Reply Paid

by H. F. Heard

  To seal the proffered contract, I said, “Ten dollars for a consultation and twenty if the decoding is immediately verifiable.”

  “That’s a lot,” he said dourly. And that just put my “dander” up.

  “Very well,” I retorted, “take your code to another expert or let it stay aching in your mind. It makes no difference to me.” That worked.

  “Not so fast. I didn’t say I wouldn’t pay.”

  “Very well,” I snapped, following up the advantage. “Time, too, is valuable. Hand me your deposit and your copy of the code. I work fast.”

  Sure enough, he laid a ten-dollar bill on my desk and a long slip of paper. My mind had need to work fast—but it didn’t. I looked up at him. He was looking at me. But, as far as I could judge, with no suspicion—no suspicion, for example, of why, when the slip of paper began to curl, I put a ruler on it to keep it flat. Now that reaction was right. I should have left it there—should have said, “This isn’t a code, surely? Perhaps it’s a message partly in invisible ink. Those little dots and flourishes may be parts of the ink which have come clear. The whole might yield to chemical treatment—but that’s not my specialty. Go to a chemist. I advise …” etc. Of course this thing could never have come out of a puzzle book. I hesitated—and compromised.

  “You know,” I said, “this isn’t a puzzle.”

  “Surely,” he replied. “There’s another quite like it on the opposite page. It’s called an Old Irish Puzzle.”

  Now that was shrewd, and could it possibly be true? A moment’s thought, a second glance at the paper, made me quite sure it couldn’t be, but then the man must be cleverer than I’d thought. Part of his tale, too, would probably be true. Where else, other than in a puzzle book, would a desert trader have come across an Ogham inscription? For that was what he was trying to make me believe it was—one of those Dark Age Irish cryptic inscriptions made by notching the edges of upright stones. They are the only inscriptions which might at all represent the “script” which edged and notched the strip of paper lying now on my desk—but another copy of which script I had seen take the shape which yielded words, words I couldn’t decode, nor could Mr. Mycroft, words which I was now sure were a matter of life and death, of killing or being killed, to all the people who happened to see them.

  “It’s a code right enough,” he said.

  Safety shouted in my ear, “Stick to it: say no!”

  “Why, look,” I said, smoothing it out. “It’s quite arbitrary. These markings are random etchings—little chance stains or at most someone cleaning the tip of a pen and trying a stroke or two to see if it has come clean.”

  “You forget what I’ve told you,” he replied. “I made this copy from the book.”

  I couldn’t resist showing my knowledge, for it seemed quite safe and it seemed also the shortest way of shutting the man up and sending him about his business, which I had certainly more than a hunch I’d be the better for knowing nothing about. I thought I could safely show I knew my business, had earned my inspection fee and that the thing he was showing me was outside my expert field.

  “The only thing this faintly resembles—” I wasn’t going to say a word about Mr. Mycroft’s Greek knowledge, “—is Irish Ogham, but I assure you this is not Ogham. Once you know the secret of that Hibernian script it isn’t really hard to read—the actual language used is generally Latin, not even Erse.”

  I was watching him; he wavered at that. He didn’t, I felt, suspect that I had any inside knowledge. He only felt that my scholarship was in danger of exposing his little protective lie about his paper’s being copied from an Ogham inscription; and, no doubt, he had seen such an inscription in some puzzle book—they are a common thing to find there—and thought that Sanderson’s code must have been so copied also. And it might have been, for Sanderson was, I knew, a queer sort of scholar, and I’ve heard that Ogham inscriptions have been found in Scotland, so his loyalty to his country might have made him tie up his secret in that form. But, I knew, it hadn’t.

  Kerson stood irresolute for a moment. I should have risen, pocketed the ten-dollar bill, handed him his paper strip, touched the desk buzzer, and stiffly bowed him out. He acted first, though. Literally, he pounced on both bill and strip and had them both in his pocket before I had time to prevent him.

  “Look here,” I said—a feeble opening I own—“look here, you can’t act like that.”

  “Good day,” was his reply, with his hand on the door.

  Suddenly I felt I just wouldn’t be treated like that. He certainly had the power to walk out of the office, to rob us if he liked; but I still, if I chose to use it, had more power than he. I could still make him come back with a word and make him make proper restitution. And what was keeping me from doing so? Only a vague uneasiness. After all, no danger lay for me in this direction? Even Mr. Mycroft had never suggested that. On the contrary, the two men had seemed in a way to like each other, and even to combine in a genial contempt for me. With all his faults, Mr. Mycroft surely wouldn’t put me in danger. With all his boring appreciation of himself for doing so, after all, he had extricated me from some danger—at least he thought so, and was coming back to prove himself right in three days’ time. No, just for his own fame he would not wish me to be imperiled.

  I said quickly, “That’s not, I repeat, an Irish Ogham inscription as you say it is. And I’ll prove my words by telling you what, in point of fact, it is.”

  He stopped. “Prove it, then,” he said.

  “First, then,” I answered, for I had stopped him from going, as I knew I could, “the form,” I stressed the word, “is not an Irish but a Greek code.” Yes, he was caught. “Now,” I said sharply, pressing the buzzer, and Miss Delamere appeared, “please hand my secretary the agreed advance fee of ten dollars. She will make out your receipt as I proceed to demonstrate what I have said.”

  He handed out the bill and as Miss Delamere withdrew he brought out also the strip of paper. I took a round ruler, wrapped the coil of paper spirally on it until the curl had completely papered the shaft. It did not fit precisely but closely enough, for, though a bit disjointed, it was quite clear that words were there when the edge jots and tittles came near enough to each other. I read off the inscription, for of course I had little difficulty in reciting it, and I must own I had a moment’s real triumph at his startled face. Indeed, he was so startled, so taken aback by my powers that it was his turn to blurt and stammer.

  “Then,” he said, “that’s the code—I mean—but what does it mean?” He was in confusion, longing to know more, and, equally, fearing to let me know something he knew. Of that I felt now quite sure.

  But all I was set on was to exploit my success and make sure he didn’t get away without paying every cent he’d promised.

  “I’ve given you the first demonstration,” I shot at him, “and certainly you have shown no sign of behaving like a gentleman. As, then, I’ve proved to you I know what I’m talking about, you can now pay in advance for the further information.” At that moment Miss Delamere swung in with the receipt, “Miss Delamere,” I said, “please receive from this gentleman, a further twenty dollars and make out another receipt.”

  She held out her hand as though this was the way we spent every afternoon, rapidly receiving ten- and twenty-dollar bills and issuing receipts. I saw she felt I was being unusually businesslike—a back-swing from an attack of nerves and sentiment, she would, I suspected, describe it to herself. But what did that matter? I was in the ascendant; both new intruder and home critic were owning that I held the initiative.

  It was rather like a hold-up, but a perfectly just one. He paid again. Miss Delamere swung out. I sat down and made a copy of the text now familiar to me. He stood looking over my shoulder as I wrote out the words: “When the flyer whose flight is not through air, sitting in his cage stretches his wing toward the left. Cloc Friar’s Heel. AP. 20111318—3.”

  “There,” I said, sitting back and looking up at him; “we are agre
ed that we have laid bare the text and this is precisely what it says?”

  “Yes,” he said doubtfully. “Yes, but what the mischief does that rigmarole possibly mean?” Then, after a pause, “Oh, heck! And it does mean, I know it does, if only I could make the damned words speak.”

  Well, it was clear that he didn’t know any more than I what the real meaning could be. And why, in the name of mystery, shouldn’t my guess be as good as anybody’s? Anyhow, I felt sure it was good enough even if Intil wouldn’t take it and Mr. Mycroft mocked it and even poor Miss Brown’s “control” sniggered at it—it was good enough for this blundering trader who, I suppose, had somehow blundered on it among Sanderson’s “effects.” Probably he’d watched the poor old fellow, trailed him even—it would be easier for him than for us or Intil. Perhaps the poor old man had slept in this man’s out-station cave and, when he’d been made a bit tipsy, had shown the secret paper, boasting that it was no use to anyone to find it for they’d never read it if they did. And certainly it kept its inner lines intact even when the outer defenses had been pierced. So I’d be giving away no real secret if I gave my own reading. If it proved a true clue, then it was “anybody’s gold”—any of these desert zanies could have it, for all I cared.

  It took me a moment to think that out—a moment I had anyhow at my disposal, for, of course, I knew already by heart the reading I was going to decode.

  “The first part is a time reference. It is a curiously obscure way of saying the time should be twenty minutes to three o’clock. That gives the time at which a certain place should be visited—the rendezvous, the tryst, the hour of meeting.” He was listening attentively. I went on. “That is made clear by the next word, a sort of signature word, as it were—the word ‘Cloc’ or ‘Clock.’ It means, ‘All that goes before refers to time. Now henceforward we shall be dealing with place.’ ‘Friar’s Heel’ has, therefore, to do, as we might expect, with a route, the route. I need hardly point out to you that the only really original routes in this country are those, not blazed but rather beaten out by the sandaled and calloused heels of the friars—the Friars Minor, the Franciscan missionaries who penetrated all the way up on foot from Mexico to San Francisco, the city of their patron saint. Once we have our main points clear, as we have,” I said with growing emphasis as I became increasingly vague as to that numeral-and-letter ending, “the rest is merely a matter of local investigation and a little elimination of the numerical notation until you obtain a reading which gives the required indications.”

  I stopped. Kerson had certainly attended carefully—well, as teachers would say. I was pretty sure he was considerably impressed. I was certain, when, after a pause, he said, “You’re sure that’s it?”

  “Well,” I countered, sitting back in my chair and trying to feel judicial, “I always say when explaining my method that there is nothing high-flown or underhand about it. It is merely an expert’s way of handling evidence. Anyone could learn it who gave the time. We specialists are simply time-savers. Time is money and we save it for you—on a percentage basis.” I smiled at my little joke. He didn’t, but listened with continued care. “Now, of course,” and here I felt I was properly protecting myself, “there’s no such thing as certainty in deduction. There’s no such thing as certainty in all science. Because there isn’t strict causality, strict necessity, anywhere that we can find—only probabilities either high or low.” Anyhow, that was true enough. Now to underline my moral. “So I can’t say, ‘This is the one and only possible interpretation.’ I can only say, ‘Here, you see, is certainly a reading which is self-consistent, which when read in this way gives sense, gives a direction.’” I stopped again. He was no longer looking at me but was staring at the floor.

  “Maybe,” he said aloud to himself. “There is that trail, I’ve heard.” Then, rousing himself and quite clearly aware that he had spoken aloud inadvertently, he added, “Well, I don’t quarrel with your method—don’t grudge you your big fee. But just for your information I’d like you to know I don’t think you’ve done the trick.”

  Naturally he was resentful at having had to pay when he didn’t want to, so I let that pass. As to his opinion of my reading, well, I knew the impression it had made on two other concerned inquirers. They’d dismissed it even more summarily. Anyhow, I was well quit of such a thorny subject. I’d had very good fortune and had survived, I suppose, very considerable risks. Two of the men on the same trail had paid me handsomely; one, I was told, had tried to put me out of the way; but now that he had failed I was safe. Mr. Mycroft was on his trail in town—and I suppose I must look upon my repayment to Mr. Mycroft of his original payment to me as a fee for his present services. If, after all, Intil was not in town, but had gone back into the desert, then this my latest client would track him there.

  It looked as though all the lines were neatly canceling each other out. The way things had resulted was remarkably in my favor. I rose. “Then the matter must stand until you have proved out my deduction.” I felt quite safe and certain that this client would never darken my door again.

  “All right,” he said absently, and, still absorbed in his own notions, he slouched out of the office. Yes, the interview satisfied me. I felt that I had won back to my natural position and in that position had carried off things in a way which was professionally creditable and which closed the whole question. I had been a good businessman dealing with difficult clients, sending them off when things might have become ugly and retaining very adequate fees.

  I buzzed for Miss Delamere. Yes, she too agreed with my judgment. I could see it. She even removed the semaphore cigarette so she didn’t have to speak out of the other corner of her mouth, as she handed me the letters for signing and asked whether I would approve some small immaterial changes she had made in a few of them. Usually I don’t like to have my style modified. “The style is the man,” and if wave and curl are admired in hair, why not a few convolutions in composition? Of course style can be too “kinky,” like some hair, and then—as we were after the Euphuists—one may be glad of a “de-kinking” and everything brushed back, slick and smooth. But that’s only one style. My style, like my hair, has a distinct and I believe, a becoming natural wave. Miss Delamere had adopted the patent-leather poll; her hair was a tight glossy mat. So I suppose she was all in favor of tight-cut sentences. What made me realize that she saw I had been behaving “adequately” (it was her highest word of praise because it was so meiosic; so, though long, it had always to be used and, of course, telescoped into “adqualy”) was the fact that she had actually approved of several parenthetic clauses which, on ordinary days, she certainly would have cut to pieces and left them, instead of a sinuous slope of style, a series of little jolting steps.

  The day, then, ended well and the next flowed as easily. The rapids, I believed, were past and quiet stretches lay ahead. Even Mr. Mycroft’s visit I looked forward to with a conviction that it would simply close, safely and fast, an incident which, incidentally, might never have been quite so melodramatic as he assumed. After all, I believed what I’d said to Kerson: Every mystery is capable of several interpretations. Indeed, I often think of writing myself a detective mystery wherein, starting with the conventional corpse, the stage-property well-stabbed body, it is “proved” that no less than three different people did it and also that it was a suicide or at least a felo de se. Yes, my spirits were good; my heart where it ought to be, not in my boots or my mouth but safely locked in my own breast doing its quiet business. My head was remarkably clear.

  Chapter X

  On the morning of the fourth day I, then, gave my orders briskly. “We’ll go through the mail,” I said, “and get it settled. When Mr. Mycroft calls, send him in.” And we had everything practically in order when the doorbell of the outer office sounded. Miss Delamere swept out like a well-shaped wave—not a billow, still less a breaker, a neat swell—and swept back again with, in her ripple, like a large piece of flotsam, Mr. Mycroft. And he grounded down on the sh
ingle of my foreshore in perfect character.

  “It turned out exactly as I calculated,” was his opening, which I might have written out for him and handed to him to read as he entered. But I wasn’t to be ruffled. One reaction only did I allow myself, and it was, I felt, a legitimate one. If he knew everything, or, poor, dear old man, enjoyed thinking that he did, why then, in the first case (as he would say, ticking off the points on his long fingers and keeping a stern eye on one for fear of inattention), there was no need to tell him of my visitor of two days ago, or, in the second, it would be unkind.

  “I’m glad,” I said with attentive interest.

  “You have reason to be,” was, of course, his counter. “Otherwise you’d have had to come into court to enforce what you rightly said we should see to, proper care for the public safety.” He was certainly going to start on my patience early. But I was resolved not to interrupt but to get through with it all and have it over in one sitting, as at the dentist’s.

  “Your supposition about the envelopes was, I suppose, correct?”

  “You could hardly have any doubt about that. The proof I had to bring you was in two further parts. It is now complete. I will not detain you a moment more than can be helped. I am sure you will see the significance of the brief message I have come to bring you. I found the small hotel where Intil was living. He was so sure of his method (and he might well be) that he didn’t trouble to disguise himself, though he was, in the hotel register, under another name—I was a little amused that he should have chosen the name Kerson—the trader, you recall—whether out of lack of inventiveness or for some other reason, I can’t say.”