The Long Arm of the Law

by Martin Edwards

  We imagine a little gasp as the gun, with the garter looped round one of the triggers, was held before Molly’s eyes.

  “You swung it on the coroner that the Marquis looped the garter round the trigger—then put the two barrels in his mouth—like this—then put his foot in the loop—like this—and blew his own head off.”

  “He did—he did I tell you!! I saw him.”

  “I know you said you saw him. Now I’m going to show you something…Open the window, Norris.” He broke the gun, took a single cartridge from his pocket and inserted it. “Now hold the gun, Norris. Point it high. Now—watch this, Molly. Here’s the Marquis putting his foot through the loop. See?”

  Tarrant pulled the garter. There came a report as the gun discharged itself harmlessly through the open window. Then Tarrant swung the gun round and held the muzzle of the twin barrels close under the nose of the Marchioness of Roucester and Jarrow.

  “Keep still—I’m not going to hurt you. Smell those barrels. Which one has just carried the charge? The right barrel! Go on—smell it! Put your finger in and you’ll find it’s warm—and dirty.”

  “What’re you doing to me? Take that gun away!”

  “The garter fired the right barrel,” said Tarrant. “But it was proved by the position of the wound that the Marquis was killed by the left barrel.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then I’ll tell you. You killed that woman yourself. Then by some trick of your own you got the Marquis to put the barrel in his own mouth as if he were going to shoot himself. But it was you who pressed the trigger and killed him. And when he was dead you wiped the triggers for fingerprints and then you took the garter from the dead man’s leg and looped it round the wrong trigger. And then you—”

  “Oh, all right! I did it for my kid’s sake—God help me! And now it’s all for nothing; I don’t care what happens to me.”

  They arrested her and took her away. And then a rather dreadful little thing happened—while they were charging her.

  “Name?” asked the Charge-Sergeant.

  “No good asking me,” said Molly. “Ask this gentleman here—he knows all about the law. I was Molly Webster before that dirty little skunk married me.”

  “The name is Molly Stranack, Marchioness of Roucester and Jarrow,” said Tarrant, and then: “I asked you to look at the certificates, Lady Roucester. Perhaps you’d like to look at them now. Date of marriage between Phyllis Margaret and Stranack, the Marquis—June 30th, 1900. Death of Marthe Celeste Jan. 22nd, 1901. Marthe being alive at the time, the marriage to Phyllis Margaret was not a marriage at all. She could have prosecuted the Marquis for bigamy. But she couldn’t have shaken your title—or your son’s succession.”

  “Then, after all, there was no need to—”

  “None whatever—my lady,” said Tarrant and then Molly burst into tears, probably the first she had shed since babyhood. Tarrant, he said afterwards, could not stand the sight of her grief and bolted back to his office where Norris was waiting for him—a flushed and very nearly indignant young Norris.

  “I say, sir! That garter—in the photo of the gun taken at the time it’s looped round the left trigger. Look here!”

  “Is it!” said Tarrant. “Then it must be my fault. I remember unfastening it in the train going down. I must have put it back on the wrong trigger. Very careless of me, Norris. Always replace things exactly as you find them. But, after all, it doesn’t alter the fact that she murdered her husband and that woman. And I’m afraid she’ll be hanged.”

  But here Tarrant was wrong. Molly, the indisputably genuine Marchioness, was also the hereditary gamine who knew a trick or two for evading the vigilance of the cops. She had smuggled in a phial of medinal tablets, harmless enough if taken one at a time but fatal if swallowed en masse.

  The Case of Jacob Heylyn

  Leonard R. Gribble

  Leonard Reginald Gribble (1908–1985) was, like several of the contributors to this volume, such a prolific writer that he found it necessary to adopt numerous aliases, of which the best known was Leo Grex. In addition to his novels, he produced a long list of books about real life criminal cases; readable and straightforward, they focused on police and judicial procedure rather than on the nuances of criminal psychology. In 1953, he became a founder member of the Crime Writers’ Association formed by John Creasey.

  Gribble’s main series detective was Anthony Slade of Scotland Yard, who appeared in books over a span of almost forty years. The publishers of The Case Book of Anthony Slade (1937) claimed (rather wildly, it must be said) that Slade “ranks side by side with Poirot, Hanaud, and Father Brown”. Gribble could not really match Agatha Christie, A.E.W. Mason or G.K. Chesterton for flair, but he was a highly professional writer who knew how to entertain his loyal readers. The most successful of the Slade novels was The Arsenal Stadium Mystery, which was filmed by Thorold Dickinson, with Leslie Banks playing Slade. The book was published in 1939, and a revised edition appeared in 1950, the year when Gribble (and Slade) returned to footballing mysteries with They Kidnapped Stanley Matthews. This short story also features Slade.

  ***

  No. 37 Elmwood Avenue was a moderate-sized detached house, stucco-fronted, with small leaded windows and an air of aloofness. A screen of unkempt conifers hid it from the gaze of passers-by, and few were they whose business led them through its black iron gate and along the moss-grown crazy path that stretched beyond.

  When Detective-Inspector Anthony Slade first saw it, on a bright April morning, a uniformed policeman stood guard by the gate.

  “Is Inspector Jarrod inside, constable? I’m from the Yard.”

  The policeman saluted smartly. “Yes, sir. Inspector Slade? He’s expecting you, sir.”

  The gate was pushed open and Slade passed through, his keen grey eyes narrowing as his gaze travelled over the drab exterior, the neglected paintwork, and the untrimmed lawns. He was about to ring when the front door swung open, and confronting him was a man with whom he had worked before.

  “Hallo, Jarrod,” said the Yard man. “Like old times, seeing you.”

  Divisional-Inspector Jarrod grunted and closed the door after the other.

  “Well, I don’t think it’ll be for long, Slade. About the plainest case of suicide I’ve struck. No real need for dragging you out.”

  Jarrod sounded as morose as ever. Slade smiled to himself as he took off his overcoat.

  “Who is he?” he asked, picking up his green leather attaché-case and following the other along the hall.

  “Old boy named Heylyn. Reputed to be bit of a miser, though I can’t vouch for that. Anyway, it’s generally accepted that he was eccentric. Well, his troubles are over. There he is.”

  Jarrod opened a door and pointed to a figure lying in the centre of what apparently had been a drawing-room and study combined. Shelves of books lined one wall, against that opposite was an oak table, and in one corner by the fireplace was an oak bureau. There were two leather-covered armchairs and one other chair in the room.

  “Bachelor, then,” commented Slade.

  “We don’t know of any family. Meet Hepple, our divisional surgeon. A comparatively new man.”

  Divisional-Surgeon Francis Hepple, a lean, lantern-jawed man, rose from one of the armchairs and offered his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, inspector,” he nodded. “I suppose Jarrod’s already told you—plain case of suicide. Clean drill through the roof of his mouth.”

  Slade bent over the body of the dead man. The mouth and chin were stained dark with blood, and there was dried blood on the under cheek and a large stain on the worn carpet. The fingers of the right hand were spread claw-like by the crooked knees. A couple of feet away from the grisly head lay an automatic.

  Slade turned his head. “Powder-marks in the mouth, doctor?” he asked Hepple.

&n
bsp; The latter, who stood legs apart leaning against the mantelpiece, nodded.

  “He must have bitten the barrel hard, for the angle is pretty low,” he explained. “Been dead about eleven or twelve hours, I should say, when I first saw him.”

  “The light was on when we found him,” added Jarrod.

  Slade looked up. The electric bowl-light was immediately over the body.

  “Queer place to shoot himself, under the light. Come to that, strange that he should have the light on at all,” he remarked.

  Jarrod shrugged, and wrinkles appeared between his pale brown eyes. “Afraid of the dark, Slade. You know what it is when you reach that pitch.”

  Slade nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose that was it.” The dead man was not a pretty sight. His thin crop of grey hair was matted with blood, and his shrunken form was hunched into an attitude almost suggestive of fear. The eyes were open, and in them was a fixed glassy stare as of surprise. The aquiline nose shone with a faint moisture, and a similar dampness covered the white tapering forehead. The clothes were old and shabby with long wear, and the heelless carpet slippers covering the feet did not conceal several holes in the dark blue socks.

  Slade rose. “Right, doctor. Clean him up; then I’ll come back.” He turned to Jarrod, who was still frowning. “Who found him?”

  “We did. But the woman who came here each day and tidied up the place couldn’t get an answer to her ring, so she came along to the station. I’ve got her in the next room. You’d better see her. Name of Carter—a widow.”

  Mrs Carter was a small, plump little body with two large staring eyes that seemed permanently to register amazement. The rather high-crowned black hat she wore revealed wisps of smoky-grey hair; her eyebrows were straight and angular, lending a somewhat comical expression to a face that was generally serious; a darkish brown coat of nondescript cut completely hid her figure; and, for the rest, heavy black brogues and black cotton gloves were the most salient features about her. When Slade and Jarrod entered the room where she sat gingerly poised on the edge of a chair she was eyeing suspiciously the bulk of the latter’s right-hand man, Sergeant Waites.

  The sergeant saluted when he saw Slade, and the Yard man nodded. “Hallo, sergeant. Keeping fit, I see.”

  “Yes, thanks, sir.” Waites threw his superior a conspiratorial glance, but Jarrod’s attention was elsewhere.

  “Mrs Carter, this is Inspector Slade of Scotland Yard. He has a few questions to ask you.”

  “Dearie me!” exclaimed the little woman. “Scotland Yard—oh, my!” She bobbed a brief curtsy.

  “Please be seated, Mrs Carter,” said the Yard man, smiling genially as the woman stood up. “Thank you. Now, you looked after this house for Mr Heylyn, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right, sir. I came ’ere ’alf-past eight each mornin’ ’cept Sundays, tidied up an’ cooked ’im somethin’ for midday.”

  “And when did you usually leave?”

  “’Bout one o’clock, after I’d washed up. Though sometimes on Saturdays I’d stop on to about two.”

  “Mr Heylyn was never out in the morning, then?”

  “Him?” She sounded surprised at the question. “Why, he never went anywhere. But, then, misers never do, do they, sir?” She looked suddenly knowing.

  Slade smiled. “So Mr Heylyn was a miser, Mrs Carter?”

  “Why, everybody knows that much, sir!” Her tone conveyed astonishment at Scotland Yard’s lack of information. “Never went anywhere, never did anything, and was allus grumbling about the cost of things. Then, too, he never let me in that room”—she pointed to the partitioning wall and shuddered visibly—“when he had that there safe open.”

  “I see. How long have you been coming here, Mrs Carter?”

  “About two years now, sir. I came soon after ’e ’ad the telephone put in. Answered an advert in the paper. But ’e was a most particular man, Mr Heylyn was. Would ’ave everything just as ’e thought, and things must be done just to the tick o’ the clock, too. Fair taskmaster in ’is own way—only I got used to ’im, of course!”

  “He never mentioned his private affairs to you? Never became confidential at all? He was a lonely man, you know.”

  The black cotton gloves were flourished disdainfully.

  “It was as much as I could get to have him say a straight ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ sir. Sometimes he was that there grumpy that I was in two minds about givin’ me notice.”

  Slade had to take his questions as answered.

  “Can you say whether Mr Heylyn has been more moody lately, Mrs Carter?”

  The little woman screwed up her face in an effort of concentration.

  “Well, p’raps he was until a few days ago, when ’e ’ad Dr Bell call,” she admitted finally.

  “So he’s been having a doctor?”

  “Dr Bell came twice, as I remember; the last time was two days ago, sir.”

  “Did Mr Heylyn have much correspondence? I mean, did many letters come for him?”

  “I don’t know, sir. The first morning post had come by the time I arrived, and he never had much second post ’cept open letters with ha’penny stamps on ’em, bills and such-like.”

  Slade asked Mrs Carter to be kind enough to wait a little while longer, and then he followed Jarrod into the hall.

  “Well?” demanded the latter.

  The Yard man shrugged. “It’s plain how the miser idea has got about, Jarrod. But it’s certainly strange that such a man should do away with himself—unless he were afraid of something. Living alone, he may have got illusions, of course. But this Dr Bell should be able to clear that much up.”

  The door of the drawing-room opened and Hepple appeared, rolling up a stained towel.

  “I’ve propped him up in one of the armchairs,” he explained brusquely.

  Slade and Jarrod re-entered the room. The washed face of the dead man was of a pale putty colour, and at the left corner of the lined mouth was a hairy wart. The bandage which held the jaw in place caused the thin lips to spread in an unpleasant pout. In a saucer on the table was a set of false teeth. Slade glanced at them. The plate of the upper row had been splintered by the bullet, and powder-marks were visible on it. Beside the saucer was a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

  “We found ’em on the floor alongside the body,” said Jarrod.

  The Yard man went through the pockets of the dead man’s clothes, and removed a pocket-wallet, some loose change, and a bunch of keys. From the wallet he extracted a letter. It was from Dr Bell, containing a brief note to the effect that the writer was sorry that he was unable to call the next morning, as arranged, but would arrive at the usual time the following morning.

  “So Bell will be along this morning,” said Slade. “That makes things easier. We’ll finish by lunch-time.”

  “Good!” said Jarrod, in the tone of one who means what he says.

  Slade crossed to a wall safe that was hidden by a thick brown curtain draping one side of the door, as though to exclude any draught. After trying several keys he found one that unlocked the metal door.

  “Why, hallo, Jarrod!” he exclaimed. “This affair’s empty.”

  “Empty?” Jarrod strode across the room and peered over the Yard man’s shoulder. “H’m! Looks as though that’s the reason for the shooting. What do you say?”

  “Maybe.” Slade’s tone was non-committal. He crossed to the bureau and unlocked the leaf. For several minutes he rummaged through the drawers and pigeon-holes. “Nothing here except this,” he said at last, holding up a bank pass-book, “but there’s not much to his credit. Fifty odd pounds, that’s all.”

  “What bank?” asked Jarrod.

  “London and Northern Counties. Be as well to get through to ’em on the phone.”

  “Right. I will.” Jarrod left the room.

  Slade straightened
his back and looked round the room. Against one side of the mantelpiece was a letter-rack. He went through its contents, finding nothing save bills and receipts. He replaced them and picked up the automatic, which had been placed on the mantelpiece, holding it by the end of the barrel. Then his eye caught something protruding from under a vase, a slip of pasteboard. He picked it up and read the inscription:

  Mrs W. N. Kemp

  34 Cadogan Park, W.2.

  He was still looking at it when Jarrod came back.

  “Manager says Heylyn hasn’t had much to his credit for over five years,” he said. “Just about that time ago he drew out quite a sum—several thousands, as a matter of fact—and some valuable securities they had held for him. Had got a sudden notion that he wanted to take care of his dibs himself. I suppose that’s when the safe was put in. Anyway, now I recall that he was registered for a gun. What’s that you’ve got? Oh, I see, that visiting-card! Yes, that’s the woman in the case, I suppose.” Jarrod laughed, but his habitual morose expression returned the next instant. “As a matter of fact, Tadman—the chap you saw at the gate—saw her leave here last night. Round about half-past nine.”

  Slade shot the other a swift glance.

  “That was about the time of the—suicide.”

  His pause before the word “suicide” was significant. The eyes of the two men met, and Jarrod scowled as he realised that for an instant the same thought had passed through the minds of both.

  “Must have been before,” he contended doggedly. “That’s obvious. You don’t go and commit suicide in front of a lady visitor—even if you’re as unsociable as Jacob Heylyn.”

  Slade stared long and hard at the unsightly face of the dead man.

  “You’re convinced it was suicide, Jarrod?” he asked softly.

  The other stared.

  “What—Why, what the dickens are you driving at, Slade?” Jarrod frowned so that his brows knit across his nose. “Of course it’s suicide! Ever known any one let somebody else stick a loaded gun into his mouth without protesting? Surely you’re not thinking that woman—what’s her name?—Mrs Kemp—wheedled him into letting her doing—that?”