Murder Isn't Easy

by Richard Hull

  I think Spencer’s criticism was based on the fact that I sometimes spend a few minutes in looking at the latest novelties which attract me and which I might find suitable for my personal use, but after all, if a thing compels my attention, it probably asserts the same influence on other people, and I ought to find out what the sales point is which has caused the attraction.

  Something—I forget what—had called itself to my notice that day and I had been discussing it with someone on the stand and telling him that the merits of the product fully justified extensive advertising. He must have had some control of the business because he demurred as to the expense. He had not, he said, unlimited capital. In, I must admit, a rather lordly way, I told him that we could often arrange that. I gave him our card. After all, if NeO-aD is never to nod, one must take every opportunity, however unlikely.

  I might have talked to him longer, but that a curious-looking man came up and apparently wished to talk to the stallholder. I did not realize then, as I did later, that he had been standing there for some time, but when I did become aware of his presence, I moved off at once. I had sown the seed for what it was worth—nothing, as it happened, but one must try—and I had no desire to run the risk of being a bore by pressing myself and our claims on him further. That sort of mistake I leave to Spencer.

  Accordingly I stepped back, and, true to my policy of finding out what type of man was attracted by any particular thing, I studied the strange individual who was now talking to the stallholder. He was, as I have said, a curious-looking man, probably foreign, but I found it hard to place his nationality. Dark, rather swarthy, with little beady black eyes, and a chin faintly blue. I at first put him down as a Frenchman, save that no Frenchman could have worn a tie whose colour scheme was such an offence. I was wondering if he might be Italian, rather than Portuguese, when I saw that he had noticed that I was still there, and anxious not to be guilty of a breach of good manners, I wandered off. As a matter of fact I had seen a refreshment room and was tired after a heavy day. Tea would be pleasant, and well-earned.

  I had hardly sat down at a rather depressing little table—it was artistically wrong in that it was trying to be too perfect, and anyhow I hate imitation flowers—when the little man came in.

  He looked round the room until he saw me and then, to my surprise, came straight up to me.

  “Ah, monsieur”—a low bow, rather embarrassing in a public place—“your glove.”

  It is extremely irritating to lose one glove, almost worse than losing a pair. I must have laid it down on the stall when I got out my business card. Naturally I thanked him politely. But I suppose I must have been more than usually civil to him as he was a foreigner. At any rate I impressed him prodigiously. Considering how valuable a client I think he is going to be to us, it only shows how wise casual politeness is.

  But I anticipate.

  At the time he had no more idea of my line of business than I had of his. In fact I discovered something about his first. He had, naturally enough I suppose, sat down beside me, and I felt that I ought to say something, if only to prove that the English are not so frigid as they are alleged to be.

  “You will pardon the question, but I was wondering just now—I hope you will not think me inquisitive, but do you by any chance come from Italy?”

  “From Italy?” His eyes flashed. “Monsieur, you should be more careful. The Italians–––” he flashed off suddenly into a stream of comments in his own language. Fortunately no one could understand them, but even so, coupled with his yellow and magenta tie and black suit, his elaborate bow, and his grey suede shoes, he attracted a considerable amount of attention. I began to think that I had better find an excuse to leave, but there was my tea and anyhow, apparently, I had annoyed him. I felt I had to stay. I am glad now that I did.

  Eventually he began to calm down.

  “Monsieur, monsieur, you should not mention Italy to me. A bas, Mussolini! I am”—he thumped his chest dramatically—“Rrumanian.” (Well, he pronounced it like that.) “M. Tonescu,” he added, waving a card towards my plate with a dramatic gesture of so sweeping a nature, that he planted it firmly in a chocolate fancy cake. It stuck in it, like one of the notices at a cocktail party, describing which kind of sandwich is which.

  “Ah, pardon, monsieur.” With more restraint he presented me with another.

  I have never quite known what I ought to have done about the first one. Eventually, when we left, it was still embedded in the sticky mess, and I had not the courage to mention it to the waitress, so that I still feel that I owe that restaurant the price of a chocolate cake.

  However, at the moment, I was more engaged in restoring peace. I apologized for my error. The English were always so ignorant, I pleaded. I went on to hope that he was enjoying his stay in England.

  “Alas! Monsieur, I have no time for enjoyment. I am here on business. There must be no pleasure till that is done. I have an invention—oh! so excellent!—which I and my friends intend to place on the market here, for it is in this country that the great sales”—his emphasis of ‘great’ was positively inspiring—“are made. Ah, of a certainty, I see a great future for us. Everything is ready. We have the manufacture plans abroad, we have the shipping arranged, it needs only but two things.”

  “And those are?” I asked. I had already begun to see a chance for NeO-aD. You never know when business will not crop up.

  “Firstly the capital. That is easy. We have that nearly arranged. We are not like your friend down there”—he waved a hand in the direction where I had left my glove. “The restriction on export of the lei—our Rumanian unit of coinage, monsieur—it has caused a little trouble, but that is nearly overcome. Besides, we need here only enough to cover the—how do you call them?—the selling costs. That will be easy. In six months, it will be done and there will be great profits for all of us. And while that arranges itself, I study the second thing. Your British sales methods. It will not do, monsieur, to present my great invention to this country as I would in Rumania. No, no.”

  Of course, by now I was quite sure that there was a chance for us. Here was a point of view that was so sensible. He was perfectly right. Despite the fluency with which he spoke English, there was the accent—a charming sing-song lilt which made the slight variations in the stress of the words a pleasure to listen to. Above all, there were the eccentricities of dress. He would be certain if he carried out his own invention to offend English taste in some way. Here, clearly, was an opportunity where we could help. I took the liberty of expressing my admiration for his acumen in foreseeing the difficulties.

  “Curiously enough,” I went on, “I believe I might be able to help you.”

  “You, monsieur? But I thought there was a fate which had made me pick up your glove! But how would you help? I heard you talking just now of finance—you will pardon the liberty, but I could not avoid. There is no need—or at least, very little need—of finance.”

  “The company of which I am the chairman” (well, I ought to be and it sounded more authoritative) “has made a special study of modern sales methods. We are not haphazard. Our methods are the most up-to-date and scientific possible. We are capable of advising you as to everything connected with the subject, from the preparation of wrappers for your boxes, or containers for your packages whatever it may be, through all the complicated processes of catalogues, literature to the trade and so on, right up to the preparation of press advertising. In short, we know how to approach the buyers of every trade as well as the public.”

  My heart warmed at the thought. I had always wanted to be in from the very start at the birth of a new product. I could see, too, that I had made a definite impression on the mind of Tonescu.

  “So.... Indeed.... Then clearly this is fated! Yes, you shall help me with my great invention.”

  I began to get a little cautious. After all, it was a very definite rule of NeO-aD that no client should be accepted without the consent of all three directors. Barraclough ha
d originally wanted it for some financial reason or another and I had backed him up so as to retain real control. But though of course the rule had never been directed against me, still, perhaps it would be as well to humour Barraclough. Besides, I was always a stickler for the proprieties.

  “I hope so, I am sure. But Monsieur Tonescu, I must get my colleagues’ consent before we begin to act.”

  “Your colleagues? Ah, yes. There are many?”

  “Two.”

  “But you are the chairman?”

  “Yes, actually. Though not in name. Of course they are really subordinates of mine, but I prefer to work with them as fellow directors of the company. I am sure you understand.”

  “But perfectly. And what are their particular departments?”

  “One of them is supposed to get the business—though in this case”—I gave a little laugh—“I seem to be doing that. The other is concerned with finance.”

  The mention of Barraclough’s activities hardly seemed to interest Tonescu.

  “Ah, yes, finance. But that, I told you, is all arranged. I think my friends would not consent to part with any of their share in my invention.”

  Up to that moment, as a matter of fact, I had not considered the idea that we wanted to do anything of the kind, nor had I, so far as I could remember, suggested anything of the sort. Perhaps M. Tonescu’s understanding of English, though it appeared to be perfect, had betrayed him for once. In any case I should not pursue that point further at the moment. I should content myself with bearing it in mind. I turned the conversation, therefore, to a slightly different angle of the same topic.

  “But you have not yet told me what your invention is.”

  Tonescu looked round rather in the manner of a stage conspirator.

  “Here I would hardly like to say—not in detail. One does not know what ears overhear one. I will just whisper to you very quietly.”

  Really the scene must have been slightly ridiculous. Whispering in public is always absurd, but particularly so when the man who is imparting confidences is as flamboyant and theatrical as Tonescu. Nor could I really see why he could not say openly of what type his invention was. The details of the process perhaps should have been given in confidence, but I had not asked him for anything of that kind, nor probably would it have conveyed any meaning to me if he had. However, if that was Tonescu’s way of doing things, I had to put up with it.

  There seemed to be nothing particularly secret about his communication, though that his invention, if it really worked, was a good one, I had no doubt. He claimed to have discovered a process by which glass would not become clouded by steam or heat and which would cause water to run off it quickly. Tonescu was all for praising its value for the looking-glasses of bathrooms. It just shows how the foreign mind can get lost as to the habits of another country. Tonescu, coming from Rumania, a country where I believe there are practically no bathrooms, had heard British habits of cleanliness spoken of so often that he considered anything that could be used in connection with washing, to be all important. As for its obvious principal use, for the windscreens of cars, I doubt if he had ever thought of it!

  Chapter Six

  But really, Nicholas, you know it’s preposterous.”

  That was the way, if you please, in which Barraclough received my news. As for Spencer, he just sat there grinning sardonically. I could see that he was determined to disapprove. In fact I expected him to be in opposition, but for the present, Barraclough was doing his work for him. There was no need for Spencer to take any action as yet.

  So far as Barraclough was concerned, I was not really surprised, either. He had always a kind of automatic resistance to any new idea, bred simply by his natural timidity. He was afraid, that was all it was. His first reaction to anything was always to see the difficulties; give him time in which to accustom himself to the new idea and he would come round. Meanwhile I had to humour him by taking his objections seriously and meeting them squarely with logic.

  “It is a little startling, I admit. One does not often get such a chance thrown at one so easily, I know. Still, even as to that, I think I may say that I acted with vigour. We should not have got this opportunity if I had not made it.”

  “I wonder,” broke in Spencer. “Oh, not what you mean, Nicholas. I am not implying that you did not do your best, but I wonder why the opportunity fell so pat. Quite sure this man, Tonescu, was not aware all the time who you were? Is it possible that he overheard your gossip with this fellow on the stall?”

  I think it was the word ‘gossip’ which annoyed me. It was not the first time that Spencer had implied that my conversations with prospective clients were mere idle chatter, and that I said more to them than I should. I was sure that in fact Tonescu had had no idea who I was when he returned me my glove; therefore any discussion as to the possibility of his having known, was a mere waste of time. But if once I admitted that I had been talking about NeO-aD while Tonescu was within a hundred yards, I should never convince either of my co-directors of the fact. So I decided quite simply—and I think quite wisely—to suppress the incident.

  I hardly worried to reply to Spencer. Instead, I turned to Barraclough and asked him for his reasons for pouring cold water on the whole affair.

  “It’s like this. Here is a process which every motor company in the world has been searching for. Just think of the sum in cash down that Morris or Austin or Ford would give for the sole rights to use such a patent. For that matter, think how much research has gone on by every company that makes cars—and they can afford to employ the ablest men—to find out just such a thing. And then you arrive with a man you pick up casually at the Allied Drug Trades Exhibition–––”

  “I did not ‘pick him up’. I object to the phrase.”

  “Well, word it that you hooked him with a cast baited with one glove.”

  This, I need hardly say, was Spencer’s flippant intrusion. I treated it as it deserved, by ignoring it while Barraclough went on as if neither of us had spoken.

  “—who announces that he has this invention and thinks that it might be useful in bathrooms—who is proposing to market it in this country with every expectation of making handsome profits, but without being aware of its principal and most obvious use. To my mind it is too ingenuous.”

  “Especially when you add the appearance of Nicholas’s friend.”

  Spencer’s interruption gave me my clue. It is very remarkable how a fool will always destroy the case he is trying to make.

  “But that is exactly the proof! Here you have a man who is completely ignorant of the world. The roads in Rumania are very bad, I believe. Probably they very rarely see a car–––”

  “I should think it is far more likely that they never see a bath.” (Spencer again.)

  “I see no reason why either of you should be rude to the Rumanians,” Barraclough went on. “Latimer’s story certainly shows that they know all about baths, or at any rate about English habits, and everybody knows about cars and the difficulty of driving in the rain.”

  “No. That’s exactly it. Everybody does not know about the difficulty of driving in the rain, because everybody is not cursed with the English climate. In many places it is either fine and you can drive or it is wet and the roads become impassable. Rumania is probably one of them.”

  “Just as a pure question of fact, Nicholas, do you know anything about the climate of Rumania? I mean, do you know that the roads there are really impassable in wet weather for the cars which you have just told us are not there?”

  A preposterous question, and so like Spencer. Why should I have any special knowledge on such a subject, and why should he twist my words round so?

  “Only what every schoolboy knows,” I answered.

  “And that is?”

  “What I have just said.”

  “You must have been to a very remarkable school where they give you very unusual, but very practical, information.”

  “That’s right. Now start sneering.
Even if you were at a better-known public school, there is no need to be offensive.”

  “Stop it, both of you.” I had never known Barraclough be so firm before. “We are discussing the question of what action to take about Tonescu and his invention. Not your old school ties. Nor even the climate of Rumania.”

  “Quite right. Do bring Nicholas back to the point.”

  “I like that. I was just proving to you why your suggestion that Tonescu must have known all about the advantages of his invention for driving in rain was not certain, when Spencer pulled the conversation round to the subject of schools.”

  Very offensively Barraclough sighed and with laboured reticence returned to Tonescu.

  “Well,” he admitted with obvious reluctance, “Latimer complains that I have poured cold water on his project. I do not think that that is true. I think that I have only called your attention to the fact that a little obvious caution is necessary before we rush blindfold towards associating ourselves with an invention which may not prove to be all that it is supposed to be—of which quite frankly I have considerable doubts.”

  I decided to see what he wanted. Very often Barraclough’s bark was worse than his bite. He might only require quite simple precautions.

  “Exactly what do you mean?” I asked.

  “First I suggest that we have a look at this compound of his and test it out ourselves.”

  I nodded. There could be no harm in that.

  “In the second place, I should only accept orders for work after taking considerable financial precautions.”

  “You mean?”

  “Payment in advance.”

  I jumped up at that.

  “A very ingenious way of killing the whole thing. No one would accept such an insult.”

  “Why not?” went on Barraclough. “If he is as ignorant of English habits as you say, you might induce him to believe that it was the normal practice. In point of fact I have heard of its being done. If that cannot be arranged—and you may shake your head as much as you like, Latimer, I think it could—you might point out that his financial backing is abroad and that he himself spoke of the difficulty of exporting capital. Incidentally I am going to see if I can find out if that statement is right or not.”