Such Is Death

by Leo Bruce

  Leo Bruce’s brilliantly ingenious new detective story opens with an extract from a diary: notes made by someone planning the ‘perfect’, the ‘ideal’ murder—the one which no police, no detective, could solve. The murderer’s gratification will be entirely cerebral, his (or her) triumph being one of mind over matter.

  Up to a point it would seem that nothing could be better planned: the place a remote shelter on the promenade at Selby-on-Sea, the occasion a blustery evening in late November, the victim almost ready-made for a crack of doom from a small coal-hammer….

  But this is not the first murderer whose plans are upset by an unexpected coincidence and in particular by the unpredictable mind of Carolus Deene, that unique schoolmaster-detective.

  Published in 1986 by

  Academy Chicago Publishers

  425 N. Michigan Avenue

  Chicago, Illinois 60611

  Copyright © 1963 by Propertius Company Ltd.

  Printed and bound in the USA

  No part of this book may be reproduced

  in any form without the express written

  permission of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bruce, Leo, 1903-1980.

  Such is death.

  1. Title.

  [PR6005.R673S83 1986] 823’.912 85-28737

  ISBN 0-89733-159-1

  ISBN 0-89733-160-5 (pbk.)

  1

  Extract from a Diary:

  …THE delicious sensation of being a murderer, a sensation given to few. I do not look for any physical satisfaction in this; I am no sadist, and the act in itself will be as repugnant to me as to anyone else. My gratification will be entirely cerebral, my triumph one of mind over matter.

  That is one reason why I shall never be suspected. It is motive which gives the key to the identity of every murderer, even when his motive is no more than the satisfaction of some dark sexual desire to kill. The maniac who kills for the low perverted love of it can soon be identified, however normal his outward life may be. For one thing, he has to choose his victim; it is part of his paranoiac dream to kill this kind of person or that. My own complete indifference in this makes me immune from discovery. It can be man woman or child for all I care. I shall simply kill the first person who comes along.

  That is the secret—to have no motive. When the body is found and enquiries begin, the first thing the investigators will ask themselves is—who had any reason to kill this person? And whoever the victim is, his or her circumstances will certainly provide a natural suspect. Even if it happens to be one of those dull people who ‘has not an enemy in the world’, who is neither envied nor hated, who stands in no one’s way and has never given offence, the investigators will ingeniously discover someone with a motive, or put the crime down to the aberration of a sex maniac. It will be inconceivable to them that a human being should have been killed with no motive at all. Or at least no motive which by the wildest flight of imagination could be perceived.

  I do not want to kill, I want to have killed. I have no object in killing except to be able to say to myself that I have achieved it. So I shall never be found out.

  This is the ideal town for my purpose. A small seaside resort in winter—what could be better? What I need is a lonely spot, but one to which a visit would cause no comment. I have it here. The promenade in the evening is lonely enough and any sound uttered is drowned by the noise of the sea. Yet no one would notice me walking along there. What could be more natural than a wish to take a breath of fresh air before turning in? Every evening a few people go out for their ‘blow’ after dinner. Not enough to threaten the solitude of the farthest shelter, for instance, but enough to make me inconspicuous as I walk away from the body.

  Even if I were seen and recognized—highly unlikely—it would not begin to throw the least suspicion on me. Even I were caught red-handed, as it were, or at least found in the shelter with the corpse by someone who had come up too quickly to let me get away, I would only have to say I had just found it there. There would be absolutely nothing to connect me with the act. Someone has to find every corpse and it does not mean that the finder is ever suspected.

  In fact, that seems rather a good idea. When I have got it over and the creature is dead, why don’t I report the discovery? I shall have to think about this and make up my mind when I am considering the whole thing in more detail.

  Yes, that last shelter is the place. It must be two hundred yards from the nearest houses for along there the road turns away from the sea and a small public garden (locked at night) lies between it and the promenade. There is enough light but not too much.

  The beauty of it is that I am not tied to any particular time. I can wait till one night all the circumstances combine for my purpose. I need one person alone there and no one else in sight. I need a darkish windy night with a noisy sea, yet not really bad weather, for that would make my presence on the promenade too remarkable. When I have these I shall do what I have decided to do—but not until then. If it does not come this year I shall wait till next—there is no hurry. But when it comes, no power on earth will be able to implicate me. I throw that out as a challenge to fate. We are always hearing of the perfect crime and the fatal mistake by which the murderer commits himself, or the coincidence or bad luck which gives him away. Here those things simply cannot exist. I can make no fatal slip because there is none to make, because no elaborate plans are necessary, because all I have to do is take my evening stroll and in the course of it do this one swift almost casual thing. There can be no coincidence or bad luck. If a policeman popped up out of nowhere, as you might say, I should only have to tell him that I had found a corpse in the shelter. With no motive I am entirely and certainly secure from consequences.

  There is one other thing by which murderers have sometimes been identified, the method they choose or the implement they employ. I have been extremely cautious in planning this. The method must be one which does not by itself reveal the kind of person using it. It must be possible for everyone from a powerful man to a weak woman. And it must be certain and easily carried out against any sort of victim. It must also be instantaneous. Shooting is out, not only on account of the noise but because it would at once tell the investigator something, at least, about the murderer. Strangling could be very difficult if the victim resisted. Poisoning would be too slow and anyway my victim might refuse the chocolates I had prepared. Other methods involve implements by which the murderer could be identified—a swordstick, for instance. But I have it. An ordinary well-used very heavy hammer such as may be used for anything from breaking coal to driving in a stake. Such a one I have kept by me for years. No one knows I have it. It is small enough to carry with me unnoticeably and large enough to be effective.

  So I shall take it with me—having cleaned it of fingerprints, of course, and not omitting to wear gloves—until the evening on which, as I say, the circumstances combine. One blow on the cranium can be given with it without any warning at all to anyone sitting in the shelter, and afterwards I leave it there. It is of everyday design and has been used for many purposes over the years. It cannot be identified for there are thousands like it in use in thousands of homes. The only thing the investigator might do is to look for some home from which such a hammer is missing. Let him find that: it will start him on yet another false trail.

  It has an additional advantage. A murder committed with a tool which no one could be carrying by chance will look like a planned murder. Someone, the investigator will argue, was determined to kill this person and having armed himself or herself with a weapon for the purpose followed the victim to this shelter and carried out a carefully laid plan. That is exactly what I want him to think. It could not occur to him that such a plan might b
e made with no particular victim in mind and the investigator will at once start looking for some one with a motive for killing this particular person. If he was strangled with his own scarf, for instance, it could be an unpremeditated affair, perhaps for robbery.

  That’s another point. Shall I rob the corpse? It might suggest a motive particularly if the victim happens to be carrying anything valuable. I think on the whole no, for I do not believe a single human being lives without enemies or those who would find his death convenient. But I may decide to do it. It is another point I must consider, however.

  Instinct tells me to do nothing to complicate the beautifully simple thing as it is by trying to supply false motives, or false anything else. I have always believed that if anyone walks out and kills the first person he sees for no reason at all he cannot be discovered unless he is actually caught in the act. But if he plans it too closely his conduct in anticipation of the event may give him away. He builds up an alibi which fails in some detail or other, or by deliberately dissociating himself from the thing he makes some move, or passes some remark, which in the searchlights of investigation will show up. I shall do absolutely nothing that I do not ordinarily do and say nothing that I might not say at any time.

  Nor do I want anyone else to share my satisfaction when it is over. I am not an exhibitionist, as most murderers are. It will be enough for me to know that I have achieved what so many have attempted unsuccessfully. My whole life is lived inwardly—all my triumphs and failures are secret things and this will be the same. I have a mask, as we all have, and it is an excellent one for its purpose for behind it I can go my way and think and do what I please.

  What shall I feel, I wonder, if by chance someone has such an obvious motive for killing my victim that he is at once suspected? If, moreover, it is someone here in Selby-on-Sea who cannot account for his movements at the time of the crime? It is really quite probable. Perhaps he will be arrested, tried and eventually executed. What will be my reaction to that? Amusement, on the whole. When I think what people have done to me, I am not going to break my heart about the death penalty being wrongfully carried out in yet another case. If they want to have a death penalty they must be prepared for a few misapplications of it.

  But it is not likely to go as far as that. The most they will do is to suspect anyone with a motive—the case will never be solved. I am writing this only to clear my ideas and when I have finished I shall destroy it.

  There are a few details which it may seem are being overlooked, but in fact I have considered them all. At one time I thought I might do something to make myself less recognizable on the night—strange clothes, dark glasses and some of the face covered. I have shelved the idea for several reasons. For one it is a complication, and these are to be avoided at all costs. For another it is unnecessary, for even if I pass someone who knows me it cannot implicate me. Also I should have to get rid of things—clothes, dark glasses and so on—afterwards, and that again means a possibility of leaving some clue where none exists. I shall probably be somewhat muffled up, but who would not be on the seafront on a winter’s evening? No one not previously acquainted with me will be able to identify me from the little seen of me as I pass and if I meet anyone who recognizes me I shall stop and chat for a time. As simple as that.

  I also thought of a dog. No one gains the confidence of strangers so easily in England as a dog-owner. Nothing would make my evening walk so innocent-seeming as a dog on a lead. But there are two things against it. It could be a means of identification because people notice a dog more than its owner. And it would be an elaboration. I may think again about this but at present I’m against it. I have also thought of sallying forth with a companion that night and on some pretext leaving him or her either for the rest of the evening or for sufficient time to carry out my plan. This has advantages and disadvantages and will have to be considered more closely.

  Then as to time and opportunity. I have said I will wait for this, but I do not mean that I am going to haunt that last shelter on the seafront till the moment arrives. I shall observe it as far as I can when I take an evening stroll (which must not be too often) but if I find that I meet someone near there more than once, or if I am observed on that part of the promenade, I shall at once change my plans. No one must be able to come forward afterwards and say they have seen me in that direction. With any luck the circumstances will combine quickly, but if they don’t I simply start again.

  My visits in any case will not be at regular times. People in a place like this do everything at regular times, rise, eat, take walks and sleep. The chances are that one or two people take the air on the seafront every evening at six or eight, and if I made my visit a fixed thing we should get to know one another by sight. No, that must never happen. I shall go sometimes as early as seven and sometimes as late as eleven.

  I shall wait till October is over and the last of the autumn visitors have gone, then, on one of those dark blustering November or December nights I shall know the delicious sensation of being a murderer….

  2

  THE Queen Victoria hotel at Selby-on-Sea was not, as its advertisements claimed, two minutes from the beach, unless you had a fast motor-car and there was no traffic, but six minutes’ sharp walking brought you from its stolid façade down Carter Street to the seafront. It was not the best hotel in Selby, but it was by no means the worst, a frowsty place of comfortable chairs and big bedrooms in which the furniture and fittings had not been changed since the hotel opened in the year of the Diamond Jubilee. Once the bourn of commercial travellers it still catered for visitors on business rather than holiday-makers for there was nothing very festive about its dining-room, which overlooked a narrow street, or its lounge from the lace-curtained windows of which could be caught no glimpse of the sea.

  Its bar had an entrance direct from the street and was a popular meeting-place for the town’s residents, particularly in winter when a big coal fire was lit half an hour before opening. There was a vast mahogany erection of mirrors and cornices and between this and the counter were to be seen two ladies who had presided there for several years and were known as Doris and Vivienne.

  They were admirably contrasted, Vivienne tall, remote, pensive and pale, Doris short, talkative, given to whispered conferences with clients across the bar, Doris leaning over and the customer stretching forward till their heads were close together. These conferences had a way of being

  terminated with a sentence or two for all to hear. Whisper, whisper, whisper the two would go until suddenly both participants would stand upright and Doris would say loudly—“So you see, don’t you?” or “I only hope you’re right,” as though to indicate that there had been no secrets. Perhaps there had not and Doris’s conspiratorial behaviour was a mannerism.

  Everyone liked Doris, but it was Vivienne to whom they turned when they became pot-valiant and talkative, for her hauteur tempted them. Doris would smile to all the customers but to win a smile from the cold thin lips of Vivienne was an achievement. Both ladies were in their late thirties and both were described by the hotel’s proprietor as ‘smart-looking girls’, but Vivienne’s languid expression made her seem older than dumpy, cheerful Doris.

  “Nasty blustering night, isn’t it?” said Doris to Vivienne when they opened the bar one evening in late November.

  “Mmmm,” said Vivienne musically. It was not exactly a word, but it was more than a letter. Humming through several notes it was absent-minded, yet perfectly polite, and with various modulations served Vivienne for most forms of discourse.

  “Shouldn’t like to have to go out this evening. The wind seems to go right through you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” reflected Vivienne.

  “I thought so as I came in. It cuts through you like a knife, I thought. There weren’t many about, either. You can’t blame them. Just one or two on the front.”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Yes. I noticed as I came by. I thought to myself, I wonder whatever they want to walk
along there for on an evening like this. I suppose it’s sea air they’re after. Well, there’s enough of it to go round. Did you enjoy the film?”

  “Mmmm,” said Vivienne dubiously.

  “They’re a long time starting to come in tonight, aren’t they? There’s no one much in the hotel. One booked in just now, though. I saw him as I was coming through the hall”

  “Mmmm?” said Vivienne with slightly more animation.

  “Yes. Kind of staring eyes. Didn’t look as though he was much, either. One little case and rather shabby-looking, I thought. I expect he’ll be in later and you can see for yourself. Perhaps you’ll fancy him!”

  “Mmmm!” denied Vivienne disdainfully.

  They were busy for the next half-hour with the regulars, Vivienne for all her remoteness as efficient in serving as Doris. Some intimate matter engaged Doris and Mr Lobbin, the newsagent, from a few doors away, for their heads were close for several minutes, to be separated finally with Doris’s loud—“I’d never have believed it, mind you.” The windy cheerless night seemed to have driven in more than usual of the town’s sturdy businessmen and there was a discreet bass rumble of hearty talk.

  Presently Doris moved close to Vivienne as she poured a Guinness.

  “That’s the fellow I told you about. Standing near the door. The one who booked in tonight. Got a funny look, hasn’t he?”

  “Mmmm,” said Vivienne not without interest.

  “I don’t like those eyes, though. The sort you read about in the paper. Seem to drill right into you, don’t they? That’s his second double Scotch in ten minutes.”

  The man she referred to was gaunt and grey-haired, a stringy individual with large powerful hands. He might have been fifty, or a little less. His mouth was wide but thin-lipped and tightly shut and his eyes, as Doris said, were large and staring. He seemed to take no notice of anyone but drank as though it was a timed exercise, a gulp, a wait, a gulp and then two or three steps to the bar for a refill.