After half an hour he put on his hat and took the books round to the Inspector of Taxes, whom he happened to know. Expert scrutiny of the books soon revealed what Poole had dimly divined; in order to defraud the revenue authorities, Gainly had kept an elaborate set of duplicate accounts, one for the benefit of the Inspector of Taxes, one showing the true state of affairs. Stock had been bought from a variety of wholesale houses, but only about two-thirds of these transactions appeared in the ‘official’ accounts; to balance this, only two-thirds of the sales were shown. A visit to Gainly’s bank revealed the fact that his account there tallied with the ‘official’ accounts; as all cheques paid to him by purchasers would have to go through the bank, it was clear that the one-third sales not shown in the ‘official’ accounts were cash transactions.
The Gainlys’ business was largely of a cash nature, and it was clear that Herbert had been in the habit of not banking the bulk of his till, but disposing of it in some other way. Some of it would probably be required to pay for the wholesale purchases which did not appear in the ‘official’ accounts—but where was the rest? The house-safe was clearly not big enough to hold the very large amount which Gainly, as his ‘private’ accounts showed, had accumulated. If it was neither in his bank nor his safe, where…? the answer flashed to Poole’s mind—a safe-deposit!
After an hour’s thought Poole felt that he had the details of the crime clear. Reginald Gainly must have known of the secret hoard and determined to get it for himself, at the same time revenging himself for all the slights he had suffered at his brother’s hand. He had rifled the house-safe to lay a false clue; what he wanted was the key of the safe-deposit. How he had hoped to get the money was not clear, as he would have to fetch it in person and sign his brother’s name. He must have been ignorant of the duplicated accounts or he would not have left the incriminating ledgers in the safe.
The next move was to have every safe-deposit in London searched. It was almost certain that Gainly would have hired the compartment in an assumed name; the only way to trace it was by issuing a description of him, and to support this it was decided to supply each officer making the search with a copy of the photograph Poole had seen in the dead man’s room. On the following morning, therefore, Poole repaired to Baldwin Terrace and, assuming from the absence of the ‘watcher’ that Reginald Gainly himself was not at home—being presumably at his office—presented himself to Mrs Gubb. Explaining that he wished to make a further examination of the dead man’s belongings, the detective betook himself to the comfortable bedroom on the first floor. The photograph was gone.
Smothering his annoyance, Poole summoned Mrs Gubb and demanded an explanation.
‘Oh, the likeness, sir?’ said the ‘daily lady.’ ‘Mr Reginald’s got that now—in ’is bedroom.’
Poole ran up to the top floor; there on the mantelpiece of the depressing bedroom, leaning against the mirror, was the dead man’s photograph. Poole felt a shudder of repugnance pass through him—what sort of mentality must the man have to plant in his own bedroom the likeness of the brother he had killed!
However, psychology was no business of his—except as an aid to deduction. Making a note of the photographer’s name and address, and leaving the print where he had found it, Poole left the house, after sternly cautioning Mrs Gubb to say nothing of his visit to anyone—not even to her employer. The photographer was soon found, the negative produced, and within a few hours copies issued to the divisions.
For three more days Poole waited, with growing impatience. By the evening of Saturday, March 2nd, the last report was in—a complete blank. The search had failed.
On Monday morning, Poole had another conference with the superintendent, and it was reluctantly decided that Reginald Gainly must be again interviewed in the hope of getting some admission from him. Poole took a bus to the end of Lewisham High Road, intending to walk till he came to the Gainlys’ shop, which he had not yet seen. He had not got far when a man, emerging quickly from the post office, nearly knocked him over. The quick glimpse that the detective had caught of the man’s face had suggested something faintly familiar; as he walked along, Poole puzzled his brain to think where he had seen it before. Then it came upon him that the man was Reginald Gainly! But how changed—almost unrecognisable. Poole had seen a stooping, sallow-faced, shifty-eyed creature who seemed—like his chair—afraid to come into the room. This man had burst out of the post office, walked vigorously away with his arms swinging; his back was nearly straight, his eyes were alive, there was colour in his cheeks. He was a different man!
All inside a week! What a deadly influence his younger brother must have had on him, crushing his spirit, almost his body. A week’s freedom, independence, better food, perhaps, and he was a changed man—a— Poole stopped dead, a flood of understanding breaking over his face.
‘By gad, that’s it!’ he exclaimed. ‘By jove, I’m going to find where that money is!’
Turning out of the stream of foot traffic, Poole planted himself in front of a bookseller’s window, apparently studying its contents, but really deep in thought. Why had the police not been able to find the safe deposit used by Herbert Gainly? For he felt sure that that was how the money had been ‘banked’—if he were paying no income-tax on it, that was as good as a twenty per cent investment. But why had his colleagues failed to find it? Why the Metropolitan area only? There were safe deposits outside London—in every big town. Why should Herbert Gainly not have used one—and if so, which?
Poole’s brain was racing now—his recording thoughts could hardly keep pace with it. If he had gone to some outside town, how would he go? By car? There was no evidence of his having one. By train—much simpler.
Poole went into the shop and bought a map of London, and on the back, ‘fifty miles round London.’ Where was he? Lewisham. Where was the Gainlys’ house? Here somewhere, near Peckham Rye. What would their station be? Honor Oak? That only took one to the Crystal Palace. But Honor Oak Park, that was on the main line, London, Brighton, and South Coast, as the out-of-date map called it. London, Brighton—Brighton! A local train would take him to Croydon, and from there it was but an hour’s run to Brighton—an easy afternoon trip, there and back—and miles from the prying eyes of the Metropolitan Inspector of Taxes.
The detective signalled to a passing cab. ‘Honor Oak Park Station, quick!’ he said.
Ten minutes later, Poole was on a hot trail. Booking-office clerk and porter at Honor Oak Park both knew Herbert Gainly well by sight; he frequently travelled from there to Brighton—about once every three weeks. It was easy to get a connection with an express at Croydon East—the train now signalled would connect with the 12.5 p.m.
Poole needed no further incentive—he had the photograph of Herbert Gainly with him—he would see to it himself this time. He bought a ticket, trundled slowly to Norwood and Croydon, and thence rapidly to Brighton. Calling a taxi, he asked if the man knew a safe deposit—he did—the Brighton Security, Marine Terrace. Within a few minutes, Poole was in the manager’s office.
Dimly he felt as if he were fitting in the last few pieces of a jig-saw puzzle—they fell together so quickly, so automatically. The manager recognised the photograph at once; Mr Henry Godfrey, of East Grinstead, had had a safe in the company’s depository—two safes, in fact—for three years—came about once a month, perhaps more often. When had he been last? Would inquire.
The manager rang a bell—a clerk appeared. When had Mr Henry Godfrey last been to his safe? He was there now; had come in two minutes ago, and asked for the check key—without which no safe could be opened.
There now! Poole’s heart leaped.
‘Quick!’ he exclaimed. ‘Show me the way; come with me, Mr Manager—tell your clerk to have the outer doors shut—we must get this man!’
Giving a sharp order, the manager led the way down a steep staircase, through a steel door at the bottom, opened by a uniformed porter, a
nd along a narrow, electrically-lit passage with steel compartments on each side. Round a corner they came upon a man in the act of closing a steel safe door—a tall man with a black moustache.
‘Mr Godfrey,’ said the manager. ‘This gentleman wants a word with you.’
Poole stepped forward.
‘Reginald Gainly,’ he said, ‘I must ask you to come with me to a police station. I hold no warrant for your arrest, but I must detain you until one is issued. You will be charged with the murder of your brother, Herbert Gainly, on February 26th. I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used as evidence.’
As his hand touched Gainly’s arm, the man suddenly wrenched himself aside, hurled Poole against the manager, and started down the passage. He did not get two yards; quick as lightning, Poole shot out his foot. Gainly stumbled over it, and before he could recover, Poole was on his back, bringing him crashing to the ground. The manager and porter joined in the scrimmage, and within a few minutes Gainly was secured.
That evening, after Poole had safely seen his prisoner lodged in the Camberwell Police Station, he reported his doing to Superintendent Flackett. The latter listened in silence to the bald narrative which was all that Poole allowed himself. When it was over, the senior officer held out his hand and firmly shook that of his subordinate.
‘And now tell me why you departed from your instructions and suddenly went off on this happy thought,’ he said.
‘Well, sir,’ replied Poole, ‘it was like this. When Reginald Gainly came out of that post office, I didn’t recognise him at first—he was so changed—grown—developed in every way. Even when I realised who he was, I had a feeling that it was someone else he had first called to my mind. Suddenly I realised who it was—Herbert Gainly, the younger brother, though without his moustache. Then it came to me why he had had that photograph of his brother on his mantelpiece—in front of a mirror. He was trying to make himself as like his brother as he could. Why? So that he could present himself at the safe deposit as his brother and get the money out. With a false moustache he could now pass any but close scrutiny. That put me on the safe deposit idea again, and somehow it worked out at once—to Brighton. He evidently slipped our ‘watcher’; I must look into that.
‘Of course, it was sheer chance that Gainly came for the money that day—we must have travelled by the same train and he walked from the station while I drove. They were all Treasury notes, sir; two safes stacked with them. Gainly had a suit-case with him; no doubt he was going to move the stuff gradually—too dangerous to leave it there. In a week or two he’d have got it all away; after that he’d have done a bolt. We only got him just in time, superintendent.’
The Avenging Chance
Anthony Berkeley
Anthony Berkeley Cox (1893–1971) was one of the most innovative crime authors of the Golden Age, and his ironic view of justice influenced a host of successors. Writing as Francis Iles, he published three excellent fictional studies of criminal psychology, while as Anthony Berkeley, he created the breezy novelist and amateur detective Roger Sheringham. Sheringham often comes up with solutions to mysterious crimes which prove, despite their ingenuity, to be mistaken.
‘The Avenging Chance’ is a deservedly famous whodunit, and Berkeley liked the plot so much that he expanded it into a witty and engaging novel, The Poisoned Chocolates Case. A master of the unexpected ending, he came up with no fewer than six different explanations of the crime in the book-length version of the murder mystery. The correct answer proves to be different from the solution in this story.
***
When he was able to review it in perspective Roger Sheringham was inclined to think that the Poisoned Chocolate Case, as the papers called it, was perhaps the most perfectly planned murder he had ever encountered. Certainly he plumed himself more on its solution than on that of any other. The motive was so obvious, when you knew where to look for it—but you didn’t know; the method was so significant, when you had grasped its real essentials—but you didn’t grasp them; the traces were so thinly covered, when you had realised what was covering them—but you didn’t realise. But for the merest piece of bad luck, which the murderer could not possibly have foreseen, the crime must have been added to the classical list of great mysteries.
This was the story of the case, as Chief Inspector Moresby told it one evening to Roger in the latter’s rooms in the Albany a week or so later. Or rather, this is the raw material of Moresby’s story as it passed through the crucible of Roger’s vivid imagination:
***
On Friday morning, the fifteenth of November, at half-past ten in the morning, Graham Beresford walked into his club in Piccadilly, the very exclusive Rainbow Club, and asked for his letters. The porter handed him one and a couple of circulars. Beresford walked over to the fireplace in the big lounge to open them.
While he was doing so, a few minutes later, another member entered the club, a Sir William Anstruther, who lived in rooms just round the corner in Berkeley Street and spent most of his time at the Rainbow. The porter glanced at the clock, as he always did when Sir William entered, and, as always, it was exactly half-past ten to the minute. The time was thus definitely fixed by the porter beyond all doubt. There were three letters for Sir William and a small parcel, and he also strolled over to the fireplace, nodding to Beresford but not speaking to him. The two men only knew each other very slightly, and had probably never exchanged more than a dozen words in all.
Having glanced through his letters Sir William opened the parcel and, after a moment, snorted with disgust. Beresford looked at him, and Sir William thrust out a letter which had been enclosed in the parcel, with an uncomplimentary remark upon modern trade methods. Concealing a smile (Sir William’s ways were a matter of some amusement to his fellow members), Beresford read the letter. It was from a big firm of chocolate manufacturers, Mason and Sons, and set forth that they were putting on the market a new brand of liqueur chocolates designed especially to appeal to men; would Sir William do them the honour of accepting the enclosed two-pound box and letting the firm have his candid opinion on them?
‘Do they think I’m a blank chorus-girl?’ fumed Sir William. ‘Write ’em testimonials about their blank chocolates, indeed! Blank ’em! I’ll complain to the blank committee. That sort of blank thing can’t blank well be allowed here.’ Sir William, it will be gathered, was a choleric man.
‘Well, it’s an ill wind so far as I’m concerned,’ Beresford soothed him. ‘It’s reminded me of something. My wife and I had a box at the Imperial last night and I bet her a box of chocolates to a hundred cigarettes that she wouldn’t spot the villain by the end of the second act. She won. I must remember to get them this morning. Have you seen it, by the way—The Creaking Skull—? Not a bad show.’
‘Not blank likely,’ growled Sir William, unsoothed. ‘I’ve got something better to do than sit and watch a lot of blank fools with phosphorescent paint on their faces popping off silly pop-guns at each other. Got to get a box of chocolates, did you say? Well, take this blank one. I don’t want it.’
For a moment Beresford demurred politely and then, most unfortunately for himself, accepted. The money so saved meant nothing to him, for he was a wealthy man; but trouble was always worth saving.
By an extraordinarily lucky chance neither the outer wrapper of the box nor its covering letter were thrown into the fire, and this was the more fortunate in that both men had tossed the envelopes of their letters into the flames. Sir William did, indeed, make a bundle of wrapper, letter and string, but he handed it over to Beresford with the box, and the latter simply dropped it inside the fender. This bundle the porter subsequently extracted and, being a man of orderly habits, put it tidily away in the waste-paper basket, whence it was retrieved later by the police. The bundle, it may be said at once, comprised two out of the only three material clues to the murder, the third of course being the chocolates themselves.
>
Of the three unconscious protagonists in the impending tragedy, Sir William was without doubt the most remarkable. Still a year or two under fifty he looked, with his flaming red face and thick-set figure, a typical country squire of the old school, and both his manners and his language were in accordance with tradition. There were other resemblances too, but always with a difference. The voices of the country squires of the old school were often slightly husky towards late middle-age; but it was not with whiskey. They hunted, and so did Sir William. But the squires only hunted foxes; Sir William was more catholic. Sir William, in short, was no doubt a thoroughly bad baronet. But there was nothing mean about him. His vices, like such virtues as he had, were all on the large scale. And the result, as usual, was that most other men, good or bad, liked him well enough (except a husband here and there, or a father or two) and women openly hung on his husky words.
On comparison with him Beresford was rather an ordinary man, a tall, dark, not unhandsome fellow of two-and-thirty, quiet and reserved; popular in a way but neither inviting nor apparently reciprocating anything beyond a rather grave friendliness. His father had left him a rich man, but idleness did not appeal to him. He had inherited enough of the parental energy and drive not to allow his money to lie softly in gilt-edged securities and had a finger in a good many business pies, out of sheer love of the game.
Money attracts money. Graham Beresford had inherited it, he made it, and, inevitably, he had married it too. The daughter of a late ship-owner in Liverpool, with not far off half a million in her own right. That half-million might have made some poor man incredibly happy for life, but she had chosen to bring it to Beresford, who needed it not at all. But the money was incidental, for he needed her and would have married her just as inevitably (said his friends) if she had not a farthing.
She was so exactly his type. A tall, rather serious-minded, highly cultured girl, not so young that her character had not had time to form (she was twenty-five when Beresford married her, three years ago), she was the ideal wife for him. A bit of a Puritan, perhaps, in some ways, but Beresford, whose wild oats, though duly sown, had been a sparse crop, was ready enough to be a Puritan himself by that time, if she was. To make no bones about it, the Beresfords succeeded in achieving that eighth wonder of the modern world, a happy marriage.
Capital Crimes: London Mysteries Page 29
