Foreign Bodies

by Martin Edwards

  ‘The meaning’, replied Mr Monk, ‘is that this is the very last time I shall address you as Your Lordship’.

  With his revolver steady in his hand, he approached Lord Kingwood, whose face had now gone pale, and with a quick jerk of his free hand ripped off the man’s moustache and grey wig, revealing in the place of the elderly aristocrat an attractive young man with a clean-shaven face and short black hair.

  There was a brief struggle, the click of a pair of handcuffs, and Mr Monk gave a sigh of relief.

  ‘Inspector Higgins’, he said, ‘it is my great pleasure to introduce to you Mr and Mrs Reckart, whose names will not be unfamiliar to you: they are the notorious art thieves we have been pursuing for the last several months’.

  The unmasked captive swore violently.

  ‘Such language won’t help you, Mr Reckart’, said the little man. ‘It is unfortunate that you didn’t keep to your usual profession—and, as a consequence, two innocent people have lost their lives. What that will mean for the two of you is—’

  He finished his sentence with a gesture whose import was unmistakable.

  The paintings which had been cut from their frames in the gallery at Kingwood Manor were found hidden beneath the automobile’s rear seat.

  ‘How I tumbled to it?’ replied Mr Monk that evening to Inspector Higgins’ question. ‘There were a number of small indications, but first and foremost was the fact that it went against all the rules of logic for a thief and murderer to call in the police himself, even before he had committed his theft or murder. Last night, Mr Perkins was still alive, and the paintings were still in their frames’.

  ‘How do you know that, sir?’

  ‘I know it because the servant, with whom I spoke several times at Kingwood Manor this morning and with whom I had a further conversation after I learned of the theft, told me that Mr Perkins had been in the painting gallery last night’.

  ‘But couldn’t he have cut the paintings from their frames himself?’

  ‘No, Inspector, as Lord Kingwood—for the present I shall continue to refer to Reckart by that name—only obtained the gallery key from him afterwards and made no mention of any missing paintings. Why would he have kept such a discovery secret until the following day?’

  ‘But why would the thief announce the theft at all?’

  ‘Because it had the advantage of explaining Perkins’ disappearance. His acceptance of my most improbable explanation of the case spoke eloquently against him!’

  Mr Monk continued: ‘None of the members of the household had ever actually met Lord Kingwood before, with the exception of the butler and his wife. And the man did rather resemble the occasionally published portraits of His Lordship. But is it not reasonable to conclude that Perkins and his wife were not fooled by the attempted deception? That would explain the man’s telegram to Scotland Yard: he had no idea how to handle the remarkable appearance of an impostor at the Manor’.

  ‘And how do you believe the subsequent events unfolded?’

  ‘The Reckarts had to work quickly, as there were certainly many in the surrounding area who had known Lord Kingwood personally. I suspect that Perkins must have failed to conceal his suspicion, and that failure cost him his life. The Reckarts then had to get rid of the body. The false Lord dealt with the matter himself, drove it to the Thames in the middle of the night and consigned it to the water, weighted down with stones, in the hope that this would prevent its discovery until well after he and his “daughter” had made their escape. But Perkins’ wife, shocked by the disappearance of her husband, was also careless enough to reveal her suspicion that “His Lordship” was not who he said he was, so she too had to die. And the murderer made a clumsy attempt to lay the blame for her murder—and for the theft which was committed later last night—at the feet of the missing butler. Reckart may be an experienced art thief, but he is an amateur murderer’.

  ‘Were there further clues?’

  ‘The automobile tracks leading to the Thames, which I reported in my telegram to the Yard and which led to the immediate dispatch of yourself, Inspector, and your two men. And then of course the false Lord Kingwood’s mad offer to fetch the coroner himself, but not ’til this afternoon.

  ‘Then there was the unexpected nature of Lord Kingwood and Lady Mary’s return, in addition to Perkins’ strange request that we not speak to His Lordship until he had first been consulted. And yet another inexplicable point: why did Lord Kingwood not summon Scotland Yard himself, the moment Mrs Perkins’ body was discovered? Not until the following day did he send for assistance…and then for the local constable, not the Yard!

  ‘Finally, don’t forget the coincidence of the Manor’s telephone, suddenly out of order at the very moment Lord Kingwood returned from abroad. Does that not indicate a desire to isolate himself and his household for the time being, in order to avoid any intervention from the outside world?

  ‘All of my suspicions would be proven valid should His Lordship and his supposed daughter attempt to flee—with their ill-gotten gains, of course. Lady Mary’s ride, which she insisted on taking without the company of the stableboy across unfamiliar terrain—for you will recall that she was but a child at the time of her supposed departure—was another indication, as was her “father’s” automobile journey to fetch the coroner. The intention was that Reckart would rendezvous with his wife, and they would make their getaway and lay low in some far-off place until the storm of publicity to which their crimes would surely give rise should pass. He would obviously have promptly divested himself of his disguise, and the automobile in which they had arrived was not known hereabouts. As soon as I had snatched away his moustache and wig, I knew who we had: we have Reckart’s photograph on file at the Yard. His wife’s picture is unfortunately not a good likeness, else I would have recognized her much sooner’.

  Inspector Higgins sat for a moment in silence. ‘There was a great deal of guesswork involved in this case’, he said at last, a trifle disparagingly.

  ‘A pity you didn’t indulge in such guesswork yourself, Inspector’, replied Mr Monk drily. ‘But at least this matter has left one person happy. Our young friend Jimmy has benefited to the tune of a pound sterling!’

  The Stage Box Murder

  Paul Rosenhayn

  Paul Rosenhayn (1877–1929), born in Hamburg, and the son of a seafarer, led a cosmopolitan life. He was educated in Britain as well as Germany, and studied law prior to concentrating on journalism. He travelled extensively, settling for some years in India. He was also a prolific writer of screenplays prior to his death at the age of 51. Once the Nazis came to power, his reputation faded rapidly, and today he is a forgotten author. Many of the films he scripted have been lost, and he did not even rate a mention in the wide-ranging Crime Fiction in Germany (2016).

  In terms of crime writing, Rosenhayn was really an exponent of pulp fiction. He created the American detective Joe Jenkins, who enjoyed considerable popularity during the First World War—at least until the United States entered the conflict. Several of the Jenkins stories were filmed. Jenkins was a Great Detective in the Sherlock Holmes mould, with a reputation for deductive genius and a fondness for disguise. Admittedly, he was much less memorable than Sherlock, and Rosenhayn’s writing lacked Conan Doyle’s sparkle. But the stories were pacy, by the standards of their time, and Rosenhayn’s use of international locations helped to give them a veneer of sophistication. Two collections of Joe Jenkins stories were translated into English by June Head; this story appeared in Joe Jenkins: Detective, published in Britain in the year of Rosenhayn’s death.

  (Berlin)

  November 3rd.

  My dear Clara,

  I have given up hope of ever finding another engagement. Everything is full up…no one seems to have any use for an out-of-work actor in these hard times. The agents merely laugh at you when you talk about getting something. Anyone who’s fortunate
enough to get taken on at all, works for next to no salary. It’s absolutely hopeless.

  I don’t know what to do. I’ve set myself a limit of time. If I don’t have any luck by a certain date—then I’ll give you back your promise. You’ll be free then, Clara darling, to find someone else more worthy to be your husband…and I shall send you my blessing.

  Till then, ever your

  Kurt.

  November 6th.

  My darling Clara,

  This morning I went to the last theatre I haven’t so far tried. It was the Rembrandt Theatre, and I saw the director, Mr Valoni. He was very nice, but told me quite firmly that there were no vacancies. Not even a walking-on part.

  This was my last hope. I shall wait until the fifteenth, and then…

  Kurt.

  November 9th.

  Dearest Clara,

  A miracle has happened overnight! But I mustn’t be too optimistic, for it’s all still quite in the air, and it has nothing to do with my real profession. However, necessity, as you know, is said to be the mother of invention. I’ll tell you all about it.

  Through an advertisement in the papers I made the acquaintance of a very rich man. I suggested an idea to him which pleased him immensely. It is this. There is at the moment no newspaper here which deals exclusively with local news and events. The big papers are given over almost exclusively to politics. It occurred to me that a paper devoted entirely to the interesting happenings of the town should be a great success. My wealthy friend was delighted with the idea. He is going to give it a three months’ trial. If it makes good, there’ll be a proper contract and a real job for me. And then, sweetheart…

  The first number will appear as soon as anything exciting happens to justify it. We want to start with a splash. But—isn’t it like life? There’s absolutely nothing happening. Can you beat it! Every burglar, thief, and murderer seems to have packed up business.

  Perhaps you are doubting my capability for the job I have taken on? No need to worry. I used to earn extra pocket money while I was still at college, writing little articles. You just wait, it’ll turn out all right. The only thing I want is copy…Copy!

  Kurt.

  November 15th.

  Darling,

  Our paper was born today. We brought out the first number and christened it The Sensation, though nothing has happened to justify the title. Just a few minor sensations. But we are still hoping. I enclose a copy for you. I am being perfectly indefatigable. I interviewed a foreign diplomat yesterday. This evening I went to the Rembrandt Theatre. It was a first night, a famous Viennese actor is giving a season there, and he played Romeo. I managed to get hold of the director’s son in the first interval, and ask him for an introduction to the actor. He was very nice, and took me round behind to see him. I got a long interview, which has already gone to Press. I am writing this at the office, though it is long past midnight.

  My love, Kurt.

  November 16th,

  Early in the morning.

  I’ve got it! Got it at last! Copy, I mean.

  Something startling has happened, far sooner than I dared to hope. Mr Valoni, the director of the Rembrandt Theatre, was murdered in his stage box during the performance last night.

  Of course, I’m terribly sorry about him, but it is marvellous copy. What is even more marvellous—I am the only journalist who was on the spot when the tragedy occurred. You’ll read all about it in the copy of The Sensation which I enclose. My partner is more than satisfied.

  Kurt.

  Special Edition

  The Sensation

  November 16th

  mystery crime

  Director of Rembrandt Theatre Murdered in his Box

  A terrible tragedy occurred yesterday evening between ten and eleven o’clock at the Rembrandt Theatre. Herr Sch…the celebrated Viennese actor, was playing Romeo before a crowded house. While the audience was intent upon the drama on the stage, a far more realistic and gruesome tragedy was being enacted in the auditorium itself.

  Mr Valoni, the director of the theatre, entered his box punctually at eight o’clock, and took a seat in the shadow at the back of the box, as it was his custom to do. He had for some days past been feeling indisposed, so gave orders to the attendant not to tell anyone that he was present at the performance, and to allow no one to enter his box. He remained in his seat throughout the whole performance, breaking his customary rule of going on to the stage in the intervals.

  At about ten o’clock Herr Ernst Valoni, the director’s son, entered the box and remained sitting beside his father watching the play until about ten-thirty, when he left the theatre and went home.

  At eleven o’clock, after the curtain had fallen for the last time, the man who attended the boxes noticed that the director had not moved. He knocked several times, but receiving no answer, decided to enter the box. The director’s coat was thrown across the back of one of the chairs. The attendant took it up and approached the old gentleman, but even then he did not move. On looking more closely the attendant discovered to his horror that Mr Valoni was dead. Further examination disclosed a piece of cord knotted tightly about his throat. He had been strangled.

  The attendant was confident that no one except Mr Valoni, junior, had entered the box. It is fitted with a trick lock, which can only be opened from the outside with a special key, and there are only two of these keys in existence. The box attendant had one, and the other was found in the dead man’s pocket.

  November 18th.

  My dear Clara,

  Many thanks for your long letter, which arrived yesterday. No wonder you are interested in the Valoni case. Here is the latest news.

  The box attendant has been arrested. That was a foregone conclusion, for he is the most obvious person on whom suspicion would fall.

  I have just been to see the police commissioner who questioned him. He was very puzzled, for he had proved that the man had absolutely no motive for committing the murder. He had been in his job for six years, and in spite of bad times, was making quite a good living because he worked in the richest part of the house, and did very well on tips. He has a clean record, and his private life is unimpeachable. The murdered man’s son testified to the fact that his father never carried more than a few odd marks about with him. A search of the attendant’s house revealed nothing suspicious—certainly no money, though that in itself proves nothing. I asked the commissioner if he suspected anyone else. He looked grave for a moment, but said he did not.

  Here I said something I am afraid I very much regretted afterwards. I’ll confess to you. It is a well-known fact in theatrical circles that young Valoni could never get on with his father. In the excitement of the moment I let slip a few words on this subject. The next minute I could have bitten out my tongue. I saw the commissioner grow instantly alert. I did my best to wash out the effect of my rash words, I told him I knew the son personally, that he was a peaceable, good-natured fellow. I hope it’s all right. Still, I shall keep a check on my tongue in future!

  With love,

  Kurt.

  November 20th.

  Dearest Clara,

  Fresh excitement! Events are tumbling over one another. Young Valoni was arrested today on the suspicion of having killed his father.

  The box attendant protested his innocence, and witnesses were called in the shape of fellow-members of the theatre staff who were able to establish his alibi. They proved that he had been under observation practically the whole evening, and had not entered the director’s box during the performance that night. The only person besides the dead man who had set foot inside the box was his son. The attendant was pronounced not guilty and dismissed.

  A number of fresh witnesses were then called, among them the box-office cashier, who gave evidence to prove that young Valoni had taken sums of money from the cash-box far larger than he had any right to
. On the evening of the murder he presented a draft to the value of 15,000 marks, which he demanded should be cashed from his father’s account.

  Later, two actors who were waiting to see the director, heard high words coming from his office. They recognized the voices of father and son, and could hear old Valoni taking the young man to task. One of them heard the son say: ‘If you go on being so dam’ close-fisted, I shall do something I’ll be sorry for afterwards.’ Immediately after this he rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The two actors, who had come to ask for an advance on their salaries, thought better of it, and went away!

  The Sensation is doing very well. Tomorrow I have to go to the police station and give evidence. I shall try and get an article for tomorrow’s number. Good-night!

  Kurt.

  The Sensation

  November 22nd

  Valoni Case

  Son Detained on Suspicion of Murdering Father

  The mystery of the Rembrandt Theatre murder grows daily more and more baffling. A number of witnesses who had seen and spoken to young Valoni on the night of the fifteenth were called to give evidence. Our special representative, Herr Kurt Harsfeld, who was present at the theatre on the night of the tragedy, and who has been called as a witness, writes the following description of the proceedings:

  The last witness to be called was Ernst Valoni. He is tall and handsome, a well-known figure about town, whose charm of face and manner have caused sleepless nights to more than one middle-aged husband—it will be remembered he played a conspicuous part in the Frau von R—case two years ago. His face as he entered the box today was grave and pale.

  The following cross-examination took place:

  Police Commissioner: ‘I want you to tell us what you saw on the evening of the murder.’

  Valoni: ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be able to tell you very much.’