Swing Low, Swing Death

by R. T. Campbell

  He must have been up earlier than I thought, for the Bentley was standing in front of the gate. With fear and trepidation I climbed in. As I fear I say too much about the old man’s driving, I will merely state that it was as bad as usual, but that we reached Iron Street safe in wind and limb, if not in mind.

  The Museum could not have been long open, but already there were large crowds of people gathered before it, trying to get in. I thought it would take hours before we did get in, but the Professor just shouldered his way through the crowds. When people complained too audibly he growled, in a most unofficial tone, “Police,” and we went through.

  We did not hesitate at the gallery, which was crammed like the floor of a night club, but went on up the stairs to the library. There was quite a large collection of people there too. Douglas, looking the picture of gloom, sat behind a large black desk. He was flanked by the figures of Mr. Carr and his mother, who were seated in steel and fabric chairs.

  “Hullo,” said Douglas miserably, “I’ve got the hell of a hangover. Did I drink the hell of a lot last night, Max? I thought I was rather moderate.”

  I answered him truthfully. I had to admit that he had drunk rather a lot the previous evening, and I had had my doubts about the wisdom of trying to liven up bitter with large brandies. Douglas nodded his head, and then looked as if the action hurt him seriously. He put his hand on the top of his head as if to find whether it was still there.

  “Hullo, hullo, hullo,” said Mr. Carr. I was to learn that this was his usual form of greeting. “How’s detection going this morning, cock? Come to arrest me?”

  “Hardly,” said the Professor kindly, “I don’t think things have come to that yet. Though they may, they may.”

  The thought of the possibility in store for him did not much perturb Mr. Carr. Mrs. Carr withdrew a bottle. Her son turned to her sternly.

  “Not at this time of day,” he said, “It’s a bit early. You just wait till I tell you that it’s time for a drink. She,” he turned towards us, “has a hangover like nobody’s business and the only cure she knows for it is a hair of the dog. I told her that lemon gin was not the same as lime, but she would insist on diluting ordinary gin with it. When I was at Rugby,” he looked sternly at Douglas, who was too engrossed in his own troubles to pay any attention, “I used to think there was nothing like a good cold bath for a hangover. But she won’t take a bath. I think she’s like the old woman in Ireland who attributed her great age to the fact that she had a bath once a year—whether she needed it or not.”

  “Water,” said Mrs. Carr suddenly, “terrible stuff. I once drank some by mistake and I was in my bed for three weeks. Chill on the stomach it was. Take my advice and I’m old enough to know—never you touch water. There’s too much of it about in my opinion. If there was less water and more alcohol it would be a better world to live in.”

  “Ma’am,” said the Professor deeply, “I cannot say how profoundly I am in agreement with you.”

  “I was brought up on water,” the old lady went on inconsequently, “but I haven’t touched it since I was eleven, excepting that time I took it by mistake. I thought it was gin. That’s the only trouble about gin. It looks like water and I don’t like being reminded about the stuff. Ugh.”

  She shuddered violently. I began to wonder whether I was to stand a whole morning’s discussion on the faults of water. Douglas groaned quietly. He looked paler and more miserable than usual.

  “But,” said the old man, “with all due respect to ye, ma’am, I didn’t come here this mornin’ to lament the abundance o’ water in the world. I came here to try an’ find out a bit more about the murder o’ Mr. Julian Ambleside.”

  He fished out his pipe and lit it. The one quality which I think Professor Stubbs shares with Sherlock Holmes is an ability to enjoy really strong tobacco early in the morning. Holmes smoked the pipe-dottles of the previous day, while the old man merely goes in for the strongest and vilest tobacco he can find.

  “Now, Douglas,” he boomed and various people who had looked in at the door of the library vanished, “if it’s not shakin’ you too much in yer present state, I wonder if ye’d mind shewin’ me the place where ye kept the photographs which were stolen.”

  Douglas got up delicately. He moved across the floor as if he was an unskilful skater on very slippery ice. He opened the drawer of a sort of filing cabinet and took out a brown cardboard folder. He brought this back to the desk and laid it down. He reseated himself carefully and opened the folder.

  “My God,” he said blankly, “here are the photographs that were missing. Someone has put them back.”

  He took out a fat wad of photographs and laid them on the desk. He turned them over slowly. Then he turned them over again. He looked up.

  “So far as I can see,” he said, “they are all here. Though I must say I don’t see how they got back. I was looking at the files yesterday and I’m sure that the photographs were not there then. I was thinking that I would have to get down to the job of writing catalogues of the photos on the front of each folder and I decided that as I had so much to do, I would let it ride for a day or two. I meant to get started this morning, but I haven’t felt well enough and, anyhow, there have been too many people popping in and out to let me really get settled. But, I am sure I looked at the Chirico folder for I remember thinking that there was not much point in doing it if all the best photographs were missing. Someone must have replaced them sometime during the day yesterday when I was busy downstairs. But I can’t see why. I suppose, though, that whoever borrowed them was ashamed to admit they’d not asked for them, after I kicked up that row about them not being here.”

  “Uhhuh,” the Professor grunted, “an’ is there a photo of the picture that was destroyed among ’em?”

  “Yes,” said Douglas, rooting through the photographs and holding one of them out, “here it is. It’s a photo that was taken in Paris in 1917. If you want a more modern one you can get it from Cooper’s, in Hendon.”

  The Professor took the photograph and looked curiously at the long arcades and the rose tower and the lonely statue in the foreground.

  “D’ye mind,” he said, “if I borrow this for a little. I’ll give it back to you when I’ve finished with it and I promise that I’ll take great care of it.”

  Douglas looked doubtful, but then his face cleared. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t borrow it,” he said, “after all we’d more or less written the Chirico photos off as lost. But I would like to have it back when you have finished with it. You know, I really was worried about these photos going astray. You see, I’m in charge of this damned library and I feel a bit responsible for the things in it. I don’t like losing things that don’t belong to me. When they belong to me it’s another matter. I’m always losing things. Perhaps it’s because I’m always losing my own things that I loathe the thought of losing things that belong to other people.”

  While he was speaking he was putting the photograph in an envelope with a cardboard back. The envelope, designed by Jan Tschihold, shewed that it came from the Museum of Modern Art, Iron Street, London, W.l. It looked very pleasant. As Douglas had said, Emily had spared no expense in getting up things about the Museum.

  The Professor took the envelope and slipped it into an immense poacher’s pocket inside his jacket. Mrs. Carr watched him closely, and gave a friendly cackle.

  “Useful thing that pocket,” she observed to the world at large, “if I had that pocket I could carry several bottles instead of only one measily bottle which doesn’t hold enough for two.”

  As the bottle which she withdrew contained Drambuie, I was rather reminded of the Oxford character who remarked that a goose was a silly bird, too much for one, but not enough for two. Mrs. Carr looked at Mr. Carr with a sort of dumb appeal. He nodded and she uncorked her bottle and let some of the contents trickle down her throat. I listened to the gurgle. She replaced the cork.

  “Sorry,” she said conversationally, replacing the bottle
in its hiding place in her robes, “as I was saying, that’s the trouble with a bottle. Not enough in it.”

  “Thy need,” said Douglas solemnly, “is greater than theirs.”

  “Exactly,” said Mrs. Carr in a pleased voice. Her expression added that, no matter how hard she had tried, she couldn’t have put it better herself.

  We were just about to leave Douglas to his fate among the ravening and bibulous Carrs when we heard the faint whine of the lift. The door of the library opened and the figure of Dr. Cornelius Bellamy presented itself in the opening.

  “Hullo, hullo, hullo, Doc,” said Mr. Carr in a friendly come-hither voice, “Nobody murdered you in the night, what?”

  “Good morning, my dear Carr,” said the Doctor in a voice that killed all flippancy and rebuked Carr for his lack of taste.

  The old man chewed reflectively at the stem of his pipe. He emitted some of the most noxious fumes I have ever encountered. I stood there and said nothing. I could not think of anything I wanted to say.

  “It’s very odd, Dr. Bellamy,” said Douglas, “you know the photos that were missing?” The Doctor nodded his head portentously. “Well, they’ve all turned up again. When I looked in the file this morning, there they were.”

  Dr. Bellamy looked irritated. “My dear Douglas,” he said loftily, “we are surely not concerned with the vagaries of a packet of photographs, are we? I came up to see whether you were busy, as we could do with an extra assistant downstairs. The crowds are, I may say, quite unbelievable. Some of those who have come to mock will, I hope, stay to stare and admire.” His voice sounded rather as though he was not propounding a statement in the truth of which he had any faith or conviction. He continued rather nervously, after a gentle cough, “The trouble at the moment seems to be that a certain rowdy element has entered with the enquirers after aesthetic qualities, and this—ah—element shews an inclination to disport itself in ways that are not in keeping with the traditions of a Museum. I have already had to rescue the large Calder and one of dear Moholy’s constructions from their, if I might say so, none too tender clutches. I fear, in addition, that the soluble saucepan and the decanter of green ink have suffered beyond all hope of repair.” His voice took on a savage tone, “All I can hope is that the ruffian who drank the green ink under the impression that it was green Chartreuse will suffer the severest pangs of arsenic poisoning. I may say that I have great hopes that he will—for the ink was of French manufacture and not of English and, I believe that on the Continent, they are less particular about such qualities than we are here.”

  “But,” said Douglas unhappily, “I can’t leave the library. Just imagine, Dr. Bellamy, what would happen if these fellows got in among the books. They would destroy them completely. I can’t leave this place to its fate as you suggest.”

  “My dear boy,” said the Doctor airily, “surely you can lock it up?”

  “How?” said Douglas in a rude voice, “There isn’t any lock on the door.”

  This seemed to be something the Doctor had not expected. He looked very astonished.

  “If there was a lock,” Douglas went on, “I’d have locked up every night and then we wouldn’t have had that trouble over the photographs. Nobody would be able to get in when the place was deserted.”

  Dr. Cornelius Bellamy seemed to be a bit distressed by this. Suddenly I realised that the old man was trying to say something to me. I edged a bit closer to him.

  “Try yer hand at controllin’ the crowds, Max,” he urged in an undertone, “Offer him a hand.”

  I did not particularly wish to become a sort of policeman, but it occurred to me that I would be as usefully employed doing that as standing around listening to the Carrs and their nonsense. I do not know whether there was some telepathic connection between my thoughts and the questing subconscious of Mrs. Carr, but whatever it was she spoke before I had time to open my mouth.

  “Ah, the Doctor himself, dear man,” she observed and took out her bottle of Drambuie. She wiped the mouth of the bottle on her cloak and held it out to the Doctor, “Won’t you have a drink, dear man? It’s a damnable good drink and it will put the fire of the Lord into your veins. Come on now, take a swig.”

  The Doctor backed away from the bottle which she presented at his middle with the determination of a gangster with a Thompson submachine gun. He looked nervously at Ben Carr, who came to his aid.

  “Put your bottle away, mother,” he said, “Perhaps the Doc don’t want a drink at this time of day, what with the sun not over the foremast and all the rest of it.”

  Mrs. Carr looked at the bottle lovingly. I could see that she thought it would be a great shame to put the bottle away untasted, so she sampled it herself.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” she observed darkly, with the air of a Sibyl issuing an ultimatum, “You’ll never find a better whisky in a thousand years.”

  I thought it was time I pushed in what I had by way of an oar, so I said, “Dr. Bellamy, couldn’t I give you a hand downstairs with the crowd? I don’t think the Professor wants me for anything at the moment, do you, sir?”

  The old man shook his head, scowling. He loathes being addressed as “sir.”

  Dr. Cornelius Bellamy looked at me. I could see that his sharp and all-observant eyes were taking in the fact that my jacket had patches of dark leather on the sleeves and cuffs. He hesitated for a moment before he replied.

  “Well, that would be very nice of you,” he said, and smiled the condescending smile of an archangel, “but I’m not sure that you could manage the crowds satisfactorily.”

  “He’ll manage them better than I could,” said Douglas suddenly, “He has been a Regimental Sergeant-Major.”

  It was nice of Douglas, but quite inaccurate. The highest I got was being a flight-sergeant in the Glider Pilot Regiment. However, the Doctor did not ask for details but turned again to me, “In that case I think that I can say that I am grateful for your offer of help and am pleased to accept it.”

  We went towards the door. I did not want to go, because I wanted to see what Professor Stubbs was up to, for I felt sure that he had some plot which was boiling up. The old man, however, made no effort to detain me, so I went after the Doctor.

  Anything which I had imagined downstairs was beside the truth. There were people everywhere, like flies on a piece of carrion under a hot sun except that the flies have a reason for being there and these people had no reason for their existence, let alone for being in the Museum of Modern Art. On the way down, Dr. Bellamy had explained that he wanted me to walk around with the crowd, and, when I saw anyone touching anything, to put it to them gently that the thing was fragile and valuable.

  I certainly had a job. It seemed to me that the one aim in life of about ninety-six per cent. of the people there was to destroy something. I managed to rescue the fur-covered teapot from the hands of a small girl who had decided that she wanted to take it home. She was, I think, without doubt the most horrible small girl I have ever met. She had a round face which looked as though it had been parboiled and stringy yellow hair hung in a fringe over her forehead. She kicked up such a row when I took the thing away from her that I would quite gladly have stuffed it down her throat and choked her. I had not, I think, ever felt a genuinely homicidal impulse before, but now I understood all about it. I regret to have to confess that, as she started her bawling when I tried to seduce the damned thing from her by niceness, I was quite unnecessarily rough in wresting it from her. Her mother looked at me as if I had really hurt the child. I was rude to her too.

  So, it can well be imagined that I was in anything but a quiet frame of mind when the old man came for me at lunch-time. I could have kicked him for letting me in for the job.

  “Hullo, Max,” he said cheerfully, “How’d ye get on?”

  “Hellishly,” I said going into the sulks. “I never want to do a job like that again as long as I live. If the gallery had not been crowded I’d have murdered the most terrible, horrible,
beastly little girl I’ve ever met. I never realised before that so much beastliness could be crammed into a child of five. God help her mother. And I mean that, for no one else will.”

  “Ah, well,” the old man was soothing, “you’ll get over it. Let’s go an’ have a drink, for I’m sure you’re needin’ one.”

  That was a sensible suggestion, so I went and had a drink with him.

  “I got to go to Hendon this afternoon,” he announced, “I want to get a photograph.”

  “What the hell for?” I asked irritably, “You got a photograph this morning and it’ll be just the same.”

  “Uhhuh,” he nodded, “but I want a more modern photo. Some of these old ones aren’t clear enough for me purpose. For what I want to do I need one of Copper’s photos. They have the negative an’ I have the number of it.”

  I didn’t know what he meant to do with photographs. I didn’t much care, for I was still haunted by the vision of that most horrible of all female children, with her sulky, down-turned mouth and her nasty little spiteful nose. (I think I have forgotten to mention that she bit my thumb to the bone when I took the teapot from her—this may help to justify my anger and obsession with her. My thumb was sore.)

  “All right,” I said, “and have you heard any more from the Bishop about the case? You said you’d ring him early to-day, didn’t you?”

  “Uhhuh,” the old man nodded, “he’s been looking into Ambleside’s affairs in the hope of finding some sort of clue, but there’s not much help there. He had at various times paid large sums to a great number of people, including both Francis Varley and Dr. Cornelius Bellamy, but as the Bishop says that they both dabble in dealing to help out their incomes, the payments were probably made for pictures which they sold him. It is improbable that any dealings which were not strictly above board would have been so obviously entered in his accounts.”

  “Did you say,” I asked, “that Dr. Bellamy dealt in pictures? I would not have believed that he would have sunk to sully his hands with the dirt of commercial gold?”