror. Whether he killed the other man I don’t know—it is very likely. One murder more or less wouldn’t worry Spooky, when he thought of his children selling matches on the streets. Was he mad? I should say he was. You see, he had no children!

  “I didn’t see Miss Penn again until she came out on her honeymoon trip. There was a new gang working on the ship—a crowd that had been pushed off the China route and weren’t very well acquainted with the regulars that worked the Western Ocean. One of them tried to get Miss Penn’s husband into a little game.

  “ ‘No, thank you,’ said Charley. ‘I never play cards these days.’ ”

  The Gioconda Smile

  ALDOUS HUXLEY

  THE STORY

  Original publication: English Review, August 1921; first book appearance was in Mortal Coils (London, Chatto & Windus, 1922)

  ALDOUS HUXLEY (1894–1963) was still in his twenties when he began to publish such cynical novels as Chrome Yellow (1921), Antic Hay (1923), Point Counter Point (1928), and the most successful of his work, Brave New World (1932), a futuristic novel of a “Utopian” world that clearly illustrates his disgust with contemporary society.

  Huxley had little involvement with the world of mystery fiction, his only contribution to the genre being this short story, “The Gioconda Smile,” a tale as enigmatic as its subject.

  The story enjoyed so much success that it soon had the unusual distinction of being published in a separate volume in 1938 as number nine in the series of Zodiac Books published by Chatto & Windus, following such authors as William Shakespeare, John Donne, and John Keats.

  Huxley then adapted it for the screen (as he had previously adapted Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice) for a 1947 motion picture directed by Zoltan Korda titled A Woman’s Vengeance.

  Still not finished, he turned it into a three-act stage play in 1948, which also was published by Chatto & Windus; in the United States, Harper & Row published it as Mortal Coils.

  The plot is based on intense human emotion, especially regarding the relationship between Hutton and his lover, Doris, who clearly is not from his class, as illustrated by her first line of dialogue, after which Hutton comments that “a touch of cockney caressed her vowels,” which he does not find charming.

  Like most of his work, “The Gioconda Smile” is a viciously satirical attack on English society but, fortunately, the story remains compelling as a tale of suspense.

  THE FILM

  Title: A Woman’s Vengeance, 1948

  Studio: Universal Pictures

  Director: Zoltan Korda

  Screenwriter: Aldous Huxley

  Producer: Zoltan Korda

  THE CAST

  • Charles Boyer (Henry Maurier)

  • Ann Blyth (Doris Mead)

  • Jessica Tandy (Janet Spence)

  • Cedric Hardwicke (Dr. James Libbard)

  The story line of the film is an extremely close adaptation of Huxley’s story. Hutton’s name is changed to Maurier, probably to accommodate Boyer’s accent, but the three women in the scoundrel’s life remain the same: his wife, an understandably grumpy and neurotic invalid; his next-door neighbor, Janet Spence, who in her late thirties has fallen in love with Maurier; and Doris, his young mistress. When Emily dies of her chronic heart disease, Henry promptly marries Doris, to the chagrin and disgust of Janet. When her body is exhumed, a postmortem shows that Emily was poisoned.

  The occasionally ponderous screenplay was salvaged by the performances of the fir
st-rate cast. They did such an outstanding job that Lux Radio Theater broadcast a sixty-minute adaptation on March 22, 1948, with Charles Boyer and Ann Blyth again in their roles. Evidently it went well because a year later, on March 13, 1949, Theater Guild on the Air aired another sixty-minute adaptation with Boyer yet again reprising his role as the monstrous roué.

  THE GIOCONDA SMILE

  Aldous Huxley

  “MISS SPENCE WILL BE down directly, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Hutton, without turning round. Janet Spence’s parlormaid was so ugly—ugly on purpose, it always seemed to him, malignantly, criminally ugly—that he could not bear to look at her more than was necessary. The door closed. Left to himself, Mr. Hutton got up and began to wander round the room, looking with meditative eyes at the familiar objects it contained.

  Photographs of Greek statuary, photographs of the Roman Forum, colored prints of Italian masterpieces, all very safe and well known. Poor, dear Janet, what a prig—what an intellectual snob! Her real taste was illustrated in that water-color by the pavement artist, the one she had paid half a crown for (and thirty-five shillings for the frame). How often he had heard her tell the story, how often expatiate on the beauties of that skillful imitation of an oleograph! “A real Artist in the streets,” and you could hear the capital A in Artist as she spoke the words. She made you feel that part of his glory had entered into Janet Spence when she tendered him that half-crown for the copy of the oleograph. She was implying a compliment to her own taste and penetration. A genuine Old Master for half a crown. Poor, dear Janet!

  Mr. Hutton came to a pause in front of a small oblong mirror. Stooping a little to get a full view of his face, he passed a white, well-manicured finger over his mustache. It was as curly, as freshly auburn, as it had been twenty years ago. His hair still retained its color, and there was no sign of baldness yet—only a certain elevation of the brow. “Shakespearean,” thought Mr. Hutton, with a smile, as he surveyed the smooth and polished expanse of his forehead.

  Others abide our question, thou art free…Footsteps in the sea…Majesty…Shakespeare, thou should be living at this hour. No, that was Milton, wasn’t it? Milton, the Lady of Christ’s. There was no lady about him. He was what the women would call a manly man. That was why they liked him—for the curly auburn mustache and the discreet redolence of tobacco. Mr. Hutton smiled again; he enjoyed making fun of himself. Lady of Christ’s? No, no. He was the Christ of Ladies. Very pretty, very pretty. The Christ of Ladies. Mr. Hutton wished there were somebody he could tell the joke to. Poor, dear Janet wouldn’t appreciate it, alas!

  He straightened himself up, patted his hair, and resumed his peregrination. Damn the Roman Forum; he hated those dreary photographs.

  Suddenly he became aware that Janet Spence was in the room, standing near the door. Mr. Hutton started, as though he had been taken in some felonious act. To make these silent and spectral appearances was one of Janet Spence’s peculiar talents. Perhaps she had been there all the time, and seen him looking at himself in the mirror. Impossible! But, still, it was disquieting.

  “Oh, you gave me such a surprise,” said Mr. Hutton, recovering his smile and advancing with outstretched hand to meet her.

  Miss Spence was smiling too: her Gioconda smile, he had once called it in a moment of half-ironical flattery. Miss Spence had taken the compliment seriously, and always tried to live up to the Leonardo standard. She smiled on in silence while Mr. Hutton shook hands; that was part of the Gioconda business.

  “I hope you’re well,” said Mr. Hutton. “You look it.”

  What a queer face she had! That small mouth pursed forward by the Gioconda expression into a little snout with a round hole in the middle as though for whistling—it was like a penholder seen from the front. Above the mouth a well-shaped nose, finely aquiline. Eyes large, lustrous, and dark, with the largeness, luster, and darkness that seems to invite sties and an occasional bloodshot suffusion. They were fine eyes, but unchangingly grave. The penholder might do its Gioconda trick, but the eyes never altered in their earnestness. Above them, a pair of boldly arched, heavily penciled black eyebrows lent a surprising air of power, as of a Roman matron, to the upper portion of the face. Her hair was dark and equally Roman; Agrippina from the brows upward.

  “I thought I’d just look in on my way home,” Mr. Hutton went on. “Ah, it’s good to be back here”—he indicated with a wave of his hand the flowers in the vases, the sunshine and greenery beyond the windows—“It’s good to be back in the country after a stuffy day of business in town.”

  Miss Spence, who had sat down, pointed to a chair at her side.

  “No, really, I can’t sit down,” Mr. Hutton protested. “I must get back to see how poor Emily is. She was rather seedy this morning.” He sat down, nevertheless. “It’s these wretched liver chills. She’s always getting them. Women—” He broke off and coughed, so as to hide the fact that he had uttered. He was about to say that women with weak digestions ought not to marry; but the remark was too cruel, and he didn’t really believe it. Janet Spence, moreover, was a believer in eternal flames and spiritual attachments. “She hopes to be well enough,” he added, “to see you at luncheon tomorrow. Can you come? Do!” He smiled persuasively. “It’s my invitation too, you know.”

  She dropped her eyes, and Mr. Hutton almost thought that he detected a certain reddening of the cheek. It was a tribute; he stroked his mustache.

  “I should like to come if you think Emily’s well enough to have a visitor.”

  “Of course. You’ll do her good. You’ll do us both good. In married life three is often better company than two.”

  “Oh, you’re cynical.”

  Mr. Hutton always had a desire to say “Bow-wow-wow” whenever that last word was spoken. It irritated him more than any other word in the language. But instead of barking he made haste to protest.

  “No, no. I’m only speaking a melancholy truth. Reality doesn’t always come up to the ideal, you know. But that doesn’t make me believe any the less in the ideal. Indeed, I believe in it passionately—the ideal of a matrimony between two people in perfect accord. I think it’s realizable.”

  He paused significantly and looked at her with an arch expression. A virgin of thirty-six, but still unwithered; she had her charms. And there was something really rather enigmatic about her. Miss Spence made no reply, but continued to smile. There were times when Mr. Hutton got rather bored with the Gioconda. He stood up.

  “I must really be going now. Farewell, mysterious Gioconda.” The smile grew intenser, focused itself, as it were, in a narrower snout. Mr. Hutton made a Cinquecento gesture, and kissed her extended hand. It was the first time he had done such a thing; the action seemed not to be resented. “I look forward to tomorrow.”

  “Do you?”

  For answer Mr. Hutton once more kissed her hand, then turned to go. Miss Spence accompanied him to the porch.

  “Where’s your car?” she asked.

  “I left it at the gate of the drive.”

  “I’ll come and see you off.”

  “No, no.” Mr. Hutton was playful, but determined. “You must do no such thing. I simply forbid you.”

  “But I should like to come,” Miss Spence protested, throwing a rapid Gioconda at him.

  Mr. Hutton held up his hand. “No,” he repeated, and then, with a gesture that was almost the blowing of a kiss, he started to run down the drive, lightly, on his toes, with long, bounding strides like a boy’s. He was proud of that run; it was quite marvelously youthful. Still, he was glad the drive was no longer. At the last bend, before passing out of sight of the house, he halted and turned round. Miss Spence was still standing on the steps, smiling her smile. He waved his hand, and this time quite definitely and overtly wafted a kiss in her direction. Then, breaking once more into his magnificent canter, he rounded the last dark promontory of trees. Once out of s
ight of the house he let his high paces decline to a trot, and finally to a walk. He took out his handkerchief and began wiping his neck inside his collar. What fools, what fools! Has there ever been such an ass as poor, dear Janet Spence? Never, unless it was himself. Decidedly he was the more malignant fool, since he, at least, was aware of his folly and still persisted in it. Why did he persist? Ah, the problem that was himself, the problem that was other people….

  He had reached the gate. A large, prosperous-looking motor was standing at the side of the road.

  “Home, M’Nab.” The chauffeur touched his cap. “And stop at the crossroads on the way, as usual,” Mr. Hutton added, as he opened the door of the car. “Well?” he said, speaking into the obscurity that lurked within.

  “Oh, Teddy Bear, what an age you’ve been!” It was a fresh and childish voice that spoke the words. There was the faintest hint of Cockney impurity about all the vowel sounds.

  Mr. Hutton bent his large form and darted into the car with the agility of an animal regaining his burrow.

  “Have I?” he said, as he shut the door. The machine began to move. “You must have missed me a lot if you found the time so long.” He sat back in the low seat; a cherishing warmth enveloped him.

  “Teddy Bear…” and with a sigh of contentment a charming little head declined onto Mr. Hutton’s shoulder. Ravished, he looked down sideways at the round, babyish face.

  “Do you know, Doris, you look like the picture of Louise de Kerouaille.” He passed his fingers through a mass of curly hair.

  “Who’s Louise de Kera-whatever-it-is?” Doris spoke from remote distances.

  “She was, alas! Fuit. We shall all be ‘was’ one of these days. Meanwhile…”

  Mr. Hutton covered the babyish face with kisses. The car rushed smoothly along. M’Nab’s back, through the front window, was stonily impassive, the back of a statue.