The Big Book of Rogues and Villains

by Otto Penzler

  “If Mr. Austin has so much faith in Dr. Sherrock,” the super told me, “I will personally make every effort to bring Sherrock here. Are you, sir, so in command of your profession that you can deny the therapeutic effect such a visit might have?” Quackery on high. Nothing as ineffectual as medical attention was going to keep Austin from dying, and the super well knew it.

  I did not leave the invitation of Dr. Sherrock to the super’s influence alone. After maneuvering my second visit to the sickroom, I reported to the Labour Party people and the dying man’s family that the M.P. had amazed me by a miraculous rally to consciousness. “He badly wants this Dr. Sherrock brought in,” I informed them. “And I will venture only this diagnosis myself. As a humble medical scientist, I’d say that without Sherrock the M.P.’s chances are wholly dependent upon the whimsey of the supernatural. Which, at best, is…well, erratic.”

  I also mentioned that I had reported the patient’s request to the superintendent of the hospital and that, while the man had promised action, I thought I had detected a bit of foot-dragging. “Does anyone…er…happen to know the super’s political affiliations?” I asked slyly.

  Ah, there are few spurs so sharp as the sudden knowledge that one is being made the victim of a conspiracy. My listeners exploded into activity. Poor Dr. Sherrock. He found his carefully erected isolation abruptly besieged from several impressive quarters. Entreaties to abandon his security shield for a trip to St. Malachy’s rang upon him from people he could hardly ignore, from empire-level government people, from the medical hierarchy, and from his own insular neighbors in Clairemont. The doctor capitulated in twelve hours.

  The routine was snapped. Instead of motoring home from his office that evening, Sherrock was chauffeured to St. Malachy’s, protesting all the way that he did not know and had never met M.P. Austin. “Strange are the ways of modern medical science,” the super soothed him.

  I of course made it my business to be on hand when Sherrock arrived at the hospital, and I graciously agreed to attempt once more to rouse the unconscious patient. I insisted, however, that only Sherrock and myself should be present in the sickroom. There was grudging compliance.

  Once in Austin’s room, door locked behind us, blinds drawn, I guided Sherrock to the respirator tank in which Austin lay, living tenuously on the mechanical ability of his windowed boiler (or iron lung, as I believe the Americans affectionately call it). Dr. Sherrock stared down at the pallid face of the M.P. for a few seconds, then said crossly, “Never met him. And shouldn’t care to either, I might add. Labour man, isn’t he?”

  “I doubt that introductions will ever be necessary, Doctor,” I said, reaching into my black satchel, “I have something here you must digest, sir. Somewhat bitter I’m afraid…”

  “Wha—”

  I expended the time necessary to place the snout of my pistol against his smock directly in line with his heart. Accuracy was essential in this instance, for the silencer on my weapon was effective for but one shot, really, and Sherrock was already frisking about somewhat. The one discharge proved sufficient. Sherrock was deceased before I caught his body and lowered it to the tile floor.

  I removed my gloves, washed my hands in the small lavatory (they generally perspire a bit); then I left the room. Prior to my departure I of course disconnected from its wall socket the electric plug that ensured the functioning of Mr. Austin’s respirator.

  In the outer room I encountered the M.P.’s family, a couple of Labour Party officials, and the super and a few of his staff. Dabbing at my eyes with a soiled handkerchief, I blubbered, “He’s making every effort…Dr. Sherrock…Such skill…His hands, not a tremor…He requests that he be left alone with the patient until he summons you….The finest physician I…”

  My breath opened a passageway through the crowded room as I made for the corridor door. I paused by the door only long enough to unsettle the lush widow Austin by pressing on her an unwholesome leer, for no reason that I can recall now other than my possibly being a bit nervous by this time. Then I left St. Malachy’s and Liverpool.

  —

  I received the balance of my fee in the Dr. Sherrock Commission a week later in my office off Bristol Square. The late doctor’s chauffeur, the cleft-chinned and void-eyed Ben Nett, carried the crisp pound notes to my hand. He brought also my client, the widow Sherrock, née Hickey.

  Sally was on her way to seclusion in Italy for the period of her bereavement. Mr. Nett had graciously consented to share her grief. They were utilizing the same steamship tickets, I believe, that had been held in abeyance from the doctor and Sally’s postponed honeymoon.

  We concluded our business; Sally made several fatuous but well-intentioned remarks regarding my Afghan; then they left. I have met Sally a few times over the years since that day, but Mr. Ben Nett I saw once more only, in Switzerland, just prior to his unhappy accident.

  On the day following the payment of the fee, I returned to Liverpool and released my auto from its hiding place. I drove the sad machine to a local automotive shop and contracted repairs. As I turned to exit from the shop, I discovered the manager studying the dented front end of the red Bentley with an apprehensive eye of cocked suspicion. “Don’t get many red ones, we don’t,” he observed nervously. “You say you’ll be back to fetch it this afternoon?”

  Out with it, mealymouth. What are you trying to say? I of course assured this idiot that I would return; then I left him and his uncharitable speculation.

  The Bentley, I might mention, had been purchased and licensed under the name Lovejoy—a gesture of sorts to my banker. That I would never be allowed to reclaim the machine was not so staggering a loss as you might assume. The Tory people had been most generous and had budgeted into my fee the purchase price of the auto.

  Thus: the Dr. Sherrock Commission. Actually, the Second Dr. Sherrock Commission. I can never be certain, I guess, but it did appear to me at the last moment there, as my finger enjoined the trigger, that recognition had floated to the surface of Dr. Sherrock’s eyes. That he remembered me from our previous association. The matter of the first Mrs. Sherrock.

  Rogue: Lester Leith

  In Round Figures

  ERLE STANLEY GARDNER

  LESTER LEITH is only one of a huge number of series characters created by the indefatigable Erle Stanley Gardner (1889–1970). The most famous of his crime fighters was Perry Mason, but there also were a number of novels featuring district attorney Doug Selby and a long series about Bertha Cool and Donald Lam, produced under his A. A. Fair pseudonym. But most of Gardner’s pulp characters were criminals, including Ed Jenkins (the Phantom Crook), the sinister Patent Leather Kid, the thieving Paul Pry, and Senor Arnaz de Lobo, a professional soldier of fortune and revolutionary.

  It is Leith, however, who was the “hero” of the second greatest number of Gardner’s crook stories, appearing in more than seventy novelettes (trailing only Ed Jenkins, “the Phantom Crook,” who appeared in seventy-three), all written for the pulps. Leith approached his thievery from a slightly different angle, working as both a detective and as a Robin Hood figure of a kind that was very popular in the Depression era. He stole from the rich, but only those who were themselves crooks, and he unfailingly gave the money to charities—after taking a twenty percent “recovery” fee.

  Debonair, quick-witted, and wealthy, he enjoyed the perks of his fortune, checking the newspapers in the comfort of his penthouse apartment for new burglaries and robberies to solve, and from which he could reclaim the stolen treasures.

  He has a valet, Beaver, nicknamed “Scuttle” by Leith, who is a secret plant of Sergeant Arthur Ackley. Leith, of course, is aware that his manservant is an undercover operative, using that knowledge to plant misinformation to frustrate the policeman again and again.

  “In Round Figures” was originally published in the August 23, 1930, issue of Detective Fiction Weekly; it was first collected in The Amazing Adventures of Lester Leith (New York, The Dial Press, 1980).

  IN
ROUND FIGURES

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  LESTER LEITH rolled over in bed and grinned at the ceiling. In the lazy flexing of his well-oiled muscles there was something of the litheness of a stretching panther.

  The electric clock on the dresser marked the hour of ten-thirty.

  Leith stretched forth a silk-sheathed arm and rang for his valet. Almost instantly a door swung upon silent hinges and a huge form made an awkward bow.

  “You rang, sir?”

  “My bath, Scuttle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door closed as silently as it had opened. But the square-shouldered valet had oozed into the room between the opening and closing of the door. On ponderous tiptoes he set about the tasks of the morning. The bath water roared into the great tub. The clothes closet disclosed an assortment of expensive clothes, from which the heavy hands of the servant picked suitable garments.

  Propped up in bed, smoking a cigarette, Lester Leith regarded the man through lazy-lidded eyes.

  “Scuttle, you remind me of something, but I can’t quite place what it is. Do you suppose you could help?”

  The coal-black eyes of the valet glinted into smoldering fires of antagonism. He half-turned his head so that Lester Leith might not surprise the expression of enmity on his face.

  “No, sir. I’ve reminded you of so much, sir. First it was of a reincarnated pirate, and you disregarded my real name to call me Scuttle. Then—”

  Leith held up a well manicured hand. “I have it, Scuttle!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “A locomotive, Scuttle; a big, black, shiny, powerful locomotive, but running on rubber tires.”

  “On rubber tires!”

  “Quite right, Scuttle. It’s the way you have of oozing about the room.”

  The man straightened. The broad shoulders snapped back. For a quick half-instant the sweeping black mustache bristled with aggressiveness. Then the servant sighed.

  “Yes, sir. Very good, sir. The bath is to be just a little warmer than lukewarm, sir?”

  “Quite.”

  The valet used the pretext to ease his huge body into the bathroom. He closed the door, turned, straightened, and the air of servility evaporated from his personality. His black, beady eyes glittered defiance. His hamlike hand knotted into a fist. For seconds he stood quivering with rage.

  Lester Leith, lying back on the bunched pillows, chuckled softly and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. It was as though he took a fiendish delight in flicking this man on the raw.

  The valet took a deep breath, regained control of himself, shut off the bath and oozed into the bedroom.

  “The bath is ready, sir.”

  Lester Leith yawned, stretched, paused with one pajamaed leg thrust over the edge of the bed.

  “Scuttle, how long’s it been since we checked the crime clippings?”

  A look of eagerness flashed over the heavy face of the giant servant.

  “Some time, sir. There have been several interesting crimes recently.”

  “Crimes the police haven’t been able to solve?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you think I’d be interested?”

  “I know it, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the very valuable loot which the police haven’t been able to trace yet.”

  “Tut, tut, Scuttle, how often must I tell you that my interest in crime is purely academic? That’s why I never make personal investigations. I only study the reports published in the newspapers. Scuttle, get out the clippings and I’ll glance over them.”

  And Leith slipped from his pajamas and into the lukewarm tub while the valet opened a drawer and thumbed out an assortment of newspaper clippings dealing with various unsolved crimes. By the time Leith had rubbed himself into a glow, attired himself in faultless flannels, and poured coffee from the electric percolator, the valet had arranged the crime clippings and took up a recital in a husky monotone.

  “There was the affair of Mrs. Maybern’s diamonds, sir. Missing.”

  “Robbery?”

  “Yes, sir; she had been at a night club, dancing with one of the most attractive…”

  “Pass it, Scuttle. It’s probably blackmail.”

  “Very well, sir. How about the Greenwell murder?”

  “Motive, Scuttle?”

  “Robbery and, perhaps, revenge.”

  “Pass it, Scuttle. Is there, by any chance, a crime with a dash of imagination, with a touch of the bizarre, Scuttle?”

  The heavy thumb of the police spy ran through the clippings.

  “There’s one, sir, but it’s a cold trail.”

  “Tut, tut, Scuttle. You mustn’t get the idea I’m seeking to trail these criminals. My interest is purely academic. Let’s have the cold trail.”

  “The Demarest reception, sir.”

  “Mrs. De Lee Demarest?”

  “The same, sir.”

  “Her reception was quite an affair, Scuttle. Seems to me we received an elaborately engraved invitation, did we not? The body of the invitation was engraved, the name scrolled in by hand. Rather on the ornate side.”

  “Yes, sir. And you perhaps remember reading of what happened, sir? The gems, the cash, all looted clean—the most carefully planned robbery in the past five years, sir.”

  Lester Leith poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, creamed and sugared it, lit a fresh cigarette, and sat back in the chair. There was a flickering gleam of real interest in his eyes.

  “I never read the newspapers, Scuttle. You should know that. The crime news is all that interests me, and I have you to clip that. But a robbery of that nature interests me. It’s a wonder our zealous friend Sergeant Ackley didn’t suspect me of the job. Being a society robbery, I presume his first thoughts would be of me. And I suppose the robbers were attired in evening clothes, Scuttle?”

  Scuttle, the police spy, refrained from telling Leith that he had been suspected of having a hand in that affair, that all that prevented a severe grueling at headquarters was that the police spies could account for every minute of Leith’s time on the day in question.

  “No, sir, they were not in evening clothes. In fact, it’s quite a story.”

  “Tell it to me, Scuttle.”

  “It began with a Mrs. Pensonboy Forster—”

  “What a ponderous name, Scuttle! She sounds like a mountain of respectability. One feels instantly that one should know Mrs. Pensonboy Forster, yet I don’t remember having heard of her.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed the valet. “That’s the very point. It was the name that enabled her to get into the reception.”

  “Tell me, Scuttle, was she fat?”

  “Was she fat? Why, the woman was a mountain! She weighed three hundred and fifty pounds if she weighed an ounce. And she had a cold, fishy eye that sent chills through everyone she looked at.”

  Lester Leith pushed back the empty coffee cup, blew a smoke ring.

  “Scuttle, I am going to like this case. Tell me more.”

  “Well, sir, you remember the elaborate invitations. They were printed by Garland. That is, the engraving was done by him. The names were lettered in by some artist that Mrs. De Lee Demarest secured. I understand he charged two thousand dollars.”

  “Never mind the charge, Scuttle. Mrs. Demarest has plenty of money. Give me the facts.”

  “Well, sir, the invitations were most distinctive. Each guest had one, and the invitation was in the form of a card, to be presented at the entrance. This Mrs. Pensonboy Forster drove up in a magnificent car, was assisted to the ground, sailed up the stairs, and presented an invitation. The police have it now, sir. It seems to be most regular in form, but the lettering of the name shows little distinctive mannerisms which prove it was not done by the artist engaged by Mrs. Demarest.”

  “In other words, Scuttle, the invitation was a forgery.”

  “Precisely so, sir. But the woman who presented it was so substantial, so portly, so—er—so fat, sir, that she was ad
mitted without too close a scrutiny of the invitation.”

  “But how could a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound woman pull a holdup and get away with it? Her escape, Scuttle, would be quite a problem, even for a resourceful brain.”

  “She fainted, sir.”

  “Fainted!”

  “Yes, sir. And, of course, there’s the key to the whole scheme.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The fat woman fainted, and fell downstairs, from the top to the very bottom, sir.”

  Lester Leith sighed. “What then?”

  “Well, sir, you see the reception was in the nature of an announcement party. The daughter of Mrs. Demarest had been married in Europe, and the marriage was kept secret. There was quite a romance.”

  Lester Leith sighed again, patiently.

  The valet flushed.

  “It all fits together, if you’ll just listen, sir. The marriage was performed in Europe. It was announced at the reception, given in honor of the husband. And there were presents displayed, sir. They were grouped in one of the front rooms and two detectives were employed to watch them. And, of course, the guests wore plenty of gems, sir.

  “Therefore, when the woman fainted and fell downstairs, she fell right into the front room where the detectives were guarding the presents. They tried to lift her onto a couch, sir…but three hundred and fifty pounds! They just couldn’t do it. She was a mountain of flesh, and she groaned frightfully.

  “Then there was the clanging of an ambulance gong. Of course, everyone thought one of the other guests had summoned the ambulance, sir. It came to the curb with a big sign on the side: Proctor & Peabody—Emergency Ambulance. You know the type of car, sir. But on this one the sign was so big it was almost an advertisement.”