The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  “Did his wife tell you anything?”

  “Nothing directly. She’s very attractive. No children and no sign of trouble. Husband happy at the studio. On good terms with his boss. Hart, she confided, had even condescended to come to tea once. A tremendous honour, I gathered. She’s very distraught, of course, but convinced that her husband’s alive and kicking somewhere.”

  “But the thing’s impossible,” I cried. “The thing’s positively eerie. He’s simply vanished into thin air.”

  “That’s certainly what it seems like, but things you see, as Gilbert once observed, are not always what they seem.”

  He yawned, and then went on:

  “Would you like to be in at the death?”

  I started.

  “Of course. Is it a matter of death, do you think?”

  “I don’t think. I’m sure. There’s been a particularly heartless murder; but murder will always out. It’s a thing that – given a little intelligence on the other side – is bound to be discovered. Take this case. There aren’t any clues. What then? Why, the very lack of them is significant. That was what got me started on the right track. Lack of clues plus logic plus (possibly) a little luck. That was the formula. And in an hour the whole mystery will be exploded. It seems rather a shame, because it was all very clever and artistic.”

  “It baffled me anyhow,” I said.

  “It baffled me for nearly twelve hours. I got quite puzzled, until I began to think of human nature. Then everything was moderately simple.”

  With that he looked at his watch.

  “Well,” he said, “if you want to be in at the death, follow me, O fourth-cousin-twice-removed.”

  And he led the way to a waiting police car.

  He was very quiet during the journey, and my feeble attempts to make conversation soon fizzled out. Luckily, it was not a long ride. We soon stopped at a large detached house on the outskirts of the city. On the pavement were a couple of constables. After a whispered consultation, they took up their positions just inside the gate.

  “Do you know who lives here?” said Garland.

  “No.”

  “The widow of the murdered man.”

  Our ring was answered by a trim maid.

  “Tell your mistress,” he said, “that the detective’s back again and wants to see her.”

  The maid returned in a second and we were ushered into a sitting-room. In a corner was seated an attractive woman of about thirty. She was very pale, and obviously stricken with grief, and, when she saw us, she seemed involuntarily to shrink back from us. I could sympathise with her, and I was about to murmur my condolences when my companion spoke.

  I had never heard him use such a tone before, and I was not surprised that he was the terror of criminals.

  “Excuse the intrusion,” he rapped out. “But I wanted to talk to Mr Hart in your presence. I asked him to come here at seven. It’s just that now.”

  At these words she turned so pale that I thought she was going to faint. She did not say a word, but motioned to us to sit down, and at that moment Hart came in. The maid did not announce him. At any other time I should have been surprised, but now there were too many other matters of surprise for me to think of that little detail.

  He smiled at the pale woman in front of him, went over to her, and stood by her side.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Sorry to worry you like this,” said Garland; “but there are one or two questions I want answered, and I thought that I’d better ask them here. I like doing things on the spot.”

  At this the man went as pale as the woman.

  “Well?”

  “I wish it were,” answered the other gravely. “Now, don’t let’s beat about the bush. I’m not a fool. Why did you do it?”

  “Do what?” gasped the man.

  “And,” went on Garland, ignoring the question, “where—?”

  At this query both of them looked instinctively towards a French window leading into the garden beyond. The look was only the matter of a fraction of a second but Garland noticed it.

  “Ah! I thought so,” he said. “Well, is there any need to go on with this farce any longer?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” said the man in a self-possessed voice.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Quite.”

  “Right,” said Garland, turning to me. “Go and fetch those two policemen. There are some tools in the car. Tell them to wait for me in the garden just outside the window. Our friends here will be able to watch what they’re doing nicely.”

  I turned to the door, and at that moment the woman let forth a scream such as I never hope to hear again. The man held her in his arms and tried to soothe her, but it was too late and, do what he could, he could not stop her from sobbing out the whole miserable story. And what a miserable story it was!

  How Garland had guessed the truth I could not imagine; but he had, and now that his theories were vindicated, he looked as miserable as the two unfortunates he had trapped.

  It was the old, old story. The eternal human triangle. The murdered husband had neglected his wife. The other had consoled her. Things had got worse and worse until the husband had actually begun to ill-treat his wife. Then they resolved to get rid of him. They had – but the sequel can best be told in Garland’s words.

  The last I saw of those two unfortunate creatures caught up in the web of their own crime was as they were led out by the two policemen. They had no eyes except for each other, and each was trying to help the other. It was pitiful. There was true love there, if there had ever been true love in the world. And they were going inevitably to the scaffold!

  The body, of course, was buried in the front garden. When Garland had finished all the unpleasant formalities connected with the arrests and the digging up of the body, he came round to the office.

  “Life’s a rum business,” he said, flinging himself into a chair. “Those two would have made a model married couple. As two sides of a human triangle, they were nothing less than fiends.”

  “So I see; but when did you begin to guess? I’m still as baffled as ever I was.”

  “I was at sea at first. I almost got to the point of thinking something supernatural had happened, and that’s no way for a detective to think. It was obvious that there must be some material explanation of the entire disappearance of a man who, if one’s ears are to be trusted, was either unconscious or dead. We examined the room pretty thoroughly. It was as solid as a coffin.”

  I shuddered.

  “Yes. But that’s just what it wasn’t. No body could possibly have been taken out of that room without the knowledge of Hart, and I was soon convinced that no body could have been taken out of the building at all. The commissionaire’s evidence was good enough, apart from anything else. And there were other people about. No, the thing was impossible. It couldn’t have happened.”

  “But it did.”

  “I know it did, but not there. All that took place was that an idea that it happened there was projected to us through one of our senses. A clever fellow, Hart, to contrive that touch. He knew it was impossible to hide a murder altogether. So he made it appear that the murder should take place at a spot which would baffle everyone. The studio was only a red herring. No body had left the building. There was no body in it. What, then? There never was a body there at all.”

  I nodded.

  “But,” I objected, “What about his voice over the wireless?”

  “Yes. That was a good bit of psychology, too. I suppose you’ve heard the voices of a good many announcers in your time. Very Oxford, aren’t they? And, even if you knew the men, I bet you’d find it darned difficult to tell the difference between one and another. These two, Hart and Tremayne, used to interchange the announcing work occasionally, and I soon found that there was no one in Birchester, who could swear that there was any violent difference in their voices. Announcers are like leaders in The Times. They’re all anonymous and all alike.”r />
  “Yes, that’s all right,” I said. “Their voices when they are actually making announcements may be all alike, but what about the scream? I can’t imagine two men screaming alike.”

  “That’s all very well, but who has heard either of these two men scream? People aren’t in the habit of screaming in public. The only real evidence that that scream came from the dead man was the evidence of his wife. She swore it was his scream. She certainly ought to know, if anyone could, but I doubt if even many wives have heard their husbands scream. That was what first aroused my suspicions. She was so sure that it was his scream. And I wondered if it was possible to be as sure as that.”

  “I see.”

  “So that the only evidence that the voice over the wireless was actually his was provided by the wife and his chief. I was now convinced that Tremayne had never been to the studio at all, and things began to narrow down very considerably.”

  “But,” said I, “what about the commissionaire? He saw Tremayne coming in, and swore to its being him.”

  “Pardon me. He swore to seeing a man come in with a limp, with Tremayne’s coat, and so on, but he only thought that it was Tremayne. What easier disguise could there be? A limp, glasses, coat collar turned up. Good God! The thing leaps at one. Someone had impersonated Tremayne for reasons of his own. Only one man could have done it. That was Hart.”

  “But he was in his office all day. That was corroborated.”

  “Oh, no. It was proved that he came in early and was not seen to leave again. That was all. Did you notice, by the way, that there was a telephone by Jones’ cubbyhutch in the front hall?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there was. What could be easier than for Hart to arrange for a call to be put through at a definite time, say by an accomplice, say by the wife in the case, and to slip out while Jones was answering it? That is precisely what did happen. I found out that there had been an exasperating wrong number just before six, and, mark you, Hart had given orders that he was not to be disturbed between 5.30 and 6.30. He was working behind closed doors then, too. Are you beginning to see now?”

  “Yes.”

  “He left the building then, put on Tremayne’s hat and coat, which he had secreted round the corner, and then came in again to act his little piece. The murder had been done already. The body was buried in the garden there. You see, if the dead man were missed from his home, suspicion was bound to fall on his wife. If he were to disappear from the studio, on whom could suspicion fall?”

  “Dashed clever!”

  “It was. When Hart returned he did that clever little piece of acting, and then reappeared in his own fair form. It might have succeeded, you know. No one would have thought of looking at his house for a crime that was obviously committed a mile away. Well, I’ve no doubt, from the sound of him, that the husband deserved all he got. But I’m afraid they’ll both hang, poor devils. They found the body all right. Sack over the head and the head battered in terribly. Horrible mess! I found that Tremayne was away for the night that night. He was at Stanport on business. The wife sent him an urgent telegram to come back by a particular train, and they struck him down at the very second he entered his house. The maid, I need hardly add, had a nice night off. Terrible! Terrible!”

  That should have been the end of the story but it wasn’t.

  I was sitting in my office the next afternoon when a man called on what he announced to be very important business.

  He was shown in. He was about thirty-five, well dressed, and of pleasant appearance – until you looked at his eyes, and they were about the most evil that I had ever seen in a human face.

  “Your name, sir?” I asked.

  “Mr Tremayne. Charles Tremayne,” he said, giving the name of the murdered man.

  “Please, don’t joke on unpleasant subjects,” I said.

  “I was never more serious in my life,” he went on. “I’ve just been reading your excellent account of the Wireless Murder. I can tell you something else now. Charles Tremayne was not murdered at all. Here he is. I am he.”

  I simply gaped at him.

  “Yes,” he said, with an evil smile. “I had an idea that those two were anxious to get rid of me, but I honestly never thought that they were going to do it so crudely as that. When I went to Stanport that day, I had decided never to return. I saw a lawyer there to arrange for a divorce, and I had asked him to call on my wife that night and lay the situation before her. When I got her telegram I asked him to get the train she mentioned, so as to let her know why I was not returning. In fact, he kept my appointment. And, moreover, he was bearing the news that my wife would soon be free and that the two turtle doves would be free to be married. I’m very much afraid it was the lawyer who was killed in my place. He was about my build and they must have got the sack over him in the dark. Just like that scene from Rigoletto.”

  “Good Heavens!” I gasped. “What irony! He was actually carrying those two the message that they would be free to marry, and they killed him. And now they will both have to die.”

  “Yes,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s all very amusing, isn’t it?”

  And that was the last I saw of a very unpleasant gentleman. He was quite right. They had murdered the wrong man, and within a month they were both hanged for their crime. I wonder if they obtained any grain of consolation from the fact that “in death they were not divided”?

  For the Benefit of Mr Means

  CHRISTINE MATTHEWS

  Christine Matthews is the partner of Robert Randisi, who also appears in this anthology. Together they write the mysteries about book-dealer sleuths Gil and Claire Hunt that began with Murder is the Deal of the Day (1999). Her short stories have been appearing since 1989 and many will be found in the collection Gentle Insanities and Other States of Mind (2001), a title that seems equally suitable to describe the Roaring Twenties.

  Devotees of cinema history will know well the cause célèbre of 1921 when the popular film star, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, was accused of raping and causing the death of the young actress Virginia Rappé. He had done no such thing and was found not guilty, but the case had ruined his career and he was blacklisted by Hollywood. He later directed films, but had turned to drink and died at the age of only 46 from heart failure – Buster Keaton said it was of a broken heart. In the following story we see the real Roscoe.

  YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED

  TO JOIN LILY ARMSTRONG-SMITH

  IN CELEBRATING HER TWENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY

  ON THE FOURTH OF SEPTEMBER

  ONE THOUSAND NINE HUNDRED and

  TWENTY SEVEN

  EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

  AT HER BENTON COVE ESTATE

  NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND

  gifts required

  “If I told ya once, I musta told ya fifty times – you’ll be swell.”

  Irma bit her red fingernail. “But I don’t know all the words. Not like Peggy does.”

  “If ya get into trouble, just give us a nod and we’ll cover ya.”

  Cal turned toward Johnny Long and nodded a signal. Johnny reached up to straighten his bow tie and then played the first six notes solo before the rest of the band joined in.

  Cal shoved Irma toward the microphone. “Just remember – smile!”

  It was the caliber of people in the mansion that got the butterflies flapping in her stomach, not being up there on stage. She’d been singing most of her eighteen years . . . that was the easy part. And what God had cheated her out of in talent, He’d made up for by loading up the charm.

  She sang the first three lines of the song and then hesitated for a moment. Raising her eyebrows and then her small hand, she waved as Harold Lloyd entered the room. Now, why had she done that? Like she knew the man, geepers! But the guy was a real gentleman and bowed slightly, even waved back before continuing through the crowd. “The man I love . . .” Piece of cake, she thought. If I can just keep from going gaga every time one of them hot shots looks at me, I’ll be fine.
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  “There’s three of them. All perfectly matched. I heard Lillian had those chandeliers made in France. Mustn’t be outdone by the Astors!”

  The woman’s companion looked up at the pale lavender ceiling, then inspected the crystal lights evenly spaced across the expanse of the great room.

  “You can bet your Aunt Sally they cost more than Lillian’s dearly departed father plus his father made in their entire lifetimes – even throwing in that haberdashery her brother runs up in Providence,” he said.

  “And just how would you know that, if I may ask?” she asked.

  “I was her accountant years ago.”

  “Do I detect a tiny smidge of bitterness in your tone?”

  He laughed.

  A man with a grudge. The evening was going to be fun! “And now?” She leaned in closer. “You work for her in some other capacity?”

  “No, she has an entire office – hand picked – just to handle her affairs.” More bitterness. “Men highly qualified to run at the drop of her imported hat.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. After composing herself, Zelda Fitzgerald pressed on. “Twice divorced! That’s our Lily. I bet that would require more than one lawyer indeed.”

  He gulped down his martini. “She’s become quite an expert at the fine art of matrimony but when it comes to divorce, Madam Curie couldn’t keep up!”

  “Will you look at that carpet! Really look at it!” the newcomer said loudly as he interrupted the two guests. “Hand stitched. Custom made! Exquisite. Simply exquisite.”

  Before Zelda could get rid of the obnoxious intruder, her accountant friend walked away.

  “Well?” Dorothy exhaled the word, slowly. Smoke from her second cigarette of the evening hung above her head in a halo. “Where is our birthday girl? Is she decent yet?”

  “If she were, she wouldn’t be giving herself another birthday party.”