Hangman's Holiday

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘Hullo, sergeant!’ said Radcott. ‘Doing the Sherlock Holmes stunt? Show us the bloodstained footprints.’

  ‘No blood, sir, unfortunately. Might make our job easier if there were. And no footprints neither. The poor gentleman was sandbagged, and we think the murderer must have climbed up here to do it, for the deceased was a tall gentleman and he was hit right on the top of the head, sir.’ The sergeant indicated a little niche, like a blocked-up window, about four feet from the ground. ‘Looks as if he’d waited up here, sir, for Dr Greeby to go by.’

  ‘He must have been well acquainted with his victim’s habits,’ suggested Mr Egg.

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ retorted Radcott. ‘He’d only to look at the lecture-list to know the time and place. This passage leads to the Master’s House and the Fellows’ Garden and nowhere else, and its the way Dr Greeby would naturally go after his lecture, unless he was lecturing elsewhere, which he wasn’t. Fairly able-bodied, your murderer, sergeant, to get up here. At least – I don’t know.’

  Before the policeman could stop him, he had placed one hand on the side of the niche and a foot on a projecting band of masonry below it, and swung himself up.

  ‘Hi, sir! Come down, please. The Super won’t like that.’

  ‘Why? Oh, gosh! Fingerprints, I suppose. I forgot. Never mind; you can take mine if you want them, for comparison. Give you practice. Anyhow, a baby in arms could get up here. Come on, Mr Egg; we’d better beat it before I’m arrested for obstruction.’

  But at this moment Radcott was hailed by a worried-looking don, who came through the passage from the far side, accompanied by three or four other people.

  ‘Oh, Mr Radcott! One moment, Superintendent; this gentleman will be able to tell you about what you want to know; he was at Dr Greeby’s lecture. That is so, is it not, Mr Radcott?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly, sir,’ replied Radcott, with some embarrassment. ‘I should have been, but, by a regrettable accident, I cut – that is to say, I was on the river, sir, and didn’t get back in time.’

  ‘Very vexatious,’ said Professor Staines, while the Superintendent merely observed:

  ‘Any witness to your being on the river, sir?’

  ‘None,’ replied Radcott. ‘I was alone in a canoe, up a backwater – earnestly studying Aristotle. But I really didn’t murder the Master. His lectures were – if I may say so – dull, but not to that point exasperating.’

  ‘That is a very impudent observation, Mr Radcott,’ said the Professor severely, ‘and in execrable taste.’

  The Superintendent, murmuring something about routine, took down in a note-book the alleged times of Mr Radcott’s departure and return, and then said:

  ‘I don’t think I need detain any of you gentlemen further. If we want to see you again, Mr Temple, we will let you know.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly. I shall just have a sandwich at the café and return to the Bodleian. As for the lady, I can only repeat that she sat at my table from about half-past nine till just before ten, and returned again at ten-thirty. Very restless and disturbing. I do wish, Dr Moyle, that some arrangement could be made to give me that table to myself, or that I could be given a place apart in the library. Ladies are always restless and disturbing. She was still there when I left, but I very much hope she has now gone for good. You are sure you don’t want to lock me up now? I am quite at your service.’

  ‘Not just yet, sir. You will hear from us presently.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you. I should like to finish my chapter. For the present, then, I will wish you good-day.’

  The little bent figure wandered away, and the Superintendent touched his head significantly.

  ‘Poor gentleman! Quite harmless, of course. I needn’t ask you, Dr Moyle, where he was at the time?’

  ‘Oh, he was in his usual corner of Duke Humphrey’s Library. He admits it, you see, when he is asked. In any case, I know definitely that he was there this morning, because he took out a Phi book, and of course had to apply personally to me for it. He asked for it at 9.30 and returned it at 12.15. As regards the lady, I think I have seen her before. One of the older school of learned ladies, I fancy. If she is an outside reader, I must have her name and address somewhere, but she may, of course, be a member of the University. I fear I could not undertake to know them all by sight. But I will inquire. It is, in fact, quite possible that she is still in the library, and, if not, Franklin may know when she went and who she is. I will look into the matter immediately. I need not say, professor, how deeply I deplore this lamentable affair. Poor dear Greeby! Such a loss to classical scholarship!’

  At this point, Radcott gently drew Mr Egg away. A few yards farther down the cloisters, they turned into another and rather wider passage, which brought them out into the Inner Quadrangle, one side of which was occupied by the chapel. Mounting three dark flights of stone steps on the opposite side, they reached Radcott’s rooms, where the undergraduate thrust his new acquaintance into an arm-chair, and, producing some bottles of beer from beneath the window-seat, besought him to make himself at home.

  ‘Well,’ he observed presently, ‘you’ve had a fairly lively introduction to Oxford life – one murder and one madman. Poor old Temple. Quite one of our prize exhibits. Used to be a Fellow here, donkey’s years ago. There was some fuss, and he disappeared for a time. Then he turned up again, ten years since, perfectly potty; took lodging in Holywell, and has haunted the Bodder and the police-station alternately ever since. Fine Greek scholar he is, too. Quite reasonable, except on the one point. I hope old Moyle finds his mysterious lady, though it’s nonsense to pretend that they keep tabs on all the people who use the library. You’ve only got to walk in firmly, as if the place belonged to you, and, if you’re challenged, say in a loud, injured tone that you’ve been a reader for years. If you borrow a gown, they won’t even challenge you.’

  ‘Is that so, really?’ said Mr Egg.

  ‘Prove it, if you like. Take my gown, toddle across to the Bodder, march straight in past the showcases and through the little wicket marked “Readers Only”, into Duke Humphrey’s Library; do what you like, short of stealing the books or setting fire to the place – and if anybody says anything to you, I’ll order six dozen of anything you like. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

  Mr Egg accepted this offer with alacrity, and in a few moments, arrayed in a scholar’s gown, was climbing the stair that leads to England’s most famous library. With a slight tremor, he pushed open the swinging glass door and plunged into the hallowed atmosphere of mouldering leather that distinguishes such temples of learning.

  Just inside, he came upon Dr Moyle in conversation with the doorkeeper. Mr Egg, bending nonchalantly to examine an illegible manuscript in a showcase, had little difficulty in hearing what they said, since like all official attendants upon reading-rooms, they took no trouble to lower their voices.

  ‘I know the lady, Dr Moyle. That is to say, she has been here several times lately. She usually wears an M.A. gown. I saw her here this morning, but I didn’t notice when she left. I don’t think I ever heard her name, but seeing that she was a senior member of the University—’

  Mr Egg waited to hear no more. An idea was burgeoning in his mind. He walked away, courageously pushed open the Readers’ Wicket, and stalked down the solemn medieval length of Duke Humphrey’s Library. In the remotest and darkest bay, he observed Mr Temple, who, having apparently had his sandwich and forgotten about the murder, sat alone, writing busily, amid a pile of repellent volumes, with a large attaché-case full of papers open before him.

  Leaning over the table, Mr Egg addressed him in an urgent whisper:

  ‘Excuse me, sir. The police Superintendent asked me to say that they think they have found the lady, and would be glad if you would kindly step down at once and identify her.’

  ‘The lady?’ Mr Temple looked up vaguely. ‘Oh, yes – the lady. To be sure. Immediately? That is not very convenient. Is it so very urgent?’

  ‘They said p
articularly to lose no time, sir,’ said Mr Egg.

  Mr Temple muttered something, rose, seemed to hesitate whether to clear up his papers or not, and finally shovelled them all into the bulging attaché-case, which he locked upon them.

  ‘Let me carry this for you, sir,’ said Monty, seizing it promptly and shepherding Mr Temple briskly out. ‘They’re still in the cloisters, I think, but the Super said, would you kindly wait a few moments for him in the porter’s lodge. Here we are.’

  He handed Mr Temple and his attaché-case over to the care of the porter, who looked a little surprised at seeing Mr Egg in academic dress, but, on hearing the Superintendent’s name, said nothing. Mr Egg hastened through quad and cloisters and mounted Mr Radcott’s staircase at a run.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he demanded breathlessly, of that young gentleman, ‘but what is a Phi book?’

  ‘A Phi book,’ replied Radcott, in some surprise, ‘is a book deemed by Bodley’s Librarian to be of an indelicate nature, and catalogued accordingly, by some dead-and-gone humorist, under the Greek letter phi. Why the question?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Egg, ‘it just occurred to me how simple it would be for anybody to walk into the Bodleian, disguise himself in a retired corner – say in Duke Humphrey’s Library – walk out, commit a murder, return, change back to his own clothes and walk out. Nobody would stop a person from coming in again, if he – or she – had previously been seen to go out – especially if the disguise had been in the library before. Just a change of clothes and an M.A. gown would be enough.’

  ‘What in the world are you getting at?’

  ‘This lady, who was in the cloisters at the time of the murder. Mr Temple says she was sitting at his table. But isn’t it funny that Mr Temple should have drawn special attention to himself by asking for a Phi book, today of all days? If he was once a Fellow of the college, he’d know which way Dr Greeby would go after his lecture; and he may have had a grudge against him on account of that old trouble, whatever it was. He’d know about the niche in the wall, too. And he’s got an attaché-case with him that might easily hold a lady’s hat and a skirt long enough to hide his trousers. And why is he wearing a top-coat on such a hot day, if not to conceal the upper portion of his garments? Not that it’s any business of mine – but – well, I just took the liberty of asking myself. And I’ve got him out there, with his case, and the porter keeping an eye on him.’

  Thus Mr Egg, rather breathlessly. Radcott gaped at him.

  ‘Temple? My dear man, you’re as potty as he is. Why, he’s always confessing – he confessed to this – you can’t possibly suppose—’

  ‘I daresay I’m wrong,’ said Mr Egg. ‘But isn’t there a fable about the man who cried “Wolf!” so often that nobody would believe him when the wolf really came? There’s a motto in the Salesman’s Handbook that I always admire very much. It says: “Discretion plays a major part in making up the salesman’s art, for truths that no one can believe are calculated to deceive.” I think that’s rather subtle, don’t you?’

  MAHER-SHALAL-HASHBAZ

  A Montague Egg Story

  ...........

  No Londoner can ever resist the attraction of a street crowd. Mr Montague Egg, driving up Kingsway, and observing a group of people staring into the branches of one of the slender plane-trees which embellish that thoroughfare, drew up to see what all the excitement was about.

  ‘Poor puss!’ cried the bystanders, snapping encouraging fingers. ‘Poor pussy, then! Kitty, kitty, kitty, come on!’

  ‘Look, baby, look at the pretty pussy!’

  ‘Fetch her a bit of cat’s-meat.’

  ‘She’ll come down when she’s tired of it.’

  ‘Chuck a stone at her!’

  ‘Now then, what’s all this about?’

  The slender, shabby child who stood so forlornly holding the empty basket appealed to the policeman.

  ‘Oh, do please send these people away! How can he come down, with everybody shouting at him? He’s frightened, poor darling.’

  From among the swaying branches a pair of amber eyes gleamed wrathfully down. The policeman scratched his head.

  ‘Bit of a job, ain’t it, missie? However did he come to get up there?’

  ‘The fastening came undone, and he jumped out of the basket just as we were getting off the bus. Oh, please do something!’

  Mr Montague Egg, casting his eye over the crowd, perceived on its outskirts a window-cleaner with his ladders upon a truck. He hailed him.

  ‘Fetch that ladder along, sonnie, and we’ll soon get him down, if you’ll allow me to try, miss. If we leave him to himself, he’ll probably stick up there for ages. “It’s hard to reassure, persuade or charm the customer who once has felt alarm.” Carefully, now. That’s the ticket.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much! Oh, do be gentle with him. He does so hate being handled.’

  ‘That’s all right, miss; don’t worry. Always the gentleman, that’s Monty Egg. King about the house and clean with children. Up she goes!’

  And Mr Egg, clapping his smart trilby upon his head and uttering crooning noises, ascended into the leafage. A loud explosion of spitting sounds and a small shower of twigs floated down to the spectators, and presently Mr Egg followed, rather awkwardly, clutching a reluctant bunch of ginger fur. The girl held out the basket, the four furiously kicking legs were somehow bundled in, a tradesman’s lad produced a piece of string, the lid was secured, the window-cleaner was rewarded and removed his ladder, and the crowd dispersed. Mr Egg, winding his pocket-handkerchief about a lacerated wrist, picked the scattered leaves out of his collar and straightened his tie.

  ‘Oh, he’s scratched you dreadfully!’ lamented the girl, her blue eyes large and tragic.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Mr Egg. ‘Very happy to have been of assistance, I am sure. Can I have the pleasure of driving you anywhere? It’ll be pleasanter for him than a bus, and if we pull up the windows he can’t jump out, even if he does get the basket open again.’

  The girl protested, but Mr Egg firmly bustled her into his little saloon and inquired where she wanted to go.

  ‘It’s this address,’ said the girl, pulling a newspaper cutting out of her worn handbag. ‘Somewhere in Soho, isn’t it?’

  Mr Egg, with some surprise, read the advertisement:

  ‘Wanted: hard-working, capable Cat (either sex), to keep down mice in pleasant villa residence and be companion to middle-aged couple. Ten shillings and good home to suitable applicant. Apply personally to Mr John Doe, La Cigale Bienheureuse, Frith St., W., on Tuesday between 11 and 1 o’clock.’

  ‘That’s a funny set-out,’ said Mr Egg, frowning.

  ‘Oh! do you think there’s anything wrong with it? Is it just a joke?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Egg, ‘I can’t quite see why anybody wants to pay ten bob for an ordinary cat, can you? I mean, they usually come gratis and f.o.b. from somebody who doesn’t like drowning kittens. And I don’t quite believe in Mr John Doe; he sounds like what they call a legal fiction.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ cried the girl, with tears in the blue eyes. ‘I did so hope it would be all right. You see, we’re so dreadfully hard up, with father out of work, and Maggie – that’s my stepmother – says she won’t keep Maher-shalal-hashbaz any longer, because he scratches the table-legs and eats as much as a Christian, bless him! – though he doesn’t really – only a little milk and a bit of cat’s-meat, and he’s a beautiful mouser, only there aren’t many mice where we live – and I thought, if I could get him a good home – and ten shillings for some new boots for Dad, he needs them so badly—’

  ‘Oh, well, cheer up,’ said Mr Egg. ‘Perhaps they’re willing to pay for a full-grown, certified mouser. Or – tell you what – it may be one of these cinema stunts. We’ll go and see, anyhow; only I think you’d better let me come with you and interview Mr Doe. I’m quite respectable,’ he added hastily. ‘Here’s my card. Montague Egg, travelling representative of Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits, Piccadilly.
Interviewing customers is my long suit. “The salesman’s job is to get the trade – don’t leave the house till the deal is made” – that’s Monty’s motto.’

  ‘My name’s Jean Maitland, and Dad’s in the commercial line himself – at least, he was till he got bronchitis last winter, and now he isn’t strong enough to go on the road.’

  ‘Bad luck!’ said Monty sympathetically, as he turned down High Holborn. He liked this child of sixteen or so, and registered a vow that ‘something should be done about it.’

  It seemed as though there were other people who thought ten shillings good payment for a cat. The pavement before the grubby little Soho restaurant was thick with cat-owners, some carrying baskets, some clutching their animals in their arms. The air resounded with the mournful cries of the prisoners.

  ‘Some competition,’ said Monty. ‘Well, anyhow, the post doesn’t seem to be filled yet. Hang on to me, and we’ll try what we can do.’

  They waited for some time. It seemed that the applicants were being passed out through a back entrance, for, though many went in, none returned. Eventually they secured a place in the queue going up a dingy staircase, and, after a further eternity, found themselves facing a dark and discouraging door. Presently this was opened by a stout and pursy-faced man, with very sharp little eyes, who said briskly: ‘Next, please!’ and they walked in.

  ‘Mr John Doe?’ said Monty.

  ‘Yes. Brought your cat? Oh, the young lady’s cat. I see. Sit down, please. Name and address, miss?’

  The girl gave an address south of the Thames, and the man made a note of it, ‘in case,’ he explained, ‘the chosen candidate should prove unsuitable, and I might want to write to you again. Now, let us see the cat.’

  The basket was opened, and a ginger head emerged resentfully.

  ‘Oh, yes. Fine specimen. Poor pussy, then. He doesn’t seem very friendly.’

  ‘He’s frightened by the journey, but he’s a darling when he once knows you, and a splendid mouser. And so clean.’