Lestrade and the Deadly Game

by M. J. Trow

  Lestrade felt the prickles rise on the back of his neck. ‘What did he do, Tom?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Gregory had difficulty in remembering. ‘Made a bolt for the door, Sholto.’

  But Sholto Lestrade had done that himself.

  Back to the old places. Where it all began. And all the way, he kicked himself. It was always the obvious things. The things that stared you in the face. He caught the Underground train despite the fire at Moorgate. After all, lightning didn’t strike twice. Only boilermakers did that. He caught a cab to Berkeley Square. There was no Inspector Bland now. There hadn’t been time. He toyed with shoulder-barging the door, but it appeared to be made of solid granite and, anyway, passers-by might call a policeman. Softly, softly, then. But first, a little something for the weekend.

  He hailed another cab and spent several minutes arguing directions with the growler. And while he did so, he carefully removed several hairs from the hackney’s tail. The surly beast turned to look at him reproachfully and snorted in the hames, but other than that, let him carry on. Luckily, he had found the only masochistic cab horse in London. As the growler flicked his whip, Lestrade turned again to his first obstacle. One click of the switchblade in the right place and the great door swung back. He closed it behind him with a heavy click. Here the hall was cool in the August noonday. He pocketed the knuckle blade and made for the stairs, twisting the greasy hairs as he went. By the time he reached the door of the apartment of the late Anstruther Fitzgibbon, it was ready. Here was the second obstacle, less formidable than the first. But it was no obstacle. The door swung wide under the weight of his fingers. Odd. Bland’s information was that Fitzgibbon lived alone save for Botley, the manservant. There appeared to be no manservant. No one at all, in fact. Yet the front door to the apartment was open. Had the Bolsover brood sold up? Was Lestrade now breaking and entering into the premises of someone else? Unlikely. Bolsover was a living vegetable, according to the papers. And his only surviving children had scattered to the winds. Who could have sold it?

  Lestrade reached the bedroom door. He placed his fingers against the brass knob. He turned it once. It rattled. But it stood. He wound the horsehair into a little loop, fixing it half-way down its length with a knot which would have pleased Baden-Powell. Then he placed his nose against the woodwork. Its flat tip might have been made for the purpose as it roamed over the surface. Like a demented bloodhound on its hind legs he sniffed the panel. Then he felt it. Too fine for his fingers to have detected, his nose recoiled and he plucked the tiny splinter from it. He took off his boater, snapping the rim still further so that a sharp piece of straw stuck out. He poked it in the appropriate place, routing out the resin with the spike. The damn thing broke at first then he realized it slid right through the door without difficulty. He didn’t think it would be that easy. Why had he missed all this when he was here before? He poked the horsehair loop through the tiny hole. A perfect fit. He jiggled it first this way and then that. Then he had it and he jerked sideways. He heard the bolt slide back and he breathed again. Just to make doubly sure, he stayed where he was and slid it back. He heard it snick shut. He was right. Thank God for boring old Tom Gregory and his chance remark. He flicked the horsehair strands again and the bolt shot free. He turned the knob and the door opened. But wait a minute, he reasoned, if the door opened . . .

  A hand snatched his tie and he was yanked into the room. He felt a powerful thump across the back of his head and he nosedived on to Fitzgibbon’s bed. With a mouth full of eiderdown, he was aware of his right hand being twisted behind his back. Rolling sideways, he threw his assailant over and hit him with a pillow. Feathers flew in all directions and the room appeared full of snow.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ two voices chorused fluffily and two men knelt upright on the bed, one with a pistol cocked and extended, the other with a switchblade catching down.

  ‘Inspektor Lestrade,’ said one, a little crestfallen.

  ‘Inspector Vogelweide,’ said the other. ‘Two minds with but a single thought, eh?’ Lestrade retracted his blade. ‘Would you mind?’ He gingerly pointed the German’s revolver muzzle elsewhere.

  ‘Ach, zorry,’ Vogelweide apologized. ‘Does zis mean vot I sink it means?’

  Both men eased themselves off Fitzgibbon’s four-poster and produced their identical loops.

  ‘Znap!’ said Vogelweide.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Lestrade. ‘Yours appears to be made of wire.’

  ‘Ja. It is faster. Goes through ze wood easier.’

  ‘Which is why my straw went in so easily. And why the hole was easier to find. You’d beaten me to it.’

  ‘Ach,’ Vogelweide blushed modestly, ‘only by a few zeconds. No zooner had I zlid back ze bolt zann I heard your straw in ze lock. How did you vork it out?’

  ‘We have our ways at Scotland Yard.’ Lestrade remained inscrutable.

  ‘Ach, so,’ said the German, ‘a lucky guess. I, of course, vas vorking from virst prinziples.’

  ‘Really?’ Lestrade refused to be impressed.

  ‘I hev to confess it vas an Englishman who pointed ze vay, ztick in my craw to admit it zough it doez.’

  ‘An Englishman?’

  ‘Ja.’ Vogelweide crossed to the barred window. ‘John Radcliffe. He wrote a novel called Nena Sahib.’

  ‘Don’t you mean Nana Sahib?’ For Lestrade some of the pieces were starting to fit.

  ‘Nein. I mean Nena Sahib. Viz an “e”, not an “a”.’

  ‘So that’s why Jones couldn’t help.’

  ‘Excuze me, please?’

  ‘Nothing. Go on. What has this to do with the death of Anstruther Fitzgibbon?’

  ‘Viz Fitzgibbon, very little. I am only conzerned viz ze death of Hans-Rudiger Hesse.’

  ‘In that case,’ Lestrade began pulling fluff from his hair, ‘you’re in the wrong room in the wrong part of London.’

  ‘Nein. Zis case is most material to ze death of Hans-Rudiger.’

  ‘Would you like to enlighten me?’ Lestrade was never too proud to ask for help. Even from a Kraut.

  ‘Of course. Are you zitting comfortably? Zigar?’

  ‘Havana?’

  ‘Nein. Turkish.’

  ‘No, thank you. Someone once told me not to trust them.’

  ‘Ach, vell, you are probably right,’ but he lit up anyway. ‘I understand zat Hans-Rudiger came to visit you at Zcotland Yard?’

  ‘Yes. I was out,’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No. But apparently he left a message for me.’

  ‘“Nena Sahib”,’ the German said.

  ‘As I now realize, yes. How did you find this out?’

  ‘Zat lanky schwuler in ze funny clothes who passes for a detective. Ze one who was following me viz all the subtlety of an airship.’

  ‘Constable Bourne.’

  ‘Ja. Before I brought him back to his ztation in life, I extracted zome information.’

  ‘I’ll have his balls for that,’ Lestrade commented.

  ‘I fear it may be too late,’ Vogelweide said ruefully.

  ‘At very least, he’s going back to Lost Property.’

  Vogelweide nodded. ‘I regret zat Hans-Rudiger did not zee you. If he had he might have been alive today.’

  ‘And I regret that he was so cryptic. What did the message mean?’

  ‘Ach, zese journalists. He obviously thought that the novel Nena Sahib would be known to you. Let me explain. Many years ago, Herr Hesse made his name as a crime reporter.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘In 1881 he covered one of Germany’s most zelebrated crimes – ze Beck case in Berlin.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Vogelweide sensed Lestrade’s ignorance. ‘Ze detective vorking on ze case vas Commissioner Heinz Hollman.’

  Lestrade remembered that name. He’d heard it at the Art Forgery class. Hadn’t he painted Henry VIII?

  ‘Konrad Beck was a . . . how do you say it . . . costermonger. He sold costers f
or a living.’

  ‘Is that a crime in Berlin?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Nein. But ze hanging of your wife and children, zat is a crime.’

  ‘Beck did that?’ Lestrade was horrified. Thank God the British just knocked their families about.

  ‘Ja. It looked like zuicide. Frau Beck and her children were found hanging in a locked room. How, Hollman wondered, could a mother ztring up her own children like zat?’

  ‘Was she highly strung?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Ze answer was zimple. She didn’t. Beck killed his entire family and greased ze bolt zo zat he vas able to lock it from ze outside by inzerting a loop of horsehair through a tiny hole. I used vire to test zis case. Unlike you I had no aczess to horsehair.’

  ‘I don’t understand where Nena Sahib comes in.’

  ‘Hollman noticed zat in Beck’s apartment zere vas a German translation of zat novel. It fell open at a page vich described ze locked-room murder exactly as Beck carried it out.’

  ‘So when Hans-Rudiger read about the death of Fitzgibbon, he immediately realized the significance.’

  ‘Ja. Und came to zee you.’

  ‘So someone came to see him.’ Lestrade stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘Prezisely.’ Vogelweide leaned back, his exposition complete.

  ‘Who?’ asked Lestrade.

  Vogelweide’s complacency vanished. ‘I haven’t ze faintest idea,’ he said. ‘I am ezzentially ze zort of policeman who deals in ze “how” of murder. I leave ze “who” to others.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ smiled Lestrade.

  You could probably count on the fingers of one hand (and policemen habitually do) the number of times a superintendent of Scotland Yard had walked into that establishment carrying a bow and arrow. He got some odd looks from passers-by and some odder ones from the uniformed men who saluted him. Was this it? Had the legendary Lestrade cracked at last? He was at a very funny age.

  ‘Right, Imbert,’ he snapped at Special Branch’s latest desk man on the shady side of the building. ‘Is your boss in?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m afraid Superintendent Quinn and Chief Superintendent Abberline . . .’

  ‘. . . are not up to snuff. Yes, I know. Never mind. The Italian this way?’ He brushed past the bewildered twigs of Special Branch who were loafing around looking for someone foreign to arrest.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go . . .’

  But Lestrade had. He helped himself to keys dangling from the peg and let himself into the tiny cell in the quiet corner of the Yard. Behind him was the ominous steel door that led to Quinn’s Quadrangle. Only once had he entered that room and the objects therein made the Holy Inquisition look like a Sunday school. He glanced at the ripped and bleeding fingers of the Italian.

  ‘How did that happen?’ he asked.

  The little man with the huge eyes and upside-down moustache stood up feebly at his arrival. ‘I fell on the tracka, sir,’ he said.

  Lestrade looked at the manacles around his ankles and the heavy iron ball rolling ponderously between them. ‘Imbert!’ he roared. The constable of that name popped his head round the corner. ‘Undo these things now.’

  ‘I can’t do that, sir.’

  Lestrade left the cell, ostentatiously leaving the door wide. He placed an avuncular hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Constable, do you know a man by the name of Richard Grant?’

  Imbert thought for a moment. ‘No, sir. I don’t believe I do.’

  ‘Well, he is a newspaperman. Or at least he works for the Daily Mail. If I were to have a word in his ear about the state of that prisoner and that cell, you and Mr Quinn would be out of a job.’

  ‘I can’t help that, sir.’ Imbert stood to attention.

  ‘All right,’ sighed Lestrade, ‘let me try the more direct approach. If you don’t take those manacles off I’ll smear you all over the wall.’

  Imbert’s composure cracked. There was something in the Super’s eyes. He dived to the ground and in the twinkling of those eyes, the chains were gone.

  ‘Thank you, thank you, Inspectore,’ the Italian jabbered, kissing Lestrade’s hands as he re-entered the cell.

  ‘Not at all.’ Lestrade stepped back. ‘And that’s Superintendente, by the way. Now, Mr Dorando, is it?’

  ‘Si, Pietri, signor. Dorando Pietri. Ata home in Italia, I maka da candy.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lestrade perched on the iron bedstead and patted for the plucky little runner to sit down. ‘Now Mr Quinn – he’s that nice gentleman with the bald head who has been lighting the matches under your fingernails – Mr Quinn tells me that you say you killed Tyrrwhit Dover.’

  ‘Si.’ The Italian burst into tears. ‘I did. I ama guilty. Confessa me, Superintendente, for I hava sinned.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Imbert, have you a handkerchief? I always like young constables to carry handkerchiefs.’

  ‘Here, sir.’ Imbert was still watching those eyes carefully. Lestrade passed it to the Italian much to Imbert’s silent disgust and Dorando blew his nose like a Howitzer going off.

  ‘There now,’ said Lestrade. ‘Suppose you tell me how you did it?’

  ‘Ah, si. I shotta him with a bow and a arrow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Whadda you meana why?’

  ‘Well, you must have had a reason for killing him.’

  ‘Ah, si. He . . . er . . . made fun of the gloriousa Italian team.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Si. First, he pooh-poohed our gloriousa band. He said we didn’ta have enough instruments. “Just onea cornetto,” he said, witha the contempt. Third, he laugheda at our water polo, say we didn’ta have gooda enough horses. Thingsa like that.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Lestrade humoured him. ‘Motive enough there, certainly. How did you do it?’

  ‘I tolda you. Witha the bow anda the arrow.’

  ‘Could you show me?’

  Dorando hesitantly took Lestrade’s bow. Then he took the arrow.

  ‘You wanna me to fire it in here?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Lestrade said, ‘that won’t be necessary. Thank you, Mr Pietri. I’ll make arrangements for you to be moved to more comfortable quarters. Good-day.’

  ‘Wait,’ Dorando called after him. ‘Don’ta you want to know how la killed your Queen Victoria? Youra Lord Nelson? Youra . . .’ and Imbert slammed the cell door shut.

  ‘I’d like to know more about that Lord Nelson business, sir,’ he said to Lestrade.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this, Lestrade?’ Superintendent Quinn had returned.

  ‘Let him go, Paddy.’

  ‘Let him go? Have you been drinking? He killed Tyrrwhit Dover.’

  ‘Look, if you suggested it, he’d say he killed Cock Robin.’

  ‘Aha.’ Quinn’s eyes lit up. ‘With that bow and arrow. Yes, I see. Is that it? Is that the murder weapon?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Lestrade, ‘except that if Dorando used it on Dover, it was nothing short of a bloody miracle.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because when I asked him to show me how he did it just now, he didn’t even string the bow.’

  ‘So?’ Quinn had clearly missed the Medieval Warfare lecture.

  ‘So it won’t work, Paddy. It can’t be fired that way.’

  ‘Well, his fingers . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Lestrade’s eyes flashed cold again. ‘I was going to talk to you about that. This isn’t the damned Dark Ages, man. We’ve got a Liberal Government. This is 1908. Dorando, apart from anything else, is an Italian subject. Do you want a war with Italy?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ Quinn shrugged. ‘We’d win.’

  ‘Of course we’d win, but that isn’t the point. With or without fingernails, if a man has used a bow to kill someone, he has the rudiments of how to fire the thing. Now, I don’t know whether it was the sun or the strain of the Marathon or whether friend Dorando is a few ice-creams short of a bicycle. But I do know this. He didn’t kill Tyrrwhit Dover. Now get him into a hospital, f
or God’s sake, before a lot of consulates get pretty plenipotentiary with you.’

  Quinn threw his hat at Imbert. ‘I told you, constable,’ he roared. ‘Next time I give you an order to release a suspect, you bloody well obey it.’

  But it didn’t fool Lestrade. He’d heard it all before.

  The hubbub in the room died down as Mr Edward Henry and Superintendent Sholto Lestrade took their places on the rostrum. There was only one room at the Yard big enough to hold a Press Conference. And this vestibule was it.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Henry, ‘we are here today to discuss certain facts with you in the light of recent events in connection with the Olympic Games here in this great city of ours.’

  The smoke curled thicker as the gentlemen of the Press and the one lady leaned forward.

  ‘Could I have a photo before we start, Mr Henry?’ a muffled voice came from under a black curtain.

  ‘No.’ Henry waved his hand disapprovingly. ‘This is not a circus, gentlemen. A number of people are dead.’

  ‘How many this morning, exactly?’ a journalist asked.

  Guffaws in the auditorium.

  ‘Eight, Mr . . .’

  ‘Hart, Daily Mail. Is it true that the Italian Dorando has confessed to all the killings?’

  ‘Well . . . er . . . Superintendent?’ Henry was a master at buck-passing.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Lestrade, who enjoyed these occasions less than his chief. ‘He has confessed to only one.’

  ‘So it was a copycat killing, so to speak?’ A crusty old Welsh voice rose from the ranks. ‘T. A. Liesinsdad, the Globe.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ answered Lestrade. ‘Mr Tyrrwhit Dover was killed by the same hand as all the others. That hand does not belong to Signor Dorando.’

  ‘To whom then? Dorian Vine, Sportsman’s Weekly,’ another voice piped up.

  Remarkably grammatical, Lestrade thought, for a sports commentator. ‘When I know that, sir, you may rest assured that you gentlemen will be among the second to find out.’

  There was uproar, papers waving and tongues lashing.