The doctor spread his hands. ‘I can’t say the exact time of death, but I’d swear on oath it was long before this morning.’
Mrs Bates sighed. ‘I don’t know. I mean—heart attack, you said?’
The doctor nodded. ‘Classic case. Nasty time, too, Christmas Eve. Not exactly the best Christmas present for his family.’ He looked at the young man lying on the carpet, the red costume still by his side. The beard, twisted by his hand, seemed almost to be smiling, as if it knew better.
THE SHOW MUST NOT GO ON - David G. Rowlands
David G. Rowlands (b. 1941) is one of the best short story writers working today. This new (hitherto unpublished) story features the Schneiderman & Murray Investigation Agency, and is also an affectionate pastiche of H. C. Bailey’s ‘Reggie Fortune’ stories. Lady Chantry (see ‘The Unknown Murderer’ elsewhere in this anthology) is also mentioned in this story.
In affectionate memory of Mr H. C. Bailey, whose ‘Reggie Fortune’ still forms part of my favourite reading.
‘For the Dead travel fast’—Dracula
It was the opinion of Mr Fortune afterward, that the case afforded the best example of the use of disease in the world. His Hon. Sidney Lomas, Head of the CID, retorted that without Mr Fortune’s incredibly diffuse knowledge and acquaintance, the case would never have become complex. Superintendent Bell was content to observe that it was just another example of Mr Fortune’s uncanny feel for a case. However all that was afterward.
The suburb of Westhampton is complacent and smug and would certainly not welcome notoriety. Yet for a brief spell, one Christmastide in the 1920s, it attracted sensational attention.
It began when Mrs Elizabeth Folsom of the Westhampton Players went downstairs in the early hours of the morning to see what had delayed her husband—and fell over his body. Judging from the marks on the floor, he had crawled from the study to the foot of the stairs. Her shrieks aroused servants and neighbours who drew the constable on the beat. He reported by telephone to his station sergeant, who in turn called the local doctor, Mr Fortune Senior.
It happened that Fortune Senior, together with Reggie’s mother, was away for Christmas and had reluctantly left the practice in the irresponsible hands of his son and heir. Reggie had given up local practice for Wimpole Street and was complacently ecstatic, having married Miss Jane Brown, otherwise Joan Amber, after a long engagement. A late dinner at his father’s house saw him later to bed, hoping fervently that no night calls would disturb him.
Indeed he looked so cherubic and innocent asleep that Gorton—his father’s factotum—hesitated to wake him. The housekeeper, Mrs Wix, was of sterner stuff however, despite a fondness for her ‘young master’ of three decades.
Arriving at the Folsom’s villa, Reggie was met by Inspector Mordan, in those days still with the Westhampton Force.
‘Blest if I can see what killed him, Mr Fortune. But he’s dead all right.’
‘Is he though?’ purred Reggie. ‘Well, that’s one little fact at any rate.’
He busied himself about the body, peering into the eyes, smelling at the mouth. Then, on his knees, but keeping out of the direct line of the man’s travel, he followed back the scuff marks on the carpet into the study.
The chair at the desk had tipped over backward... a typescript lay on the floor and, twisting his head, Reggie read the title: UNDEAD.
‘Hmm,’ he grunted, ‘not very appropriate here, at any rate. Playing locally, Mordan?’
‘What’s that, sir?’ asked the Inspector, who had followed on Reggie’s heels.
‘Is that the play the Westhampton Players are doing? The Undead?’
‘Yes, at the Community Centre, I believe. Always popular at Christmas, Mr Folsom’s plays. Evening thriller for the adults and pantomime matinée for the kids. I took the family to an Edgar Wallace last year: lots of secret passages and revolving bookcases... that sort of thing.’
Reggie looked around the study, at the objects on the desk.
‘Well, no revolving bookcases here,’ he sighed.
He went to the window, which was closed.
‘No sign of an entrance, Mordan?’
‘None, Mr Folsom always locked up early, according to his wife.’
Reggie returned to the body, just as other police were arriving. He asked the photographer to pay attention to certain details. Then he sat back on his heels.
‘Dead about an hour, Mordan. No signs of violence. Interestin’ case— his eyes... well, have a word with the Coroner. I’d like to have a look at the body in the mortuary, if it won’t upset any of your officials.’
Inspector Mordan grinned, recalling his earliest encounter with the ebullient young doctor.
‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements, Mr Fortune.’
Two days later Reggie strolled into the Scotland Yard rooms of the Hon. Sidney Lomas, who was heavily jocular.
‘Damme, Fortune, is your old man’s practice too busy for you? Had to reduce it by creating a corpse or two, eh?’
Reggie surveyed him gloomily. ‘Those he wishes to confound, he first makes foolish. Prime example bein’ the Head of the CID.’
‘Nothing organically wrong with the corpse, Lomas. No failures, no seizures. Apparently in perfect health.’ He flopped down into a chair squirming on the base of his spine. ‘Yet the man’s dead. No sign of any other presence on the scene.’
‘There you are, then. Natural Causes. Trouble with you, Fortune, you look for mystery where there is none.’
Reggie became plaintive. ‘Not me. Not so’s you’d notice. I believe in evidence. What about this then? Facts unknown to the Hon. Lomas and the CID. Two other members of the Westhampton Players died that night: man and woman, two miles apart. In both cases, no apparent cause ... like Folsom. One of ’em, man living on his own, had tried to struggle out of bed, but succumbed to whatever it was: no violence. The second, a maiden lady living with her sister. Survivin’ sister not a member of theatre company. In that case, sister woke thinking she heard a cry... went to the actress’s room and found her on the floor, same as Folsom. She expired just as the lady got to her, sayin’ something like “red-eye”. Far as I can judge they all died within the same hour, probably within minutes of each other!’
Lomas whistled in mock concern. ‘Red-eye, eh? There you are, Fortune, done by Whisky Bill.’ He sobered a little. ‘It’s deuced odd, though, I grant you. Three dead, same time, three miles apart. Your Daddy is not going to be pleased. You are supposed to look after his practice, not decimate it!’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose the play will not go on now; that’s something Westhampton is spared.’
Reggie had been glaring at him from the depths of his chair, but suddenly sat up.
‘That bein’ so,’ he said, ‘you might give Mordan some help. Put your people on to these dead persons... what they have in common beside the Players; do something to justify your existence!’
Lomas stared. ‘What have you in your mind, Reginald? I know that look of yours.’ He stopped and held up a hand. ‘No, on second thoughts, I don’t want to know about it.’ He reached for the phone as Reggie went out to lunch.
Normally Reggie did not talk ‘shop’ or crime with his wife, but after discussing the Christmas concerts and his marionette theatre and the latest soufflé Elise, he asked her about the Westhampton players.
‘A good little repertory company, I believe,’ she said. Ted Folsom was noted for his adaptations, though not always scrupulous about rights and licences. His dramatizations were more to avoid legal charges of plagiarism than they were good theatre.’
Mr Fortune left her to dress for a tea visit and went to his laboratory, where he busied himself with the grim business of Esmee the stoat.
He had intended to visit the widowed Mrs Folsom, but she came to the surgery one evening. ‘Oh, Dr Fortune,’ she gulped, when ushered into the consulting room. She was very pleasant to look at and he patted her hand, then began to ask questions. How many actors were there? Several in minor
parts but only four principals of whom three died the same night. Of course the theatre had closed... all those children disappointed of their pantomime... and at Christmas too!
Reggie leaned forward. ‘Who was the fourth?’
Oh, Willy Rattu: a professional actor who had fallen on hard times. She chose her words carefully, to imply that he was often the worse for drink and self-pity.
Did they get on? Yes, reasonably well. Billy always thought that he knew it all. There were lots of arguments during rehearsals. They were at loggerheads over the play they had currently been doing, The Undead. (She coloured slightly. ) It derived from a ‘shilling shocker’, The Vampire. The author was long dead, some sort of relation of Willy’s. Indeed Willy had suggested the play, hoping that some performance fees might come to him. But of course being a rep company, they were unable to pay such fees. Ted ‘derived’ a similar story to avoid having to pay anything to the author’s, Samuel Broker’s, estate.
‘You will see I am being frank, Dr Fortune.’
There was little more information to be gained, so Reggie prescribed for her and promised a visit shortly. After the housekeeper had seen her out, he sank deeper into his chair, reflecting.
‘Queer lot the Old Fellow’s got here.’
He and Joan were to join his sister—the one who married the Treasury official—on Christmas Day, and before departing he went round to visit William Rattu.
The actor inhabited a rather down-at-heel house for Westhampton. The door was opened by an indolent manservant who winked when asked for his master.
‘Yessir. I’ll see if he’s awake. But after Christmas Eve... well, you know,’ (again the wink) ‘he likes to lay in.’
Rattu was a cadaverous individual, garbed in a creased, stained dressing gown, and with all the symptoms of insobriety. Reggie took his hand, felt the pulse and looked into the man’s eyes, holding up the lids; all of which Rattu bore indifferently.
He agreed that he had drunk himself silly on the evening of the deaths after an argument with Folsom over the play.
‘S’not right, Fortune, story was written by my Uncle Samuel, gaw bless him, pinched by Teddie Folsom and we’re not gettin’ a penny.’ He giggled. ‘I went and told Uncle Samuel, too.’
Reggie sat up from lolling on his spine. ‘He’s alive then?’
‘Ha, ha! Not he! Buried in the churchyard,’ he leered knowingly, like a caricature of his valet, ‘suffered from the clap he did and they wanted to cremate his body. But the fambly refused... and so I went to tell him: how Folsom was cheatin’ the fambly.’ He sighed, passing a hand over his unshaven face. ‘I must have fallen asleep there, for next thing I knew my man Morton had brought me home.’
On his way out, Reggie spoke to Morton.
‘That’s right, Mr Fortune. The sexton of the church phoned me—in a rare taking he was—said it was real spooky up there: dogs howlin’ and all, and the master asleep among the tombs and he not able to wake him. I took the car and sure enough, there he was, lyin’ across a mound, dead drunk and all a-twitch. As I carried him off, there was a biggish bat a-flappin’ round me, for all it’s winter time and freezin’ cold.’
Reggie touched his shoulder. ‘Look to yourself too, Morton. We must get Mr Rattu into the Cottage Hospital. I’ll arrange the ambulance. He has meningitis. You may need to call my father in future, but I’ll leave him notes.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
A call from Sergeant Underwood came through just as Reggie was leaving to join Joan.
‘Nothing, Mr Fortune. All clean so far as we can tell. Nothing to connect the people together, other than the play-acting.’
‘Sorry, young fellow,’ said Reggie. ‘I could have saved you the bother if I’d thought this through a little more quickly.’
‘Never mind, sir; you see more than we do—always. Oh, Mr Lomas says “Happy Christmas” to Mrs Fortune.’
[Interpolation by Mrs Sheila Murray of the Schneiderman & Murray Investigation Agency, from notes in her casebook.]
I arrived downstairs one morning a few days after Christmas to find my husband in conference with a friend who rose to greet me. He was short and innocent-looking—almost cherubic—with an engagingly shy and childlike expression, belied by a pair of eyes that looked dreamily enough through half-closed lids, yet I was conscious of being shrewdly studied and analysed. Another of them!
‘Sheila, my dear. Let me introduce Reginald Fortune, one of my brighter Oxford students, now active in the same criminal investigations as ourselves, but on the more factual plane; in fact, a surgeon and consultant to the CID.’
‘Reginald. This is my wife and partner.’
We shook hands and Mr Fortune waited for me to sit down.
‘Reginald is married to Miss Joan Amber: you will remember her Rosalind as the definitive performance.’
Mr Fortune bowed modestly, blushing slightly.
‘Reginald has an interesting problem involving simultaneous, unexplained deaths in his father’s practice. Since he is supposedly looking after it, he wants us to probe via Nat Schneiderman. I have appraised him of our techniques and since we conducted a number of psychic experiments together at Oxford he wishes to partake in the inquiry. Please take notes as usual.
‘Reggie has a theory that he is holding out on me, but he has forgotten his old tutor’s aptitudes and I think I can link up the chain myself.’ (Mr Fortune smiled broadly at this. )
‘Briefly the details are these.’ (He recounted the sequence with which the reader is already familiar. ) ‘I guess he wants to know how Rattu effected the killings without leaving any traces or clues, eh?’ My husband turned to his pupil who nodded.
In accordance with our practice, I darkened the room for the seance and placed cushions for Arthur to relax. It seemed only a few moments before he sat up in the character of Nat Schneiderman, a dead Pinkerton Detective Agency operative, who was his ‘guide’ in the psychic realm.
Mr Fortune took it very calmly and shook hands when Arthur spoke in a heavy drawl and stuck out a hand. I began my transcription.
‘Glad to meet you, Mr Fortune. I admired your work with Lady Chantry, last Christmas sir. Just great! It’s not often we see summary justice. Say, would you care to speak with the lady?’
Mr Fortune held up his hand with a grimace.
‘Ah, well, just a thought.’ Arthur shook his head.
‘This Westhampton stunt then. You ain’t quite got it right. Ole Nat can still show you sumpin’, eh? You have a vampire here, sir, and quite a potent one. You spotted actor Rattu had contracted syphilitic meningitis... good. There’s your proof he was used by his uncle. Old Sam’s earthbound spirit was mad at the cheatin’ over income from his book. He got into William’s drunken mind, just as I use Art here, and killed the other three principals, includin’ the actor-manager-playwright.’
‘How did he do it?’ asked Reginald.
‘Takin’ the vital force from them: spirit, not blood—that’s vampirism. The dead’uns are right here now; guess they’re jest too flimsy in spirit to get through to you. OK. We got work to do—or you have, I guess. Unless old Sam is stopped, he’ll spread that disease around. He’s gotten in quite a lot of living force. Get him exhumed and cremated.’
Reginald leaned forward. ‘That explains a lot and I don’t know how you found out...’
Arthur laughed. ‘Like you, Mr Fortune... intuition.’
‘But, look here... there’s no justice I can achieve except to ease Rattu’s suffering, eh? Surely you aren’t goin’ to tell me I shall find the uncle’s coffin full of blood and him floatin’ in it? The murderer is already dead and buried.’
‘No, siree,’ came back emphatically. ‘He’s undead. Oh, yeah, he had to get into Rattu first, but now he’s sucked in life force from three others. He’ll sure try to get around and spread that pox. You want an epidemic?’
Mr Fortune rose in the dark. ‘Brer Lomas is going to love this! There never was a more perfect official. Ought to have
married my sister! Well, that seems to be that Mr Schneiderman, Mrs Murray. Except for one thing... ?’
‘Yep?’ ‘How did Uncle Sam manage to kill all three so quickly and at more or less the same time? That seems even more incredible than the rest of this astoundin’ business!’
‘Heck, don’t call him “Uncle Sam”, Fortune! An’ have you never heard? The dead travel fast!’
‘I assume you are joking, Fortune?’ Lomas crossed one elegantly socked and trousered leg across the other and leaned back in his chair. ‘I can’t apply for exhumation of a 20-year old grave on the basis of this moonshine you’re spinning. Be reasonable, man! Why, there’s not even a shred of tangible evidence against Rattu himself.’
‘You might credit me with some common sense,’ said Reggie, ‘same like I can’t do for you. No, the CID prefer a few more corpses to justify making a decision. Prevention of crime not in the police vocabulary.’
‘Now, be fair, Mr Fortune,’ said Superintendent Bell heavily. ‘We can’t go outside the rules.’
‘No, you’re safe there,’ hooted Reggie. Take no chances!’
‘Why not try the traditional remedies,’ sneered Lomas. ‘A sprig of garlic or a stoup of holy water. Haven’t you a crucifix at home?’
‘The method that commends itself to me, Lomas,’ shrilled Reggie, ‘is that of cutting off the head and putting an apple in the mouth. I could do that to you. If it was fashionable to stop wearing hats, you’d have no further use for your head!’ He stamped out in a bad temper.
‘Dammit, Bell,’ said Lomas, ‘we’d be crucified putting up a story like that as reason for exhumation.’
‘I know, sir. But you can’t get away from it: he’s usually right.’
Richard Dalby (ed) Page 19
