Somebody at the Door

by Raymond Postgate

  He cursed aloud with surprise, and thereby covered his desk with a fine spray of ink, an involuntary specimen of spatterwork. He spent some five minutes in the washroom cleaning out his mouth and swearing; and then had to go into conference with the Superintendent with his mind not made up.

  “I’ve got a certain way,” he said, “and I’ve made up a theory, now, of how the crime may have been committed. But before I go on to that, I’d better summarize the results of my inquiries about another man who travelled home with Councillor Grayling. He was a Home Guard, a corporal named George Ransom. Captain Williams said he ‘proved’ at once when the name of the man who travelled up with Grayling was asked for. I suppose that means he stepped out of the ranks or something. He made no difficulty, anyway, about coming to see me.

  “He’s corporal in charge of gas protection; and that’s something striking right away. But he gave me that information himself.”

  “You’d have found it out, anyhow; and he must have known you would,” said the Superintendent.

  “Yes, sir; that is so. However, for what it’s worth, he seemed to regard the matter of no importance. He also said Grayling was an unpopular officer. Both Major Ramsay and Captain Williams of the Home Guard confirm that, and Williams added that Grayling had made a formal complaint against Ransom for insubordination and insolence, but that he, Williams, had decided to take no action about it, because of Grayling’s disagreeable character. I asked him if the two men were generally on bad terms, and he hedged. But I think they were, and I’ll look into it further.

  “I found that Ransom could do with money, too. He was part-owner of a shoemaking or repairing business in the City called “Peter’s A.l Shoe Service,” which the City police tell me was completely destroyed in the blitz. They say it belonged half to him and half to the previous owner, Peters, who’s in the army now. Mrs. Peters, who used to be behind the counter—it was a very small place, I gather—complained to the police that they had still got no proper compensation, and Ransom was having to work like a common journeyman, when by rights a new shop should have been set going long ago for both of them. She gives Ransom a very good character, by the way.”

  “Well, there’s something there,” said the Superintendent “Method: Ransom is an anti-gas expert. He would know how to use mustard gas, anyway. Could he have had access to it?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll enquire from Captain Williams.”

  “Do so. To go on—Motive: he disliked Grayling. He needed money. Have you got anything more? What sort of man is Ransom? How did he behave when you saw him?”

  “He’s rather a shifty fellow,” said the Inspector. “A bit shabby-looking, and, without being furtive exactly, the sort of man who likes to avoid attention. I would have said he had a police record, but nothing has been traced yet. I’ve put an enquiry through to Scotland Yard; there’s nothing against him since he’s been here. He was out of work pretty often before the war, but so were many other people.

  “He’s very fly. I thought it would be a good idea to get his fingerprints on the quiet, but there was nothing doing. I offered him my cigarette case: thank you, he didn’t smoke. I pushed him a piece of shiny paper and asked him to write a few words down, offering him my pen. He preferred his own pen, thank you. And as he wrote, he kept the paper still not with his fingers but by resting his closed fist on it; and when he had done he didn’t pick up the paper with his fingers but flipped it across to me with his nail. Obviously, he knew what I was up to, but he didn’t give a sign. In the end I asked him outright if he objected to having his prints taken and he said yes, unless I proposed making a charge against him, which put me up against it for the moment.”

  “I see.” The Superintendent thought for a minute but produced no comment; then he said: “You told me you had a theory about the administration of the gas. Let’s hear it: I’ll be glad of anything that makes sense.”

  “I’m not certain of it, by any means, sir,” said the Inspector, “and at first sight it seems fantastic. But the more I consider it the less fantastic it seems.

  “It turns on the fact that mustard gas isn’t a gas at all, but a liquid. It’s used in a fine spray. In reasonably warm weather it will vaporize fairly quickly. But this weather has been bitterly cold for a long time, so it would stay liquid.

  “It can be handled safely by anybody who knows the ropes. Any respirator, civilian or service, is a complete protection against the fumes, and rubber gloves will guard against an accidental splash. Most people have got both of these things. It’s also not very difficult to make, and there are fair stocks kept anyway for demonstration purposes. I think it’s quite possible that either Ransom or Evetts could obtain enough to kill Grayling, whom anyone could see was not a specially beefy specimen.

  “Now I suppose this. The murderer acquires some liquid poison gas. This has got to be applied to his victim’s mouth and nose. If it is in a sufficiently strong concentration death will follow in a few hours; but symptoms will not appear for an hour or so. In fact, the books say that momentarily there will be signs of euphoria—that is, he’ll feel better. How can it be applied to his mouth and nose? Clearly by his handkerchief. He had a cold, as anyone could see: he had had one some time, as a matter of fact.”

  “Did the murderer come up to him and say: ‘Councillor, lend me your handkerchief; I want to put some cold mixture on it?’ I don’t believe that,” said the Superintendent.

  “No,” said Holly. “I conjecture that he switched handkerchiefs. I think he carried a prepared handkerchief and in the crowd slipped it in Grayling’s pocket. The Vicar said the platform was packed, and there was a rush into the carriage too. You and I know pickpockets have done far, far more difficult things than that.”

  “It’s just possible,” said the Superintendent, troubled. “I suppose Grayling sits in the carriage and sooner or later blows his nose, or coughs into his handkerchief, and then takes a straight snort of poison gas each time. But he’d notice it, wouldn’t he? Doesn’t it smell, or make you sneeze?”

  “No it scarcely smells at all. And it’s not a sneezing gas. It is a vesicant, which means it brings up blisters. But it doesn’t do that at once.”

  “But it’s brown. He’d see the colour on his handkerchief, even in that light.”

  “Not necessarily. It’s only brown when impure. The purer, the more colourless. A good brew, or distillation, or whatever it is, wouldn’t be noticeable except in daylight or under a strong lamp.”

  “But when he used it, it would begin to vaporize in the warm carriage, and would gas everybody else.”

  “If you remember, sir,” said the Inspector, “the Vicar had a bad throat and a sore face; and Charlie Evetts had the symptoms of minor gas poisoning. They sat next to him. As he would only hold the strong concentration to his face for a few seconds, the vapour wouldn’t travel far.”

  “It’s very ingenious,” said the Superintendent, wavering. “But a little far-fetched. And, come to think of it, there’s a bad snag. How did the murderer manage to go about with a hanky full of poison gas in his pocket, waiting for a chance. A pocket is warm. It would vaporize and he’d merely gas himself.”

  “I suggest he might carry it in a tin. A flat case, like you used to get fifty cigarettes in. Many people have these about the house still. He could pour a certain amount of mustard gas in liquid form on a handkerchief, using rubber gloves and keeping his mask on. Then he folds the handkerchief and puts it in the tin, closes the tin tightly and seals it by running adhesive tape round the edges to make it airtight. He opens all the windows to clear out any gas there may be.

  “Then he puts the tin in his overcoat pocket and goes to the station. He has gloves on still, of course. He waits until he spots Grayling, then he peels off the tape with one hand, keeping his hand inside his pocket, and loosens the lid of the tin. The minute he can press against Grayling— and there seem to have been plenty of opportunities, even for those who weren’t sitting near him—he plants the
handkerchief on him.”

  Chapter VI

  * * *

  * SNUFFLY GIRL

  A WORKMAN *

  * A MOTHER

  A WORKMAN *

  * HUGH ROLANDSON

  THE VICAR *

  * REFUGEE

  H. J. GRAYLING X

  * CPL. GEORGE RANSOM

  G. J. F. EVETTS *

  * * *

  “We musn’t,” said the Superintendent, “forget there are other people who would bear looking into. The trouble, in fact, seems to be that there may be too many. You’ve dug up a great deal of stuff. The Vicar: he was Grayling’s enemy and sat next him. He may have been fooling around with the gas, by his looks. Evetts—he’s a chemist, he seems equally likely to have been suffering from gas poisoning, and though you haven’t anything definite against him, you are suspicious of his manner. The German—well, we should get more on him soon, but Grayling may have had his knife into him. Corporal Ransom—a gas expert and short of money too. And no friend to the late lamented.

  “You’ve got too many suspects. And I’m afraid you’ve got to add some more. Have you remembered the two workmen? One of them, the Vicar said, leant over his and Grayling’s shoulder on the pretext of reading a notice. Quite an opportunity for planting that handkerchief, if it existed.”

  “Yes, sir; I had thought of that. But I’ve got nowhere,” said Holly. “The trains about that time are always full of returning workmen. Shifts are different from what they were and certain places” (he gave the names of four biggish establishments in the East and N.E. districts; and a smaller one south of the river) “let a large number out just at the time when they will pack the trains already crowded with office workers. The Ministry of War Transport is complaining, and I believe there is to be a change next month. But these men could have come from any of those places or indeed from anywhere in London. We’ve made inquiries without result in all these factories. We’ve asked at the stations further up the line; and the police there have done all they can. There are three stations that that train stopped at: Whetnow, Mayquarter, and Pulchayne. Each of them has a big dormitory population, of people who just go in to work in London and return only to sleep. A good proportion of them are new, since the war. The police are overworked too, as they’ve been having floods there and traffic has been all tangled up. But they tell me that even when things are normal they can’t hold out any hope of getting us information unless we can give them something more to go on.”

  Chapter VII

  * * *

  * SNUFFLY GIRL

  A WORKMAN *

  * A MOTHER

  A WORKMAN *

  * HUGH ROLANDSON

  THE VICAR *

  * A. MANNHEIM

  H. J. GRAYLING X

  * CPL. GEORGE RANSOM

  C.J. F, EVETTS *

  * * *

  1

  The German refugee was the least difficult to investigate. For Inspector Atkins had already a great deal of information about him, from the end of 1939, when he had settled in Croxburn; and the Home Office had a little earlier information.

  It did not have, however, the most interesting earlier information. Part of this was never disclosed to the police, for no dishonourable reason—for to be amateur and careless was not dishonourable in Britain, but rather a recommendation for responsible public employment.

  Up till September, 1939—indeed, even later—the whole behaviour of the British towards the Nazis and the Fascists seemed to Continental anti-Fascists heartbreakingly amateur. But the amateurs survived, while the professionals are in concentration camps, you say? Yes; but through no fault of the amateurs. If at all, through their lack of a philosophy. Even in its last days the French Republic had so clear a conception of its own principles of fraternity that it opened its gates wide to German refugees. This generosity may possibly—the allegation is very far from proved—have helped a little to its ruin. Possibly, in that case too the British lack of generosity may have helped them to their safety. There may have been fewer Nazi spies in Britain disguised as refugees. But this was not due to competence, for when the crisis came in September, 1940, it was clearly shown that the governors of Britain could not distinguish at all between a Nazi and an anti-Nazi; indeed, the fact was officialy stated. It was due, as those who remember British policy from 1933 onwards will probably testify, to a mixture of ungenerosity and bad conscience in those who had control of policy. The trophies of the remarkable foreign policy pursued in the six years from 1933 to 1939 bore inscribed beneath their stuffed and melancholy heads the names Abyssinia, Albania, Austria, China, Czechoslovakia, the German Republic, and Spain; and each name indicated a fresh regiment of refugees and fresh reasons to doubt whether the policy being pursued was wholly wise and honourable. To those who directed it, the new applicants for admission were each one a silent (or not silent) criticism; and the obstacles placed so successfully to their entry were quite probably due to no more than the ordinary human reluctance to be faced personally with evidences of what one suspects to be one’s own folly. There are few people so obstinate as the man who half thinks he is wrong.

  That explanation may be wrong, or right. One thing is certain; in the year 1938, those who attempted to rescue Nazi victims received none of the official help they might have expected; Nazi agents and organizers in Britain received hardly any of the official repression and punishment they might have expected.

  There were people who came to the rescue of German anti-Fascists, but their efforts were usually uncoordinated. Most of them were unskilful; some of them approached their task in an adolescent sporting spirit, as if it was tennis they were playing against Von Cramm. They, too, were amateurs.

  Most of these amateurs had no success and were of no importance. They were playing a romantic game which cost them some money, taught them a little, and aided nobody. They were not, in the French sense, “serious.” There was one of these groups which had a singular success—singular in the exact sense of the word, for it was not repeated and was odd in itself. And this success it had from accident chiefly, and certainly not because it was more realist and less romantic than any other group of enthusiasts all under thirty. It was not.

  It was made up of junior members of a London Labour Party who had become discontented with the lack of event that makes up a local party’s history, and had attempted to team up as a sort of amateur anti-Fascist espionage organization. Those who constituted the “ring” were five. The effective leader was an unattached young man of twenty-five named David Ellerton; he had money, good looks, ingenuity, ignorance and that sort of unruffled courage which comes of always having had one’s own way. He was not a fool, though he was often foolish. The one woman in the group was a pretty young monkey named Diana Evans, fair-haired, with eyes slightly too close together. She earned a living by typing, comfortably enough since she lived with her parents. She had a half-tomboy, half-sexy relation with David. He had not yet seduced her, though he intended to if he could. His observation or his conceit did not suggest the probability of a prolonged resistance. The third member, A. W. Preston, had a little more knowledge of the world than they; he was a plumber aged twenty-seven, and a member of his union. David called him Boss, or The Boss, to indicate that he was a union racketeer, which he was not. But he at least knew his way about East and South London more than they did; and it was not inconceivable that he should get a refugee, for example, smuggled off or on to a ship. He sometimes brought with him a young dock labourer named Herron, and naturally called Smoked or Smoky. He joined the group largely because he liked to drink at David’s expense; he had done fourteen days once for a fight with a policeman and was regarded by the others as impressively tough. The last of the five was a quiet clerk in a big printing firm, named Harold Birch. He came from Wolverhampton in the Midlands, he had been till very recently a strict pacifist, he had rather a weak and pale though pleasant face, and he it was who brought them their only real find.

  In June, 1938, he had spe
nt some of his money on a long week-end—Friday to Tuesday—in France. It had been his holiday for the year, and he had taken his bicycle. From Boulogne he had gone eventually to St. Omer, where he had spent one night. He was very soon satisfied and more with all the sights of St. Omer. In the middle of the wet and uninteresting Picard plain, this grey town is only remarkable for its numerous and giant churches. They are gloomy and ill kept up; the most impressive, St. Bertin, is a ruin. Even if the inhabitants of St. Omer were universally pious, which they are very far from being, the accommodation would be much greater than they could use. The churches have a black and vast grandeur of their own, but they are depressing, and Harold soon tired of them. One café in the wide cobbled Grand Place showed a little life. Harold sat in it and scraped up an acquaintance with a young man who supported the Popular Front. He told Harold that the whole police of St. Omer was corrupt and in alliance with Fascist reaction. But he soon tired of Harold’s halting French. He excited Harold’s interest by pointing out to him two drinkers, a fish-eyed tall man and a shiny little man with yellow shoes as deux agents nazis, and then abruptly stopped Harold’s eager enquiries by walking away.

  Next morning it rained as only Flanders rain can rain. The rain made a slightly hissing noise and raised tiny pillars of water on the cobbles where it fell. Harold had pattered in it round the Place and been driven back to his hotel, the “Hotel de France,” which was dreary and empty. The proprietress sat behind a sort of counter in the salon; she had unconvincing golden hair and a varnished face. She looked greedy and not too good-tempered. The only other occupants of the room were four youths playing an unknown game of cards. They hardly spoke. There was nothing to read except several time-tables, the Guide Michelin for 1931, a directory, and a copy of L’Illustration of August, 1927, on which a considerable amount of beer had been spilt. In a sort of glass annexe there was a dead palm and six iron chairs, one upside down. Harold ordered a glass of the thin French beer and sat down to wait for lunch.