by Paul Halter
DEATH INVITES YOU
Paul Halter
Translated by John Pugmire
Death Invites You
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published in French in 1988 by
Librarie des Champs-Élysées as La Mort vous invite
DEATH INVITES YOU
Copyright © Paul Halter & Librarie des Champs-Élysées, 1988.
English translation copyright © by John Pugmire 2015.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design by Joseph Gérard
For information, contact: [email protected]
FIRST AMERICAN EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Halter, Paul
[La Mort vous invite English]
Death Invites You / Paul Halter;
Translated from the French by John Pugmire
1
Talk of Jack the Ripper
The clock had just chimed half past six and already the setting sun was casting its shadow on the Britannia pub. A last ray of sunshine outlined the silhouettes of the customers with a golden finger and gave their glasses an amber sparkle. In the noisy, smoke-filled saloon bar no one paid the slightest attention to the table in the far corner, both of whose occupants were notably tall. But that’s where the resemblance ended. Dr. Alan Twist, a strikingly thin fifty year-old with a dignified bearing and an amiable disposition, was wearing a blue tweed jacket which contrasted well with his luxuriant ginger moustache and dishevelled grey hair. The blue-grey eyes behind the pince-nez held a benevolent regard which accorded with the child-like mouth in a face full of wrinkles. Dr. Twist was a criminologist: a brilliant detective with outstanding gifts of deduction, to whom Scotland Yard often turned for help with particularly baffling cases.
It just so happened that the stolid individual seated opposite him seemed to handle only such baffling cases, as if dogged by bad luck. Archibald Hurst was approaching forty and had attained the rank of inspector at Scotland Yard. He was an imposing figure with his ruddy face topped by a few strands of carefully combed hair above his heavy features.
He took a swig of beer, wiped his black moustache with the back of his hand and gave a deep sigh.
‘Criminals aren’t what they used to be. Just pasty-faced thugs with porridge for brains. I fear the age of the master criminal is over.’
Dr. Twist filled his pipe and lit it without comment.
‘Thugs, I say, stupid little thugs,’ continued his companion. ‘Not a single interesting case for months now.’
Twist shot him an amused look and adjusted his pince-nez.
‘That’s a funny thing to say, Hurst. Normally you can’t stop complaining about fate sending you nothing but “impossible” murders. How all you get is brain-teasers.’
‘Let’s not exaggerate,’ protested Hurst with a casual wave of his hand and a relaxed smile. ‘I admit I do get carried away sometimes, but it’s only a way to make me concentrate. I’m surprised you haven’t realised that.’
Dr. Twist thought for a moment, took off his pince-nez, and asked quietly:
‘In other words, nothing would give you greater pleasure than to have fate send you another baffling case?’
‘Indeed,’ replied the policeman, puffing out his chest. ‘But something out of the ordinary. Something really meaty.’
The truth is that Inspector Hurst was savouring this period of calm, which allowed him to bask in his own self-importance and play the part of the expert seeking a fresh challenge. On that peaceful Saturday in September he had no idea that he was about to be handed “something really meaty” that very evening, a locked room mystery to make him tear his hair out. ‘It’s a miracle,’ he would confide to a journalist at one point in the case, ‘that I’m not bald as a result of this business.’
A mischievous smile appeared on Twist’s lips:
‘Don’t talk like that, you’re frightening me.’
The inspector’s eyes widened:
‘Frightening you?’
‘Yes, every time you say that a particularly tricky case usually turns up within a few days.’
A blue vein started to throb on the policeman’s forehead. He gritted his teeth so hard he almost cut his cigar in half.
‘Twist!’ he shouted, banging the table with his fist. ‘If you’re trying to ruin me weekend....’
He stopped as he became aware of the surprised looks on the other patrons’ faces. There are no rules against loud voices and brusque gestures in the Britannia, but there are limits. To cover his confusion he laughed heartily and ordered another round.
Shortly thereafter, when he had regained his good mood, Archibald Hurst leaned towards his friend and asked:
‘Do you know the fellow who just came in and is sitting at the bar?’
Dr. Twist turned to look at the handsome young man with a slightly faded air of distinction, who had just drained his whisky glass in one gulp.
‘Hell’s bells!’ said Hurst, startled. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever seen him touch the hard stuff. Leastways, toss it down like that.’
‘I’ve seen him with you on a couple of occasions.’
‘Sergeant Cunningham. Simon Cunningham. A young lad, fresh from his mother’s skirts. These provincials who think they need to put on airs when they come to London! He’s been at the Yard for three years now. That’s three years I’ve had to stomach his affected speech and pompous airs.’
‘Is he one of your men?’
The inspector wiped the perspiration from his brow with a hairy hand.
‘Yes. I have to admit he handles himself well. Do you remember that business about the “Lonely Hearts Killer”?’
‘Yes, indeed. The fellow who went after widows, divorcees and spinsters and slit their throats in the bathtub after cleaning out their bank accounts and jewellery boxes. If I recall correctly, his little spree ended after the papers printed a composite portrait of him. That was a couple of years ago, I believe?’
‘Correct. And all due to Sergeant Simon Cunningham’s efforts. While everyone was speculating about the killer’s identity because each witness had given a different description of him, Cunningham started to build a composite based on features which couldn’t be easily disguised. He took an artist with him when he did the interviews. It was painstaking work but it paid off. The portrait was of a thickset individual of Mediterranean appearance, and he was tracked down the day after his picture was published. He ended up putting a bullet through his own head.’
Dr. Twist traced a finger thoughtfully along his brow, then asked, with a trace of reproach in his voice:
‘My dear Archibald, how did a novice get put in charge of such an important case?’
‘Cunningham wasn’t the only one involved, of course. But I thought it was a good idea to give him his head.’
‘I understand,’ said Twist impassively.
The inspector raised his arms:
‘It worked, for heaven’s sake. If I hadn’t tried it, we might still be looking....’
‘You’re a good psychologist...at times,’ observed Twist.
‘True enough,’ replied Hurst, impervious to the doctor’s irony.
Compliments from Twist being relatively rare, Hurst drained his mug with visible satisfaction. Dr. Twist stared into space through the fumes from his pipe.
‘That case,’ he said, ‘reminds me of anoth
er business, older and far more sinister.’
‘....’
‘I’m talking about the bloody madman—actually not quite as mad as people thought—who terrorised London in the autumn of 1888, throwing himself with unbridled ferocity on the “ladies” of Whitechapel.’
‘Ah, yes,’ sighed Inspector Archibald Hurst.
‘By all appearances, Jack the Ripper didn’t kill for personal gain.’
‘By all appearances,’ echoed Hurst drily.
Twist, ignoring the irony, asked:
‘What’s your view of that sordid business?’
‘But, Twist,’ replied Hurst with a condescending smile, ‘it’s an open secret.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The body with its pockets full of stones which was fished out of the Thames a month after Jack the Ripper’s last exploit! A young lawyer who taught in a Blackheath school! Don’t tell me you never heard about all that, Twist?’
Dr. Twist’s expression became very serious:
‘Not very long ago, I had the opportunity to go through my late father’s affairs, specifically documents bequeathed to him by one of his best friends, Superintendent Melvin, who was at the Yard at the time of the Ripper murders.’
‘Melvin. That rings a bell. A very conscientious officer, admired and respected by all.’
‘That’s the fellow,’ said Twist, nodding in agreement. ‘Criminology was his passion. He left two boxes full of treatises on the subject. There was also one strange document, on which Melvin had written: “In all conscience I cannot bring myself to destroy this manuscript. I believe in God. I know that, thanks to Him, there will eventually be a reader who will know what to do with it.”’
Hurst appeared stunned, then burst into laughter.
‘Don’t tell me the manuscript finally reveals the Ripper’s true identity!’
Twist gave his friend an inscrutable look, then lowered his eyes and said quietly:
‘The truth is worse than you can possibly imagine.’
‘You must be joking, Twist. Your naivety continues to surprise me. It only needs for you to come across a dusty old book for you to assume everything in it is authentic. I know you’re nostalgic about the Victorian era and you love old books, but even so....’
‘After I read the manuscript I carried out my own investigation,’ declared the criminologist in a flat tone. ‘There’s no doubt about the facts as cited. Looking back, it’s quite surprising that no one discovered the Ripper’s identity. His insane obsession and his psychology were so obvious through his crimes.’(1)
The policeman appeared thunderstruck.
‘And just what is this incredible solution?’
Dr. Twist remained impassive.
‘That’s it. I get it,’ growled Hurst. ‘You’re not going to talk. You’re just going to leave me hanging here. I know you only too well. But this time it isn’t going to work.’
Silence.
‘What’s always intrigued me,’ continued the inspector, watching his companion out of the corner of his eye, ‘is how he managed to get through the police cordons. After all, he must have been drenched in blood after his abominable exploits.’
Twist smiled.
‘I can’t tell you, except to say that aspect of the case is of paramount importance. If you look at the whole ghastly business, knowing what I now know, you realise that the killer’s sudden mysterious disappearances in the fog—which one can compare to a series of locked room problems—are at the heart, and even the origin of the horrendous story. I can’t say any more than that.’
Hurst let out a frustrated growl loud enough to make the beer mugs shake. Twist shook his head sadly:
‘I’m sorry, it’s not my secret to divulge. In any case, you don’t appear to have grasped the connection between the two cases.’
‘Listen to me, Twist,’ retorted his friend. ‘I’d be very obliged if—.’
(1) See The Crimson Fog
He stopped suddenly as he noticed Sergeant Cunningham heading towards the phone booth situated in the corner of the room.
‘Hey, Sergeant! Come over here for a second.’
The sergeant gave such a start that the spectacles on his fine nose gave a little jump. Of medium height and well-dressed, he struck quite a handsome figure. But his spectacles and the short haircut revealing a high forehead gave him a studious look, as if he were lost outside his own little world. The red blushes on his cheeks and his prim manner betrayed a shyness which he attempted to hide behind a carefully cultivated offhand manner.
‘Do you know Dr. Twist?’ asked his superior officer, clearly enjoying the young policeman’s discomfort.
‘D-Dr. Twist,’ he stammered ‘I-I’m one of your most fervent admirers... Detective Sergeant Cunningham of Scotland Yard. Pleased to meet you.’
The criminologist smiled cordially.
‘What’ll you have? Will you join us?’
‘Er...With pleasure.’ He cast a concerned eye at the phone booth. ‘But would you mind very much if I excused myself for a few moments... A very important phone call....’
As he disappeared inside the booth, after having hit himself on the door in his eager rush, Hurst frowned:
‘What’s bitten him tonight?’
‘Cherchez la femme,’ observed Twist knowingly.
‘You’re probably right,’ said Hurst. ‘A quarrel with his fiancée, no doubt. She’s the apple of his eye. She’s the only one who can put him in such a state. And you’ll never guess who she is... The daughter of Harold Vickers!’
‘Harold Vickers? The mystery writer?’
Hurst nodded his head and sighed.
‘I’d never have thought him capable of seducing anyone. He’s so awkward with women.’
2
A Strange Invitation
Inside the phone booth, Simon Cunningham hesitated before dialling the Vickers home. He pulled the letter he’d received that morning out of his pocket and read it again. It had been typed:
Dear Simon,
Drop any other plans you may have made for this evening and be here at 9 p.m. Formal dress required. VERY important dinner. Do not tell anyone, not even Valerie. Particularly Valerie.
Harold Vickers
He took a deep breath and dialled the number.
‘Hello. May I speak to Miss Valerie? It’s Simon Cunningham.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said a female voice. ‘Just a moment. I’ll fetch her.’
Simon pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. A few moments later he heard the voice of his fiancée.
‘Good evening, darling. I hope there hasn’t been a change of plan?’
‘Alas, darling...I can’t tell you how disappointed I am, but....’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Valerie in a voice which had suddenly become so strident that he was obliged to hold the handset at a distance.
‘Alas, my sweet....’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I-I can’t tell you. I know more than anyone how you must feel... Trust me, my darling, it’s out of my hands.’
Silence, then:
‘Simon, you know how much I’ve been looking forward to tonight. It’s the last performance of....’
‘I’m really, really sorry, my love.’
‘Isn’t there a colleague who can replace you?’
‘It’s not an investigation.’
‘Not an investigation? Then what is it?’
‘I can’t tell you, my sweetest, believe me.’
‘Can’t tell me? What am I supposed to think? At least tell me what it’s about?’
‘I...it’s a dinner. Yes, a dinner. I can’t tell you any more than that.’
‘A dinner?’ Her voice became cold and impersonal. ‘Well, you can go to your dinner, my friend, and I’ll go to the theatre. ALONE!’
‘Darling, please understand—.’
There was a click on the other end of the line. He hung up with a deep sigh.
Valerie Vick
ers. The daughter of Harold Vickers, the writer. He’d met her over a year ago at a cocktail party in honour of her father’s latest book. He remembered the evening very well. Harold Vickers was signing books under a bombardment of flashlights and Valerie was there, seated alone at a table. She’d looked very beautiful in her blue taffeta dress, her black hair falling in rings over her shoulders and her blue eyes shining under dark eyebrows. At that precise moment, without any hesitation, he’d decided she would be his wife. She, for her part—although without any thought of marriage in her mind—had fallen immediately under the spell of the elegant young man advancing timidly towards her.
‘F-Forgive my impertinence,’ he’d stammered as he extended his hand, promptly knocking over her glass and spilling champagne all over her dress, ‘but....’
It had taken her a few seconds to realise the extent of the disaster, but then she’d burst out laughing—a lovely tinkling laugh—at the blushing young man’s confusion. They’d sat together for over two hours while the dress dried, ignoring the noisy, thirsty crowd around them. The following day, she’d received a huge bunch of roses and an invitation to dinner. After that, they’d seen each other twice a week and firmly decided to marry, without fixing a date. To say the Vickers family was initially unenthusiastic is an understatement, but that changed dramatically with the successful conclusion of the Lonely Hearts Killer case.
Valerie’s father, as well as being a successful writer of detective fiction, had inherited a considerable fortune. They lived in a splendid residence close to St. Richard’s Wood which had been in the family for several generations. Harold’s entourage—his wife, two daughters and his brother-in-law—tolerated his eccentricities, as well as his sudden changes of mood, stoically. In order to write, or think, he would lock himself in his office for days on end with instructions that no one should disturb him for any reason whatsoever. He could be extremely loquacious, carrying on endless monologues even until dawn. On other occasions he would refuse to speak, pacing up and down at all hours in any convenient room of the house. He was also known to disappear for entire nights, returning at early light in a state of obvious inebriation. He was rumoured to have had numerous affairs. His wife Diane, a calm and dignified woman, never reproached him even though she had, on occasion, been about to explode.
