Detective Duos

by edited by Marcia Muller

I felt Jeff move. I heard the click of his flashlight and saw a beam of light shoot through the blackness. For a moment it searched wildly, then it hit and held. I saw a man's outstretched arm, his hand six inches above the ground. Clutched in the hand was a golf ball.

  Jeff pulled the light up the man's arm until it flashed full in his face. Tom Carleton straightened up. I saw his arm back out of the ray of light, then swing forward through it. ...

  When people regain consciousness, they usually start life again by asking a silly question. My question didn't seem silly to me at the time, but that's exactly what it turned out to be. I looked at Jeff and Joe Hinkle for a moment before I spoke.

  I said, “How could Tom Carleton find his wife's golf ball in the dark like that?”

  “He didn't find it,” Jeff said. “He was losing it.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Where am I?”

  “In our cottage,” Jeff said.

  “Where is Tom Carleton?”

  “In my jail,” Joe Hinkle said. “Are you all right, Mrs. Troy? He hit you with a golf ball, you know.”

  “Yes, I know, Mr. Hinkle. But I'm fine. That's just what I needed.”

  “Well, then, Troy – ”

  “Sure, Joe, listen. You and your boys couldn't find that ball – because there was no ball. There was no ball because Mrs. Carleton wasn't playing golf. Eddie Riorden was not her caddy – he was her lover.”

  “Eddie and Mrs. Carleton ...”

  “That thicket was their rendezvous. If anyone had wandered into it unexpectedly, Eddie would have gone through the motions of caddying for a lady with a bad slice. It was a nice setup while it lasted. And it lasted until Tom Carleton got wise.”

  “So I was wrong,” Joe said, “when I figured that one of them got killed because he saw the other one murdered.”

  “Everybody liked Mrs. Carleton,” Jeff said. “Everybody loved Eddie. Nobody had a reason to kill either of them. But maybe, I thought, somebody had a reason to kill both of them. And then, when you couldn't find the ball Janet Carleton should have been playing with ...”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “I guess that proved it to you. And when Tom heard you talking about the ball this afternoon, he figured he'd better get one there in a hurry.”

  “Oh, now I see,” I said. “He didn't find that ball. He was putting it there.”

  “That's right. I'm sorry he hit you with it, Haila.”

  “Oh, I don't mind. That's a hazard of the game, getting hit. But I don't think it was very sporting the way he did it.”

  “What, darling?”

  “It's a rule, Jeff! You're supposed to yell `Fore!`”

  Margery Allingham

  (1904–1966)

  The Golden Age of mystery fiction saw the creation of many an English gentleman–sleuth, and a good proportion of them were imbued with colorful eccentricities, rather than any genuine depth of characterization. A reading of Margery Allingham's early Albert Campion novels (The Crime at Black Dudley, 1929; Death of a Ghost, 1934) might convey the false impression that this is true of her series detective. In these books, the protagonist appears as a two–dimensional figure with vague connections to the British royal family, an action–adventurer and dabbler in mysteries – or, as critic H. R. F. Keating states, “a cleverly updated version of Baroness Orczy's Scarlet Pimpernel, the indolent man–about–town.” Allingham, a stylish writer with outstanding powers of description, soon tired of the convention, and Campion underwent the first of two transformations – to a man who was little more than a camera observing the world around him, after the fashion of Ross Macdonald's Lew Archer.

  It can be argued that Campion is the perfect character to act as uninvolved observer: His appearance and manner are unremarkable and bland. And had it not been for World War II and its effect on Allingham, he may very well have remained on the emotional sidelines. But the war affected Allingham strongly, and thus Campion changed, even in his physical description: “There were new lines on his over–thin face and with their appearance some of his old misleading vacancy of expression had vanished.” Allingham's novels took on a greater sense of realism; no longer were they tales of bloodless murders, romance, and genteel puzzles, but depictions of love, death, and crime as it actually happens. In such titles as The Tiger in the Smoke (1952), The Beckoning Lady (1955), and Hide My Eyes (1958), Allingham employed her full talents to comment on the world and human relationships.

  Albert Campion appeared in a number of short stories, collected in Mr. Campion and Others (1939) and The Case Book of Mr. Campion (1947). In “One Morning They'll Hang Him,” we see him paired with Detective Inspector Kenny of the Criminal Investigation Department. Allingham once wrote of the piece that it was an attempt to “combine a human story with careful detection,” and called Kenny “a less sympathetic police officer than I like to write about in the ordinary way.” The resultant interplay between the two leads them to a startling solution to what appears an open–and–shut case.

  ONE MORNING THEY'LL HANG HIM

  ALBERT CAMPION AND DETECTIVE INSPECTOR KENNY

  ENGLAND 1950

  It was typical of Detective Inspector Kenny, at that time D.D.I. of the L. Division, that, having forced himself to ask a favor, he should set about it with the worst grace possible. When at last he took the plunge, he heaved his two hundred pounds off Mr. Campion's fireside couch and set down his empty glass with a clatter.

  “I don't know if I needed that at three in the afternoon,” he said ungratefully, his small blue eyes baleful, “but I've been up since two this morning dealing with women, tears, minor miracles and this perishing rain.” He rubbed his broad face, and presented it scarlet and exasperated at Mr. Campion's back.

  “If there's one thing that makes me savage it's futility!” he added.

  Mr. Albert Campion, who had been staring idly out of the window watching the rain on the roofs, did not glance around. He was still the lean, somewhat ineffectual–looking man to whom the Special Branch had turned so often in the last twenty years. His very fair hair had bleached into whiteness and a few lines had appeared round the pale eyes which were still, as always, covered by large horn–rimmed spectacles, but otherwise he looked much as Kenny first remembered him – ”Friendly and a little simple – the old snake!”

  “So there's futility in

  Barraclough Road

  too, is there?” Campion's light voice sounded polite rather than curious.

  Kenny drew a sharp breath of annoyance.

  “The Commission has 'phoned you? He suggested I should look you up. It's not a great matter – just one of those stupid little snags which has some perfectly obvious explanation. Once it's settled, the whole case is open–and–shut. As it is, we can't keep the man at the station indefinitely.”

  Mr. Campion picked up the early edition of the evening paper from his desk.

  “This is all I know,” he said holding it out, “Mr. Oates didn't 'phone. There you are, in the Stop Press, Rich Widow shot in

  Barraclough Road West

  . Nephew at police station helping investigation. What's the difficulty? His help is not altogether wholehearted, perhaps?”

  To his surprise an expression remarkably like regret flickered round Kenny's narrow lips.

  “Ruddy young fool,” he said, and sat down abruptly. “I tell you, Mr. Campion, this thing is in the bag. It's just one of those ordinary, rather depression little stories which most murder cases are. There's practically no mystery, no chase – nothing but a wretched little tragedy. As soon as you've spotted what I've missed, I shall charge this chap and he'll go before the magistrates and be committed for trial. His counsel will plead insanity and the jury won't have it. The Judge will sentence him, he'll appeal, their Lordships will dismiss it. The Home Secretary will sign the warrant and one morning they'll take him out and they'll hang him.” He sighed. “All for nothing,” he said. “All for nothing at all. It'll probably be raining just like it is now,” he added inconsequentially.

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nbsp; Mr. Campion's eyes grew puzzled. He knew Kenny for a conscientious officer, and, some said, a hard man. This philosophic strain was unlike him.

  “Taken a fancy to him?” he inquired.

  “Who? I certainly haven't.” The Inspector was grim. “I've got no sympathy for youngsters who shoot up their relatives however selfish the old bottoms may be. No, he's killed her and he must take what's coming to him, but it's hard on – well, on some people. Me, for one.”

  He took out a large old–fashioned notebook and folded it carefully in half. “I stick to one of these,” he remarked virtuously, “None of your backs of envelopes for me. My record is kept as neatly as when I was first on the beat, and it can be handed across the court whenever a know–all counsel asks to see it.” He paused. “I sound like an advertisement, don't I? Well, Mr. Campion, since I'm here, just give me your mind to this, if you will. I don't suppose it'll present any difficulty to you.”

  “One never knows,” murmured Mr. Campion idiotically. “Start with the victim.”

  Kenny returned to his notebook.

  “Mrs. Mary Alice Cibber, aged about seventy or maybe a bit less. She had heart trouble which made her look frail, and, of course, I didn't see her until she was dead. She had a nice house in Barraclough Road, a good deal too big for her, left her by her husband who died ten years ago. Since then she's been alone except for a maid who cleared off in the war and now for another old party who calls herself a companion. She looks older still, poor old girl, but you can see she's been kept well under – ” He put his thumb down expressively – “by Mrs. C. who appears to have been a dictator in her small way. She was the sort of woman who lived for two chairs and a salad bowl.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Antiques.” He was mildly contemptuous. “The house is crammed with them, all three floors and the attic, everything kept as if it was brand–new. The old companion says she loved it more than anything on earth. Of course she hadn't much else to love, not a relation in the world except the nephew – ”

  “Whose future you see so clearly?”

  “The man who shot her,” the Inspector agreed. “He's a big nervy lad, name of Woodruff, the son of the old lady's brother. His mother, father, and two young sisters all got theirs in the blitz on Portsmouth. Whole family wiped out.”

  “I see.” Campion began to catch some of Kenny's depression. “Where was he when that happened?”

  “In the WesternDesert.” The D.D.I4's protuberant eyes were dark with irritation. “I told you this was just an ordinary miserable slice of life. It goes on the same way. This boy, Richard Woodruff – he's only twenty–eight now – did very well in the war. He was in the landings in Sicily and went through the fighting in Italy where he got the M.C. and was promoted major. Then he copped in for the breakthrough in France and just before the finish he became a casualty. A bridge blew up with him on it – or something of the sort, my informant didn't know exactly – and he seems to have become what the boys call `bomb happy.` It used to be `shell shock` in my day. As far as I can gather, he always had been quick–tempered, but this sent him over the edge. He sounds to me as if he wasn't sane for a while. That may help him in his defense, of course.”

  “Yes.” Campion sounded depressed.

  “Where's he been since then?”

  “On a farm mostly. He was training to be an architect before the war but the motherly old army knew what was best for him and when he came out of the hospital they bunged him down to Dorset. He's just got away. Some wartime buddy got him a job in an architect's office under the old pals' act and he was all set to take it up.”

  He paused and his narrow mouth, which was not entirely insensitive, twisted bitterly. “Ought to have started Monday,” he said.

  “Oh dear,” murmured Mr. Campion inadequately. “Why did he shoot his aunt? Pure bad temper?”

  Kenny shook his head.

  “He had a reason. I mean one can see why he was angry. He hadn't anywhere to live, you see. As you know London is crowded, and rents are fantastic. He and his wife paying through the nose for a cupboard of a bed–sitting room off the Edgeware Road.”

  “His wife?” The lean man in the horn rims was interested. “Where did she come from? You're keeping her very quiet.”

  To Campion's surprise the Inspector did not speak at once. Instead he grunted, and there was regret, and surprise at it, in his little smile. “I believe I would if I could,” he said sincerely. “He found her on the farm. They've been married six weeks. I don't know if you've ever seen love, Mr. Campion? It's very rare – the kind I mean.” He put out his hands deprecatingly. “It seems to crop up – when it does – among the most unexpected people, and when you do see it, well, it's very impressive.” He succeeded in looking thoroughly ashamed of himself. “I shouldn't call myself a sentimental man,” he said.

  “No.” Campion was reassuring. “You got his war history from her, I suppose?”

  “I had to but we're confirming it. He's as shut as a watch – or a hand grenade. `Yes` and `No` and `I did not shoot her` – that's about all his contribution amounted to, and he's had a few hours of expert treatment. The girl is quite different. She's down there too. Won't leave. We put her in the waiting room finally. She's not difficult – just sits there.”

  “Does she know anything about it?”

  “No.” Kenny was quite definite. “She's nothing to look at,” he went on presently, as if he felt the point should be made. “She's just an ordinary nice little country girl, a bit too thin and a bit too brown, natural hair and inexpert make–up, and yet with this – this blazing radiant steadfastness about her!” He checked himself. “Well, she's fond of him,” he amended.

  “Believes he's God,” Campion suggested.

  Kenny shook his head. “She doesn't care if he isn't,” he said sadly. “Well, Mr. Campion, some weeks ago these two approached Mrs. Cibber about letting them have a room or two at the top of the house. That must have been the girl's idea; she's just the type to have old–fashioned notions about blood being thicker than water. She made the boy write. The old lady ignored the question but asked them both to an evening meal last night. The invitation was sent a fortnight ago, so you can see there was no eager bless–you–my–children about it.”

  “Any reason for the delay?”

  “Only that she had to have notice if she were giving a party. The old companion explained that to me. There was the silver to get out and clean, and the best china to be washed, and so on. Oh, there was nothing simple and homely about that household!” He sounded personally affronted.

  “When they got there, of course there was a blazing row.”

  “Hard words or flying crockery?”

  Kenny hesitated. “In a way, both,” he said slowly. “It seems to have been a funny sort of flare–up. I had two accounts of

  it – one from the girl and one from the companion. I think they are both trying to be truthful but they both seem to have been completely foxed by it. They both agree that Mrs. Cibber began it. She waited until there were three oranges and a hundredweight of priceless early Worcester dessert service on the table, and then let fly. Her theme seems to have been the impudence of Youth in casting its eye on its inheritance before Age was in its grave, and so on and so on. She then made it quite clear that they hadn't a solitary hope of getting what they wanted, and conveyed that she did not care if they slept in the street so long as her precious furniture was safely housed. There's no doubt about it that she was very aggravating and unfair.”

  “Unfair?”

  “Ungenerous. After all she knew the man quite well. He used to go and stay with her by himself when he was a little boy.” Kenny returned to his notes.

  “Woodruff then lost his temper in his own way which, if the exhibition he gave in the early hours of this morning is typical, is impressive. He goes white instead of red, says practically nothing, but looks as if he's about to `incandesce` – if I make myself plain.”

  “Entirely.�
� Mr. Campion was deeply interested. This new and human Kenny was an experience. “I take it he then fished out a gun and shot her?”

  “Lord, no! If he had, he'd have a chance at least of Broadmoor. No. He just got up and asked her if she had any of his things, because if so he'd take them and not inconvenience her with them any longer. It appears that when he was in the hospital some of his gear had been sent to her, as his next of kin. She said yes, she had, and it was waiting for him in the boot cupboard. The old companion, Miss Smith, was sent trotting out to fetch it and came staggering in with an old officer's hold–all, bursted at the sides and filthy. Mrs. Cibber told her nephew to open it and see if she'd robbed him, and he did as he was told. Of course, one of the first things he saw among the ragged bush shirts and old photographs was a revolver and a clip of ammunition.” He paused and shook his head.