Lestrade and the Deadly Game

by M. J. Trow

  ‘When did you see him last?’ He gave her a moment.

  ‘I hadn’t for some months,’ she said. ‘I’ve only been in England for five days. We wrote regularly, of course. It’s funny. I was going to look him up . . .’ Her voice tailed away again and she turned to the wall. Then she stamped her foot and turned back to face him, forcing the tears back. ‘Tell me, Mr Lestrade, do you carry a gun?’

  ‘A gun?’ Lestrade was surprised by her question. ‘No, why do you ask?’

  ‘In Washington the police carry guns,’ she told him. ‘Do you have any weapon at all?’

  He hesitated for a moment, then pulled his hand from the pocket of his jacket. His knuckles gleamed with brass. She raised an eyebrow in surprise. It lifted still further as Lestrade flicked a switch and a short blade flashed silver in the sunlight.

  There was a gasp from a passing verger who stood nearby, his mouth hanging open like a gargoyle.

  ‘Use it,’ she said flatly. ‘On whoever killed Rudi. I’ll help you all I can.’

  ‘So, what have we got, Walter?’ Lestrade absent-mindedly stirred his tea. Beyond the window, the breeze from the river drifted in from time to time. The arc lights along the Embankment twinkled like so many stars on the hot summer night. The rattle of the last motor bus died away along Whitehall. Starry, starry night.

  ‘Hans-Rudiger Hesse,’ Walter Dew began, unlacing his boots. ‘Do you mind, guv’nor? I’ve been on my feet all day.’

  Lestrade nodded his assent. As other people’s sweaty feet went, he was most at home with Chief Inspector Dew’s.

  ‘Much respected and well-loved newspaperman. Over here to cover the Games. Been in England for a couple of weeks. Spoke English like a native – is that sort of pigeon, sir?’

  ‘Never mind the pigeon, Walter. What else do we know?’

  ‘Hesse was knocking on. Due to retire in a few months. He’d worked on various German newspapers in Berlin and Munich. Did some freelancing. Been in the business thirty years and more. Nobody has a bad word to say for him . . .’

  ‘According to Miss Adams.’

  ‘. . . According to Miss Adams. What do you make of her, sir?’

  Lestrade looked at the chief inspector. For a moment he thought he saw the light from the lamp catch a grey hair, but it must have been his eyes. And the fact that it was nearly midnight. ‘I don’t know, Dew. She’s very young. I get the impression she’s caught up in a man’s world and finds some of it a bit tough going. On the other hand . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘On the other hand, she seemed very keen to bring Hesse’s murderer to book.’ He remembered the incident with the switchblade. ‘Quite happy for me to kill him, whoever he is.’

  ‘Get on!’ Dew looked up, shocked. ‘Funny lot, the Americans.’ He shook his head. ‘That Roosevelt bloke now. Fancy having a cowboy for President!’

  ‘Ours not to reason why, Walter,’ Lestrade reminded him. ‘What did you get from Hawkins’s Division?’

  Dew consulted the book again. ‘Apart from the Chestertons who you talked to, the only other occupant of the house in Freedom Street is a Mrs N. Thrawl. Refused to give Sergeant Valentine her Christian name, though he reckoned it was Nutty. Or her age. But he assumed eighty if she was a day.’

  ‘Did she know Hesse?’

  ‘No. She’d heard him moving about above her apparently, but it says here “deaf as a horse trough” so I don’t know how much credibility we can give her.’

  ‘Eighty?’ mused Lestrade. ‘Too frail then to pin a full-grown man to his desk with a letter opener?’

  ‘Valentine says shaky on her pins. Takes all her time getting to and from the privy.’

  ‘No maid?’ asked Lestrade.

  ‘Daily woman.’

  ‘That’s what I could do with,’ a cheery voice called as it passed the door. ‘Night, guv’nors.’

  ‘Night, Hollingsworth,’ Lestrade answered.

  ‘I’ll swing for that constable,’ muttered Dew. ‘No respect at all. It’s the Education Act, of course, that’s what’s done it. Putting schools in the hands of County Councils. It only produces people like him.’

  ‘There, there, Walter,’ Lestrade patronized. ‘Somewhere underneath that cheeky exterior there lurks a good copper. Indulge him. You’ll find it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ sighed Dew, ‘maybe. What did you make of the Chestertons, sir?’

  ‘Eccentric, Walter. What should I make of them?’

  Dew shifted uneasily. Lestrade recognized all the signs. Any minute, he’d get up and stroke his moustache. Then he’d pace the floor. Then he’d start counting on his fingers.

  ‘Well, guv’nor.’ Dew stood up. ‘As you know, I have a few literal pretensions myself.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Walter.’ Lestrade kept his face poker straight. ‘Your Great Work.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The fingers smoothed down the clipped moustache. ‘My magnum opium. Well, I know a bit about these writer blokes – how their minds work.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Dew began to prowl the carpet, like a tiger at Regent’s Park. ‘Chesterton is a writer. I checked on him myself. Wrote The Napoleon of Notting Hill.’

  Lestrade was unimpressed. ‘Doesn’t know much about history, then?’

  ‘And all sorts of articles and reviews. The point is, guv’nor, he’s an ambitious bloke who’s going places.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ Dew’s left thumb came into play, the first of many digits to appear. ‘Chesterton invites Hesse to that flat. He knows of his reputation already and resents it.’

  ‘And?’

  The index finger pointed skyward to join the thumb. ‘He waits until his old lady is out of the house . . . where was she?’

  ‘Shopping in Battersea High Street.’

  ‘Right.’ Dew’s middle finger flicked upwards. ‘Chesterton calls on Hesse in the middle of the morning, engages him in conversation. Hesse lets him in. He knows the only other person in the house is old Mrs Thrawl in the flat below. And she’s as deaf as a floorboard.’

  ‘So?’

  Dew’s ring finger stood to attention. The finger that bound the good chief inspector body and soul to Mrs Dew, mother of all the little Dews.

  ‘So Chesterton chats to him, biding his time, waits till his back’s turned, then sticks him with the letter opener.’ The little finger had joined the rest.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Lestrade after a pause.

  ‘I’ve run out of fingers, guv’nor,’ Dew admitted.

  ‘Indeed, Walter. But I’m afraid there are five things wrong with your theory.’

  ‘Oh?’ Dew was crestfallen. ‘As few as that?’ He knew when to play the underdog. All the time.

  ‘First,’ Lestrade lifted Dew’s thumb. ‘Chesterton didn’t invite Hesse to the flat. The landlord did – a bloke called Perceval. I’ve checked him and he’s clean.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Second, I checked on Chesterton too. He doesn’t remotely write the same sort of stuff as Hesse.’ He peeled back Dew’s index finger. ‘And he writes it in English. In other words, there’s no need for any professional jealousy. It’s a bit like Mr Edward Henry and Chief Superintendent Abberline. One’s a real copper. The other’s an idiot. Chalk and cheese.’

  He prised up Dew’s middle finger. ‘Third, Mr Chesterton has an alibi. He said he was at Fleet Street on the morning of the murder and he was. I checked when I was there this morning. He arrived at The Printer’s Devil at nine sharp and went from there to The Wayzgoose at just after eleven. He didn’t leave until midday.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Dew. ‘What’ll he do when this new licensing bill comes in?’

  ‘Same as the rest of us, Walter,’ sighed Lestrade. ‘Jump on the wagon. Fourth, Stockley Collins came up with the fingerprints from the flat. No dabs at all except Hesse’s, Perceval’s, a set that turned out to be a cleaning lady’s – oh, and six sets belonging to various constables from Hawkins’s Division – remind me to have a word with him abo
ut that.’

  ‘Chesterton could have worn gloves, sir.’ Dew tried to curl his fingers down.

  ‘And fifth,’ Lestrade bent back Dew’s pinkie. ‘I’ve been a copper man and boy for more years than I care to remember. Chesterton is not the murdering type. Trust me.’

  ‘I do, sir,’ Dew said, reluctantly, staring at his upright fingers. ‘Shall I put these away now?’

  ‘Yes, Walter,’ sighed Lestrade. ‘Even so, you were right about one thing.’

  Dew’s face lit up. ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘The murderer wore gloves.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, Walter.’ Lestrade took the unprecedented step of crossing the room to pour his own cup of tea. ‘That is the mark of a careful man. An informed man.’

  ‘Informed, sir?’

  ‘Fingerprints,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘But we’ve been doing those now for . . . ooh . . . seven years.’

  ‘Yes, except that Hawkins’s Division doesn’t seem to know that. And remember, there’s still only one case on record where the sole evidence was dabs.’

  ‘The Stratton Brothers, three years back.’ Dew’s knowledge was fast becoming encyclopaedic.

  ‘The Stratton Brothers,’ nodded Lestrade. ‘Which brings me to another point.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  Lestrade stared out of the window at his own reflection lit by the lamps. ‘Hesse was killed with his own paper-knife. It had “Made in Germany” written on it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dew remembered. ‘It said, “A present from Munchengladbach”.’

  ‘Which indicates,’ Lestrade was talking to himself, ‘a spur of the moment thing. Otherwise, the murderer would have brought his own weapon. Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘But a man who kills another on the spur of the moment, by snatching up a paper-knife, perhaps in the middle of an argument . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Dew was on the edge of his seat.

  ‘Does such a man wear gloves, Walter? Does such a man come and go like a ghost with no one to see or hear him?’

  ‘So where does that leave us, sir?’ Dew asked.

  ‘Lost,’ admitted Lestrade, turning from the window. ‘And I can’t help wondering why Hesse came to see me. And what did he mean by that message – “Nana Sahib”? Walter!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘If you want to know the time, what do you do?’

  ‘Er . . . you ask a policeman,’ Dew answered.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Lestrade. ‘Get me Sergeant Jones or Sergeant Dickens. They’re both walking bloody encyclopaedias. And I want some answers.’

  Three Men in a Boat

  T

  he Games began that summer at the White City, that most magical of buildings, at once like the Taj Mahal and the Kremlin with just a hint of the Brighton Pavilion; its domes and turrets, its minarets and ogees reflected in the waters of Shepherd’s Bush, pumped there by mile on labyrinthine mile of best British plumbing.

  It seemed that everyone in Europe stood on the sweep of the terraces, boaters and bonnets nodding with plumed hats in the summer sun. The top hats of the Olympic Committee shone like black beetles among the magnolias of their ladies and none more gracious than the Queen herself – God Bless Her – radiantly limping around the podium beside the magnificent figure of the King, resplendent in thirty yards of navy blue, beribboned and laced as an Admiral of the Fleet. To the fluttering of Union Jacks and the deafening cheers of an adoring crowd, he gave a speech, first in English then in French.

  Lestrade stood flanked by Dew, Valentine and Constables Bourne and Hollingsworth at the far end of the terrace. A slightly nervous little man with eyes darting in all directions stood a little behind the King to his right, his hand thrust into his inside pocket with all the nonchalance his neurotic character could muster. It was Superintendent Quinn of the Special Branch, guarding His Majesty on this auspicious occasion.

  ‘Who’s that up there with Superintendent Quinn?’ Lestrade muttered.

  Bourne was rather taken aback. He was wearing a natty little number in green velvet. ‘That’s His Majesty, Superintendent,’ he explained. ‘The King.’

  All eyes looked at him.

  ‘Manpower may be stretched to the limit,’ said Lestrade, ‘but I’m not exactly cock-a-hoop over your breeches, Bourne. Like many other things they went out with Oscar Wilde. Go home and change.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Bourne bridled and the band struck up ‘God Save the King’.

  ‘God save us all,’ muttered Dew and glanced at Hollingsworth, who winked at him.

  ‘What are we hoping to achieve, sir?’ Valentine asked Lestrade.

  ‘Damned if I know,’ the superintendent told him, ‘apart from a stiff neck and aching plates. At least you can tell your grandchildren you saw the Games at first hand.’

  ‘And Twenty-One Events,’ said Dew. ‘Nothing like it seen before.’

  ‘Do you mind if I mingle, sir?’ Valentine asked Lestrade. ‘I get bored standing still.’

  ‘Feel free,’ Lestrade told him, glad that Constable Bourne had gone before hearing that particular order. ‘Gentlemen, I suggest we do the same. Something. Anything. Remember, someone wanted Hans-Rudiger Hesse dead. Perhaps it was someone here,’ and he moved off.

  ‘Well,’ said Hollingsworth, tilting back his regulation boater, ‘it won’t take us long to ask these seventy thousand a few questions, will it?’

  Other anthems struck up, one by one, as the athletes beneath their straining flags paraded round the track. First, as the host country, the British with the Union Jack on their vests. There was a huge feminist cheer from the distaff end of the stadium when the Ladies’ Team walked by. Then the Germans and the Austrians in their navy blue with eagles akimbo, the Swedes in their white flannel and the French, whose Exhibition was next door, in their red, white and blue. Superintendent Quinn at least breathed a sigh of relief: no green, white and purple in sight. Mrs Pankhurst and her Suffragettes were having the day off.

  A terrible cacophony burst from the band. The only one on the podium still smiling was the Queen.

  ‘What is it, dear?’ she asked His Majesty.

  ‘I was wondering that myself. Quinn, what’s that noise?’

  Superintendent Quinn had made a special study of these things. It went with the job. ‘It’s the American National Anthem, sir,’ he said.

  His Majesty nodded and turned to the Queen. ‘He says it’s a terrible row, dear.’

  She looked at the athletes with the stars and bars on their chests. ‘They may be Americans, Bertie,’ she scolded him, ‘but I don’t think they’re any rowdier than anybody else. You must remember, they are still a very new country. Oh, just look at those young Turks,’ she cried as their crescent banner rounded the track. ‘What grace. What movement.’

  And the band played on.

  Detective Sergeant Dickens of the Metropolitan Police was the only policeman, apart from McDowell and Sergeant Henri La Touque of Hainault, who spoke French. So it was that he had been drafted into the wilds of Shepherd’s Bush to cope with the Exhibition. The equally well-read Detective Sergeant Jones had been drafted unaccountably to the Mounted Division at Imber Court, where he was neither use nor ornament, but spent his days checking the animals for glanders and farcy and reporting to Inspector Edgar-Smith, who was polishing his truncheon and champing at the bit to ride against the Suffragettes. So it was Dickens whom Lestrade found, surrounded by cases of French wine and up to his whistle in French cheese of a particularly noisome variety, as the crowds milled to watch the opening events.

  ‘Stadium, stadium, stadium, stadii, stadio, stadio,’ Dickens declined as he reclined for the benefit of a passing public schoolboy. ‘Ah, morning, Superintendent. Come to rescue me?’

  ‘Go on, Dickens, you’re loving every minute of it.’ Lestrade flopped beside him on a wicker chair under the shade of a marquee – a French one, of course.

  ‘I’d rather be out
solving crimes, guv, than playing nursemaid to these Frogs.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m here, Dickens. Any of this wine drinkable?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Right. What do you know about Nana Sahib? Is it German?’

  Dickens looked puzzled. ‘No, sir. Indian.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Nana Sahib. Born about 1821 into the Brahmin caste of the Mahrattas. His name was Dundhu Panth and he was adopted by the last Peshwar, Baji Rao. We wouldn’t give him a pension after his father’s death in 1853 and on the outbreak of the Sepoy War at Meerut (10th May 1857) he declared himself Peshwar and attacked the British garrison at Cawnpore. Women and children were put to the sword under his orders after he had promised them safe conduct by river. He fled before our relieving forces into the Terai jungles of Nepal where, legend has it, he died. Any help?’

  Lestrade closed his mouth. ‘You couldn’t be more specific, could you, Dickens?’ he asked.

  ‘No help then?’

  Lestrade shook his head. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said. ‘What do you suppose that has to do with a murdered German journalist?’

  ‘Ah, Hans-Rudiger Hesse. I thought you’d be on that one. The Mail said it was Hawkins’s case.’

  ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they? There isn’t another Nana Sahib, is there?’

  ‘Not that I know of, sir. I’d have to look it up.’

  ‘Do that, sergeant.’ Lestrade got to his feet. ‘I must mingle. What is it they say? “Women must weep and policemen must mingle.” Is that it?’

  ‘Something like that, sir. Bonne chance, as they say,’

  ‘Do they?’ Lestrade wandered away, fanning himself with his bowler. ‘Do they?’

  Fair stood the wind for France that Tuesday. The Sorais dipped and butted in the white caps of the Solent to the enthusiastic cheering of the crowd. She was crowding all canvas and her decks were awash, but still the Cobweb held her off. The boom was sounded to mark the end of the race and Blair Cochrane stood on the Cobweb’s bows, wet but happy. On the Sorais the Duchess of Westminster did not assume that position. Watchers from the piers noted that she crouched on the deck with the men in her crew. Only one was not crouching. He was lying motionless among ropes and rigging, his crew mates hammering in vain at his chest. The eight-metre class race, like his life, was over.