Copyright
Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by The Crime Club for Wm Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1930
Copyright © Estate of Philip MacDonald 1930
Introduction © Estate of H. R. F. Keating 1985
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1931, 2016
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008166915
Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780008166922
Version: 2016-06-21
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Characters in the Story
Chapter I: Thursday
Chapter II: The Morning of Friday
Chapter III: The Afternoon of Friday
Chapter IV: The Night of Friday
Chapter V: Saturday
Chapter VI: Sunday
Chapter VII: Monday
Chapter VIII: Day
Footnotes
About the Book
The Detective Story Club
About the Publisher
INTRODUCTION
COLONEL Anthony Ruthven Gethryn well qualifies for the category of Disappearing Detectives in that, though he was once a highly popular figure, the very last of his exploits appeared as long ago as 1959. This was The List of Adrian Messenger, subsequently made into a film which surfaces very occasionally on television. But before it Gethryn’s adventures were all chronicled in a cluster of ten which began in 1924 with The Rasp and ended in 1938 with The Nursemaid Who Disappeared, itself written after a five-year gap.
However, Gethryn deserves to reappear. He is, despite his noticeably stiff upper lip and other marks of the stereotype, a very human character. Witness in this book his plainly amorous, though decently unstressed, relations with his attractive younger wife, Lucia. In The Rasp we learnt that he had had a ‘good war’, rising from Private to his present rank, as well as a stint in Intelligence. ‘Oh, I know I’m a filthy spy,’ he said, characteristically showing himself as the English gentleman in the tradition of Sherlock Holmes for whom subterfuge is always somewhat to be despised, and at the same time as nicely self-deprecating.
We learnt, too, that Gethryn was rich and could afford to buy into a curious periodical, The Owl, which gave him, as here, a squad of useful journalist-spies to do his dirtier work when necessary. And we learnt that he ‘read for the Bar; was called, but did not answer’, i.e. that he was intelligent enough to have been your ‘brilliant barrister’ but was unencumbered with legal practice and so free to become the classical amateur detective.
Indeed, he is clearly one of the Great Detectives who came down to us from Holmes and before him Le Chevalier Auguste Dupin of Edgar Allan Poe. He has that necessary combination of ratiocination (the word was invented by Poe for his hero), indicated by the potential devastating legal argument, and intuition, indicated however symbolically by his ‘long sensitive fingers’. Like Holmes, too, there was a double strain in his make-up: he was the son of an English squire and of a Spanish actress and painter. And there is one other infallible sign of the Great Detective in him, to be seen in the pages ahead: his pipe. The pipe is the subtle message to us readers that the great man has gone into that trance-like state in which he will mysteriously combine the discoveries made by his ratiocinative mind with the sudden leaps of intuition, plunging deep into himself (and into us) to produce the entirely unexpected solution. Dr Watson, we remember, spoke eloquently of ‘the unsavoury pipe’ that was the companion of Holmes’s ‘deepest meditations’ and, after Gethryn, Simenon’s Maigret was a pipe-smoke wreather of formidable cloudiness.
Indeed, in the early pages here Chief Inspector Pike is made to exclaim of Gethryn: ‘You can’t be wrong.’ The Great Detective, with a notable case or two as exceptions so as to prove the rule, must always in the end be right. And, of course, Gethryn, being Gethryn, also gently mocks at himself as Great Detective. ‘We think, but we don’t speak,’ he says to Lucia. ‘We say it’s because we aren’t ready for speech. But …’ Yet in fact so it is. He is not ready. The pipe is not yet lit.
The mockery comes from a later strand in the history of detective fiction: the tradition springing from Trent in that classic of the genre, E. C. Bentley’s Trent’s Last Case of 1913, a book that set out to deflate the pure puzzle and succeeded in creating the detective with a human face. Or, since Sherlock Holmes is a real human being if ever there was, Trent saw the birth of the un-superman detective, the man with feelings to the fore. Thus Gethryn mocks himself; Gethryn genuinely worries for the victim of the plot whom he is striving to save. Gethryn, as we have noted, physically loves his wife.
So what about this adventure of his in particular? It was the first book to be chosen for the Crime Club, that ingenious reader-grabbing scheme hatched by Collins Publishers in 1930, which anyone could join free and be tempted with detective stories chosen by a panel headed by no less a figure than the Headmaster of Eton, Dr Alington. Partly because of this, partly because Arnold Bennett (the Melvyn Bragg of those days) hailed The Noose for its ‘startling revelation’, and partly because the Evening Standard bought the rights and heavily advertised it, the book quadrupled MacDonald’s sales at a blow.
It deserved its popularity, and still deserves popularity despite the odd dated reference (the ‘nine o’clock walk’ is the one taken by those about to be hanged; Dean Inge was a notorious ‘modern churchman’, perhaps today’s Bishop Jenkins; a tamasha is Anglo-Indian for a party). It deserves popularity, indeed, despite a comment recorded of it by its author in old age, that it was ‘awfully old-fashioned’. I don’t think it is. Witness, as a small instance, what Gethryn does to the unmasked murderer at their eventual midnight confrontation: it is an action that is the delight of every violence-merchant of the 1980s.
So, finally, who was the man who so knocked his own early success? He was born in 1899, son of the novelist and playwright Ronald MacDonald, grandson of the Scottish writer, George MacDonald, whose narrative poem ‘Within and Without’ Tennyson admired. Philip MacDonald, like Gethryn, fought in World War I, then wrote his crime stories and in the early 1930s was lured to Hollywood. There his screen credits included Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca but he wrote for himself little other than short stories, ending his days in the Motion Picture Retirement Home. Yet the short stories were of the highest quality. They brought him two Edgar Allan Poe Awards from the Mystery Writers of America and these words of praise from the critic Anthony Boucher:
‘MacDonald is at once a craftsman of writing, whose prose, characterisation and evocation of mood (comic or terrible) might be envied by the most serious literary practitioners.’
They are words I am happy to echo of this book.
H. R. F. KEATING
April 1985
CHARACTERS IN THE STORY
ANTHONY RUTHVEN GETHRYN
LUCIA GETHRYN, his wife
DANIEL BRONSON
SELMA BRONSON, his wife
EGBERT LUCAS, CB, Assistant Commissioner Criminal Investigation Department
CHIEF DETECTIVE INSPECTOR ARNOLD PIKE, Criminal Investigation Department
FRANCIS DYSON, special reporter on the staff of ‘The Owl’
WALTER FLOOD, special reporter on the staff of ‘The Owl’
ANNIE WILSON, maid at The Horse & Hound Inn
JAMES HARRIGAN, tobacconist and father of—
TOM HARRIGAN, prominent witness at Bronson’s trial
ANDREW CONNICOTT DOLLBOYS, farmer and prominent witness at Bronson’s trial
MRS DOLLBOYS, his mother
LT–COL. E. J. BROWNLOUGH (retired), DSO, etc.
IRENE CARTER-FAWCETT
CAPT A. D. FEATHERSTONE LAKE, MC, DFC
MISS MARGARET BROCKLEBANK
SIR RICHARD BROCKLEBANK, Bart, her father
LT–COL. GEOFFREY RAVENSCOURT, VC, Chief Constable of County
INSPECTOR RAWLINS, of the County Police
DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR Fox, ditto
POLICE CONSTABLE MURCH, ditto
MRS MURCH, his wife
WHITE, manservant to Anthony Gethryn
CHAPTER I
THURSDAY
I
THERE was a wet, dun-coloured blanket of fog over London. In the taxi which bore him from Victoria to his house in Knightsbridge, Anthony Ruthven Gethryn shivered. There is no contrast more unpleasant than the suns of Southern Spain and a damp, bleak, fog-ridden London at a November tea-time.
The taxi was slow; slower even, it seemed to Anthony, than the fog’s opaqueness justified. He sat and shivered and used bad language beneath his breath. In his ulster pocket, the fingers of his right hand played rustlingly with the telegram which had brought about his return. Again he wondered—as he had been wondering for the past forty-eight hours—what lay behind this telegram.
The taxi jarred to a cracking standstill. The muffled driver left his seat, opened the door and thrust in a dim head.
‘This the ’ouse, sir?’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Should be. But I can’t see the numbers rightly. Not in this!’ His sniff was eloquent of his feelings upon fogs.
Anthony peered; nodded, pulled his coat about him and clambered out, bent double. On the pavement he stretched his long body to its full height and stamped frozen feet. He passed coins.
‘Thank’ee, sir,’ said the driver. There was a warmth in his voice which told that even fog may bring its compensation.
Anthony turned in at his gate. Over his shoulder he said, ‘I’ll send out to help you with those bags.’
He went up the flagged path and the steps at the head of them. Even as his hand began searching for the keys the door before him opened. He said:
‘Hullo, White. Skip out and see to that luggage, will you? Where’s your mistress?’
White did not answer; there was no need. White went out to the baggage.
In the hall Anthony’s wife was in Anthony’s arms. When she spoke, she said, a little breathlessly:
‘But, my dear. You’re twelve hours before I expected you. It’s …’
Anthony smiled. ‘Isn’t it? But I’m like that.’ He took her by the elbow and turned her towards the door through which, a moment ago, she had come.
With his first step, she halted. She said, dropping her voice:
‘Not in there, dear. Not yet.’ She led the way down the hall and into the drawing-room.
His back to a fire which blazed and crackled and deliciously burned his spine, he put a hand to a pocket and brought out the telegram and waved it.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘p’r’aps you’ll explain, ma’am.’
Lucia dropped into a chair. She crossed her legs, left over right, and with the bronze-coloured shoe of the left foot beat a little devil’s tattoo in the air.
At the small foot her husband looked down. A smile twisted his mouth. He said:
‘And that means you’re mistrusting your judgment.’
Lucia sat up. ‘I’m not!’ she said indignantly. ‘I had to bring you back. But … but …’
‘But you don’t know where to start.’ Anthony smoothed the flimsy paper of the telegram out between his fingers. ‘And I shouldn’t think so. Not only d’you jerk me back from a land fit to be lived in, but instead of yourself you send me this.’ He crackled the telegram. ‘Cancel your passage properly?’ He crossed to her chair and perched his length upon its arm.
She looked up at him. Her eyes were very soft. She said:
‘You are a darling, you know … Now let me tell you. It’s …’
‘In the library,’ said Anthony. ‘Yes? What is it?’
Lucia showed the tip of a red tongue. ‘All right, Zancig. It’s a woman.’ She turned suddenly in her chair. Both slender hands came up from her lap and rested upon his knee. Her tone changed. All lightness went from it. It grew deeper than its usual lovely deepness. She said:
‘It’s a woman. She wants help. She wants help more than any woman’s ever wanted help before. And there’s just one person who can help her.’ The white fingers tightened on her husband’s knee. ‘And that’s you, Anthony.’
A small silence fell. Anthony’s green eyes looked down into the velvet darkness of his wife’s. He said at last:
‘It’s me, is it. Well, if you say so … Where do we start?’
The fingers squeezed gratefully. She said:
‘Have you read any papers in Spain? English ones, I mean.’
‘The only time I ever read English papers,’ said Anthony, ‘is when I’m not in England. I have.’
‘And did you see anything about the Bronson case?’
Anthony frowned. ‘Bronson? Bronson?… Bron … Oh, yes. Dave Bronson, you mean. The ex-pug who did in a gamekeeper or something. Some months ago. No, I didn’t see anything. Was there?’
Lucia’s dark head was nodded. ‘There was. Not awfully prominent, it wasn’t. What it was was the report of Bronson’s appeal. Which was what d’you call it—disallowed, anyhow.’
‘Rejected,’ said Anthony. ‘And in there’—he nodded in the direction of the library—‘is, I gather, either Mother or Mrs Bronson or both.’
‘It’s the wife,’ Lucia said. Her voice was very low again, and with its management she seemed to find difficulty. Anthony, looking down, saw that there glittered in each eye a shining tear.
He put an arm about her shoulders and held her. But he said:
‘Anything else to report?’
There was a little movement against his shoulder as once more the head nodded. After a pause, she spoke again. She said:
‘Yes. There’s been a petition for a reprieve. Signed by thousands of people. I forget how many; but thousands. And that’s no good. It’s been refused by the Home Secretary. And … and … he’ll be hanged in five days. Five days. Five days! Unless …’
On the last word, her voice broke. Anthony felt that real weeping and much was on the way. Of purpose he grew gently brutal. He said:
‘Unless someone does a miracle, you mean?’
‘You,’ said Lucia, struggling to keep back tears.
‘Not my line,’ said Anthony, watching her covertly.
‘The most wonderful thing,’ Lucia quoted, ‘about miracles is that they sometimes happen … You’ve got to make one happen.’ Her voice was under control again.
Anthony shrugged. ‘Have I now? You know, a bodkin’s far likelier to let a dromedary slip through it than a Home Secretary is to change his mind. And is it right to take a quick death from a man and give him a living one? That’s what a twenty-year stretch must be, you know. Again, beginning to remember a little about the case, I’m not so sure one ought to want to get Bronson off. It was a messy, treacherous behind-your-back sort of job, wasn’t it? I …’
He broke of
f suddenly. His eyes widened in astonishment. His wife had sprung to her feet. She was facing him now, her great eyes blazing with a light which seemed blent of anger and laughter and anxiety.
‘You fool, darling!’ she said. ‘You darling fool!’
Anthony passed a hand across his forehead. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Quite. Most probably. But exactly why?’
She almost stamped. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘you sit there—there you sit—you sit there and think and listen and talk, all the time I’m telling you something; and you haven’t even begun to understand. Not begun to …’
‘If I haven’t,’ Anthony said, ‘I certainly don’t.’
‘You haven’t understood the main point. The only point. The point that’s the tragedy; the point that’s turning that woman’s life not into ordinary, everyday horror and pain but into something so much worse that there aren’t any words for it. I wonder she isn’t mad. I should be …’
Anthony clasped head with hands. He rocked himself to and fro. He moaned:
‘Point, woman, point. If you don’t get to it soon I …’
His wife came close to him. She said:
‘The point is that Bronson did not kill Blackatter. Now!’
Anthony sat upright with a jerk. He stared for a moment. He said:
‘Didn’t he, though? Who says? Not the Law, or anyone with weight, or he wouldn’t be where he is.’
Lucia came closer still. She set her hands upon his shoulders. She said—and again her voice was different:
‘Don’t laugh. There was only one person who said so. She’s in there, waiting for you. Two people say so now, and I’m the second. Do something for me, dear. Be the third if you can … Will you come now?’
Anthony, silent, rose. Together, they walked across the long room to the door.
II
The library, a square, book-lined room whose height was emphasised by the crowded shelves which covered its walls from ceiling to floor, was lit only by a shaded lamp upon the central writing-table and the red, flickering luminosity of the log-fire.
The Noose Page 1
