“That letter first set me thinking,” explained Slade. “There was no envelope, and, as far as I could see, there was no special reason why that letter should be in his wallet, when all his others were in the rack. Seems it was meant for us to see. Now, the same prominence was given to ‘Mrs Kemp’s’ card. There was a point of coincidence—and a strange one. That, naturally, set me thinking. Mrs Kemp was seen to leave—in fact, considering the nature of her business at No. 37, she was not at all careful. It was almost as though she wanted to be seen—and by the surest person to remember, a policeman. That was another point. If we assumed Heylyn committed suicide, well and good; then Mrs Kemp didn’t matter. But if we suspected murder, very well, there was Mrs Kemp to hunt for. That was ingenious; and it revealed a careful and intelligent brain at work. But there was the question of the way Heylyn had been murdered.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Jarrod. “That’s what wants explaining.”
“Yet it was simple—really. It meant that Heylyn must have voluntarily opened his mouth. Now, what does a doctor generally want you to open your mouth for? To see your tongue! And, naturally, the best place would be under the light…All this meant that a doctor had called on Heylyn that evening, and while pretending to look at his tongue had shoved that automatic in his mouth and pulled the trigger. A pretty grisly way of murdering an old man, and it wanted nerve. But Bell was in desperate straits. He’d been gambling, and had borrowed money from Hardstein, a tough nut, Jarrod, who generally wants overweight with his pound of flesh. The clue of the blotter put me on to Hardstein, and he himself told me the rest. Bell was due to pay him four thousand five hundred pounds, with interest, by first post today. That meant Bell had had to catch the last post yesterday. So he addressed an envelope in the drawing-room, enclosing the money and a note addressed from his home. In the bureau he found the Colt. That was a snag. He had to get rid of it, so hid it in the chimney, where I found it. Then he relocked the bureau and the safe, placed the keys in the old man’s pocket, and slipped that letter announcing his calling today into the wallet.
“He must have had some cards printed for that Mrs Kemp trick. Anyway, he left one on the table. And he’d brought a fur coat and a woman’s hat in a large attaché-case. These he donned putting his own things in the case. If you follow his movements closely you’ll probably find out he hailed a taxi at the top of Elmwood Avenue, after posting the letter to Hardstein; and, of course, he carried off the rest of what he had found in the safe.
“It’s plain,” continued the Yard man, “that Bell had thought out the crime some days before, as he must have watched to see when Tadman passed the house on his beat. That was a neat point. In fact, the whole crime was neatly planned—it was so compact it deserved to succeed—well, almost! Another clever thing to remember was the light. If inadvertently that had been switched out the whole show would have been given away, because Heylyn was lying under the lamp.
“I suppose he got the idea when visiting the old man. He doubtless knew his reputation, and chanced getting what he wanted in Treasury notes from the safe. Yes, I think ‘neat’ is the right word, considering what a gamble it was actually.”
There was a short silence.
“But how did you really establish that Mrs Kemp was a fiction?” asked Jarrod.
“I got some one on the phone to look up Cadogan Park in a London directory, and they couldn’t find it…Oh yes, Jarrod,” Slade added quickly, “and don’t forget he was careful to file off the number of that automatic—another little indication of care. But, of all his preparations, I hand him the palm for turning up in that self-assured way this morning, to see how things were shaping. That was extra smart. A clever actor, too. Had he come half an hour sooner I doubt whether I should have suspected him—”
But all Jarrod said to that was “Bosh!”
Fingerprints
Freeman Wills Crofts
Freeman Wills Crofts (1879–1957) was an Irish railway engineer who tried writing a detective story while recovering from illness. The resulting book, The Cask (1920), was an admirably composed mystery, in which Inspector Burnley solves a baffling murder case through sheer diligence. Crofts’ descriptions of meticulous police work became his hallmark, and his admirers included T.S. Eliot and Raymond Chandler.
Crofts’ fifth novel, Inspector French’s Greatest Case (1924) introduced another Scotland Yard man, the affable but relentless Joseph French. In an essay published in 1935, Crofts said that he gave French “an ordinary, humdrum character” partly because it was a new departure, and more importantly because “striking characteristics, consistently depicted, are very hard to do.” With rare honesty, he admitted that he “knew nothing about Scotland Yard or the C.I.D”, but reasoned that most of his readers would be in the same boat. Crofts’ skill lay in conveying at least an impression of authenticity in his accounts of French’s investigations. This is a rather overlooked story from late in French’s career, first published in the Evening Standard in 1952.
***
Fingerprints! Few crime fans would believe that after all these years of court annals and detective fiction any self-respecting criminal should allow himself to be rapped by fingerprints. Yet it was through two oversights on this very matter that Jim Crouch gave himself away when he murdered his uncle, Nicolas Jacobs. First, he left proof that the elaborate suicide he had staged was no suicide at all, but wilful murder; second, that he himself was the murderer. It happened like this.
Crouch was a writer, precariously supporting himself on free lance journalism while slowly developing the masterpiece which was to bring him fame and fortune. It had been a hard struggle from the start, but now was harder than ever. Recently he had fallen for Elsie Lee and the courtship took money. It was when for the sake of a little ready cash the loss of Elsie seemed inevitable, that his thoughts turned, not for the first time, to his somewhat miserly uncle.
Nicolas Jacobs lived alone in a tiny cottage in the suburbs. A charlady came in morning and evening to make breakfast and supper and look after the house, and he went out each day for dinner. He was not rich, though well enough off in a small way. His nephew, Crouch, was his only near relative and, as he had more than once told him, would be his heir. He was old, depressed, and in poor health, and recently had gone rather rapidly downhill.
Crouch could not help dwelling on these facts, as well as on some others which seemed relevant. He also lived alone. He had a small ground floor flat, in a quiet neighbourhood. It had the advantage to anyone at odds with the law, that after dark a secret approach was possible via the window.
For some time Crouch fought the hideous thoughts which were now filling his mind, but gradually his resistance weakened. At last a more than usually unhappy interview with Elsie tipped the scale. When it became a choice between Elsie and Jacobs, the old man’s doom was sealed.
Crouch had often stayed with his uncle and knew every detail about the old man’s habits and the house itself. This enabled him to devise a plan which he felt would be adequate while entirely safe. No weapon or apparatus would be required save a pair of rubber gloves, a bottle of aspirins, a small pestle and mortar and a short glass rod, and these he unobtrusively acquired. All other essentials were already in the house.
Having screwed his courage to the sticking point, Crouch on the pre-determined evening left his flat between eight and nine. He had fitted his reading lamp with a switch on a flex, and this he pushed out through the open window. Turning off the light lest he should be seen from the road, he dropped out between the drawn curtains. Then from outside he switched the light on again. Should he be asked how be spent the evening he would say working in his flat. He could not therefore risk a report that the room was in darkness.
Normally he wore a hat and walked briskly, but now with a cap low over his eyes and a muffler high about his neck, he slouched. The evening was dark and as far as possible he avoided the street lamps. It was about a
mile to his uncle’s house. He reached it without incident and, he felt sure, unobserved. Jacobs opened the door.
“Why, it’s Nephew Jim,” he exclaimed. “And what might you be wanting at this hour of the evening? Well, come along in anyhow.”
Crouch left his coat in the hall and followed the old man to the sitting-room. They sat down and chatted desultorily for a few moments, then Jacobs went on: “Well, I don’t suppose you came here to talk about the weather and my health. What’s the trouble?”
This was an opening and Crouch seized it. “You’re right, uncle,” he answered, “and I’m afraid you won’t be very pleased when I tell you. But the fact is I’m absolutely stuck for a few pounds,” and he went on to paint a distressing picture of the inadequacies of free lance journalism. His request was for a small advance on his legacy. Grimly he told himself that if his uncle did not agree, he would have the whole by another method.
His uncle refused. Point blank and with a show of indignation at the demand. Crouch pleaded, but when he saw it was hopeless, he gave up. The die was cast.
“Oh well,” he said, rising, “I’ll manage somehow. Don’t trouble to get up, uncle. I’ll let myself out.”
This was an essential of his scheme. If Jacobs accompanied him to the door the affair would be off for that evening. But the old man didn’t move. He said good night and Crouch left the room, closing the door behind him.
In the hall Crouch put on his rubber gloves and hid his coat and cap under a table. Then he stepped noisily to the door, opened it, and remaining himself inside, banged it shut.
He listened. All was still in the sitting-room. Now for it! Stealthily he crept upstairs. In a moment he was in his uncle’s room. There on the table by the bed were his two essentials: the thermos of hot milk which the charlady left up each night and which the old man drank after getting into bed, and his bottle of sleeping pills. On a recent visit, pleading inky fingers from a leaking pen, Crouch had gone to the bathroom for a wash, and had then found that the bottle was nearly full.
Now he took the pills and the thermos to the bathroom. He emptied the pills into his mortar and replaced them with an equal number of aspirin tablets. These looked so similar that even if Jacobs were to take one, he would not notice any difference. Having ground up the pills, Crouch emptied the powder into the thermos, stirring it with his glass rod. He had read that rubber gloves left prints which though they would not identify the wearer, would show that some unauthorised person had been present. He therefore carefully wiped both thermos and bottle before replacing them by Jacobs’ bed. Having looked round to make sure that he had left no other traces, he tiptoed into a spare room and waited.
Time passed slowly, but his uncle went to bed early and soon he heard him come upstairs. Crouch could see across the passage the light under his door. There were movements in the room and at last he heard the bed creak. Then there was silence, but the light remained on.
Two hours, Crouch had decided, must pass before he attempted any research. Again the time seemed long, but at last it passed. He crept across the passage and softly opened Jacobs’ door. A glance showed that the milk had been poured out and drunk. His eyes passed on to the bed. His uncle was lying on his back, very still. He went closer. Yes, there was no doubt of it. He was dead.
Though Crouch’s heart was beating as if to suffocate him, he forced himself to act coolly. Only one thing remained to be done. Picking up the pill bottle, he emptied the aspirin tablets back into their original bottle and replaced this in his pocket. Lest he should have smudged Jacobs’ prints, he once more wiped the pill bottle and lid clean, and pressed the dead man’s fingers on both. Then he placed them on the table where Jacobs would have put them down after emptying the contents into his milk. Looking round as before to make sure he had forgotten nothing, he went downstairs. He could see into the sitting-room through the open door, and on a sudden impulse went in to satisfy himself that here also he had left no traces. Feeling with a kind of sick relief that the worst was over, he put on his coat and cap and let himself out. On the way home he took off his rubber gloves and threw them, together with the bottle of aspirins, pestle, mortar and glass rod, into the canal. A few minutes later he was back in his flat with the flex disconnected from the lamp.
He was well satisfied with what he had done. Whoever found Jacobs would necessarily conclude that he had committed suicide. His bottle of sleeping pills was open and empty, and an analysis of the dregs of the milk would show where the pills had gone. The pill bottle, thermos and glass bore the old man’s prints and no others. He himself, having worn gloves, could have made no prints, in fact, he had left no traces of any kind. There was indeed no evidence to suggest that any stranger had been in the house. Therefore nothing but suicide was possible, and this could be accounted for by Jacobs’ depression and poor health. Finally, the articles he had himself used were too small to be recoverable from the canal, and even if they were fished up, no connection with himself could be proved. He was in fact absolutely and completely safe.
***
Through circumstances which need not be detailed here, it happened that Superintendent French of Scotland Yard was at the local police headquarters when Inspector Ransome, who investigated the death, was reporting. The inspector had been called early that morning to the house by the charlady, Mrs Crossley. She had, she explained, taken up Jacobs’ morning tea and had found him dead. In reply to questions she had stated that on the previous evening he had seemed perfectly normal. After supper he had gone to his sitting-room, where they had discussed certain household matters. He had been neither excited nor more than ordinarily depressed. She had heated his milk and left it in his bedroom as usual, and had gone home. Ransome had examined the room and detailed what he had found.
As he finished, his superintendent was called away. French turned to him. “You’ve done a lot for me, Ransome, and I’d like to help you in return. Be careful you don’t make a mistake. You’ve been speaking of suicide, but what you’ve described is murder.”
Ransome stared, speechless.
“Think it out,” French went on, then as Ransome still seemed overwhelmed, he added: “I’ll give you a hint. The fingerprints—on the thermos.”
“There were no prints on the thermos, sir: I mean, except Jacobs’.”
“Exactly. Why weren’t there?”
Ransome smote his thigh, swore and apologised. “I missed that, sir. Mrs Crossley’d handled it and her dabs should have been there! Since they’re not, they’ve been rubbed off!”
“That’s it,” said French. “Now get back and go over that house with a comb. If you’re lucky you may find some other traces.”
Ransome did. On the handles of the sitting-room door were prints belonging neither to the deceased nor Mrs Crossley, though both had fingered them on the previous evening. No one had called while Mrs Crossley had been there, therefore the visit had been paid after she left. When it was learnt that Crouch was Jacobs’ heir and that he was in low water, his prints were secretly obtained…His strenuous denial that he had left his room, and collapse when confronted with proof to the contrary, sealed his fate.
Remember to Ring Twice
E.C.R. Lorac
Edith Caroline Rivett (1884–1959), or Carol Rivett as she was usually called, was born in Hendon and educated in London. Her first crime novel was The Murder in the Burrows (1931), and introduced her series detective Inspector Macdonald; it appeared under the pen-name E.C.R. Lorac, by which she ultimately became best known. From 1936, she also wrote another long series of books, this time featuring a cop called Julian Rivers, as Carol Carnac.
Macdonald is a quiet but persistent detective, cut from much the same cloth as Freeman Wills Crofts’ Inspector French, although unlike French (but like his creator) he is unmarried. He is a “London Scot”, who joined the Metropolitan Police after serving in the First World War. Many of his early cases are
set in the capital, but in later years, Lorac made increasing use of Lunedale in north west England as a setting for his adventures. She was primarily a novelist; here is one of her few short stories, which first appeared in the Evening Standard in 1950.
***
When PC Tom Brandon told his friends that he wanted to get into the CID, they laughed at him.
Tom rather enjoyed the humdrum of patrol duty in the East End of London, but because he came from the Norfolk Broads he spent his free time sailing below the Pool of London. After sailing, he often turned into one of the riverside pubs, and sat over a pint.
He had two reasons for sitting in pubs: one was to get accustomed to the sound of East End cockney, which he found hard to understand at first; the other was to study human nature.
One March evening he sat in the bar of The Jolly Sailor in the Isle of Dogs. He heard the publican say: “Evening, Mr Copland,” and then a husky voice said:
“Why, Joe Copland, you’re the very bloke I ’oped to see. The same again twice, chum.”
***
Copland and his friend took their drinks.
“Cheers, Joe! ’Ow’s your job?”
“Lousy, Charlie. I’m ruddy well browned off with it.”
“Arr…I reckoned it wasn’t your job, Joe. Not good enough. Now I got a little idea. You know old ’Enery ’Iggs, ’im with the little baccy and newspaper shop along the road?”
“You bet I do, and a nice little business that is too, Charlie. A gold mine, not half. I wouldn’t mind that business myself.”
“Arr…you’re telling me,” wheezed Charlie. “Now strictly between you and me, ’Iggs is thinking of retiring, and we’ve been into it together.
“My friend Bert Williams wants to come in on it, but we needs a spot more capital. Now I says to Bert, wot about putting in Joe Copland as manager? There’d be a nice little flat for you and Clarrie over the shop, Joe.
The Long Arm of the Law Page 11
