AHMM, April 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  The article got written. An elderly actress had charmingly played the part of a young girl in the play he had seen with Steer, and Max began with a glowing tribute to her performance and enlarged on this to discuss the fantasy inherent in any theatrical presentation. It was late when he finished. He delivered his copy himself and went home to tumble into bed. That night, Thursday, he slept soundly. He had escaped his bondage for another week.

  At the breakfast table on Friday morning, his mind had returned to the stolen drawings. Constance was reading aloud the latest news on the Montagu Square murder. Mrs. Beerbohm was listening absently while mentally organising her next dinner party. She planned a dinner party as lavishly as the Lord Mayor planned a formal procession, with the result that the Beerbohm exchequer, limited as it was, remained perpetually in strained circumstances.

  Max also listened absently. He did not stir himself until Constance finished the article. “You didn't mention any of those illustrious suspects you were talking about the other day,” he observed.

  "This is the Times,” Constance said. “It doesn't mention suspects unless they really are suspects. That was the Morning Observer I was reading the other day. It must bribe someone in Scotland Yard to give it the latest gossip. All of those men had been linked with Miss Tapping at one time or another, so of course the police wanted to check on their whereabouts when she was murdered. But the police are no longer interested in them."

  "Does that mean all five convinced the police that they had alibis?"

  "They didn't exactly convince the police because some of them haven't been found yet. The Duke of Arlington is fishing in Scotland and has been since the first of the month; he has a private fishing camp there. Sir Gordon Wade is sailing with friends in the Irish Sea. Viscount Sandell is staying with friends in Cornwall. Jamison Weyman was in Manchester on business at the time of the murder and is still there. None of them could conveniently come forward when asked to, you see. Colonel Poggs returned from the Continent the day after the murder, and he easily satisfied the police that he had been in Berlin when it happened. So all of them are eliminated."

  "'Private fishing camp’ is the word for it where Lord George Pallister is concerned,” Max observed. “He thinks the human race was a mistake, and he has as little to do with it as possible. The Viscount Sandell has no home of his own and is always outstaying his welcome with someone. He will never be at a loss for an alibi. Whatever happens, he will have been someone's guest at the time. Jamison Weyman is always travelling on business when he is wanted. Sir Gordon Wade is a sailing fanatic. It is even rumoured that he sails boats in his bathtub—at his age. As for Colonel Poggs, he was never where he was needed in battle, or so it is said, so it shouldn't surprise the police that he wasn't available when they wanted him. What a motley group of suspects! If I were a police officer, I would arrest the lot."

  "But they aren't suspects any longer! The police know where they were at the time of the murder and have been able to eliminate all of them."

  "I see,” Max said. He suddenly saw something very clearly, something that had happened the day of the Montagu Square murder: Max had strolled over to Manchester Square to visit the Wallace Collection and was on his way home. He was meditating on a considerable problem as he walked along. He wasn't satisfied with one of the drawings in the group he planned to place for exhibit at the Ackroyd Galleries. He wanted to replace it with something better, but he had nothing to offer.

  In Gloucester Place, he all but collided with a man who was skulking along in a furtive sort of way. The skulking figure's clean-shaven face was unfamiliar to Max, but it seemed oddly reminiscent of someone, and this jolted his mind to furious activity. There also had been something odd about the figure's hands, but that didn't fully register until later. He made no sketch, since he always drew from memory, but he clearly perceived the drawings he would make and the caption it would carry. He hurried home, drew it, delivered the twelve drawings to the Ackroyd Galleries for the planned exhibit, and destroyed the drawing he disliked.

  He hadn't given the skulking figure another thought, but now, looking back on the experience, Max was able to see it—and a number of other things—in an entirely different perspective. One of those things was his adventure with the brewer's dray. He sent a telegram to Wilson Steer. “Come at once. I need you.” Then he retired to his room and redrew all twelve of the stolen Ackroyd drawings.

  By the time he finished, Steer had arrived, panting perplexities. He had expected to find Max on his deathbed, and he considered it just like the impractical Max to send for an artist instead of a doctor when he found himself dying.

  Max explained himself, and Steer's large frame inflated further with indignation. “Do you mean to say that idiot dray driver tried to run us down on purpose?"

  "That is exactly what I mean to say—except that the target was me, not you. Not that the person who engaged the driver would have shed any tears because you accidentally got in the way."

  "Now I understand,” Steer said. “You need a bodyguard."

  "Just until tomorrow night,” Max said, “but I must appear to be carrying on as though I don't suspect anything. That's why I sent for you. You can be my guard without arousing anyone's suspicions because we are often seen together."

  "Where do you want to go?"

  "First, to the Ackroyd Galleries."

  "Along the way, we will stop at my studio,” Steer said. “I keep a revolver there. If some idiot dray driver tries to run us down again, I'll shoot him."

  At the Ackroyd Galleries, Max conferred with Edward Unwin, the galleries’ director. Unwin, distinguishedly bearded, looked like an artist himself—and was. He was fond of Max, but it seemed to him that Max was asking a great deal this time. “All those advertisements will cost money,” he protested.

  "I'll try to get Scotland Yard to pay for them,” Max promised.

  "If I had to depend on that, I would starve,” Unwin grumbled.

  "The advertisements are to appear in as many of tomorrow's newspapers as possible,” Max persisted, “and you are to display this drawing in your window all day tomorrow."

  In the end, Unwin agreed to what Max asked.

  "Where next?” Steer asked.

  "Scotland Yard."

  "No, you don't. Someone may be following us, and if he saw you go to Scotland Yard, it would give the show away."

  Steer hailed a four-wheeler and told the driver to drive to Winsor & Newton in Rathbone Place. They were the colourmen from whom he bought his paints. Once inside, a whispered word of explanation gained them exit into a mews, where their four-wheeler was waiting. Steer repeated this manoeuvre twice more, at a bookseller's and at an engraver's. Finally, after studying the traffic behind them with care, he considered it safe to make for Scotland Yard.

  But he had one belated practical question. “Once we get there, how are you going to get in? One doesn't just walk in off the street, announce that one has important information for the commissioner, and immediately receive honoured guest status."

  "I didn't think about that,” Max said, “but getting into Scotland Yard can't be much different from gaining admission anywhere. You have to know someone. Let me think."

  Max probably knew less about the police than anyone else in London, but he instinctively realised that talking with the constable whose beat included Upper Berkeley Street would not accomplish what he wanted. Hence his mission to Scotland Yard, but he hadn't given any thought to whom he wanted to see there. Now he knew. He wanted to start at the top.

  He gave the cab driver new directions and called on a businessman, an old friend of his father's. That gentleman did not know the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, but he did know someone who did. That was their next stop. As a result, Max and Steer arrived at New Scotland Yard armed with a letter of introduction.

  It almost did not help them. Young men lavishly got up in full morning dress, which Max was, were such an oddity at police headq
uarters that Max stood out like a South American parrot in a flock of sparrows. The officers’ inclination was to lock him up at once and then question him, but Max persisted and got his letter delivered.

  The letter said—after the conventional pleasantries—"These two gentlemen are Mr. Max Beerbohm, who is distinguished in London's art, literary, and dramatic circles, and his friend Wilson Steer, an artist. Mr. Beerbohm can tell you who the Montagu Square murderer is. He also can tell you how to catch him. Sincerely..."

  As Max expected, this brought him a prompt interview. The commissioner, Sir Edward Bradford, had a formidable reputation—his history included the amputation without chloroform of an arm mangled by a tigress in India—but in appearance he was mild enough and his manner was friendly.

  "I heard about your stolen drawings,” he said. “I have a secretary who collects police oddities, and he pounced on that one. Are the stolen drawings somehow connected with the murder?"

  "They are,” Max said. “The thief not only attempted to eliminate the drawings; he also attempted to eliminate the artist.” He described his adventure with the brewer's dray. “This is why I have Wilson with me. He is acting as my bodyguard until this is resolved."

  "And how did you manage to identify the murderer?” Sir Edward asked.

  Max told the full story of the skulking figure and what had followed. Sir Edward listened attentively. When Max finished, he asked, “Do you think he will attempt to steal your new drawings?"

  "He will. He also will make another attempt on the life of the artist. He has no choice."

  Sir Edward nodded slowly. “Agreed. He has no choice. Either way we will have a legal mess on our hands, but that isn't your doing. Very well. We will set the trap. Mr. Steer looks very capable, but we don't know what he may have to deal with. Do you want a police guard?"

  Max shook his head. “That would be too conspicuous. I'll keep Wilson with me and try to behave as normally as possible. It will be an interesting experience. I've never lived dangerously before."

  "And tomorrow night? If you want to be present to see the trap sprung, you will have to dress differently."

  "Of course I'll dress differently. I wouldn't dream of going out in the evening in morning clothes,” Max said.

  * * * *

  Saturday afternoon Steer escorted Max on another roundabout through several shops whose owners he knew and finally smuggled him through the rear door of the Ackroyd Galleries. The police were already there in force, having arrived singly pretending to be customers. The manager's office was crowded.

  Edward Unwin regarded the growing gathering with a scowl. “I hope there will be less damage this time,” he said.

  "We won't give him time to damage anything,” a police inspector promised.

  Ackroyd Galleries was comprised of several rooms arranged in labyrinth fashion, and visitors often got confused and found themselves contemplating drawings or paintings a second time. This was deliberate. “An artwork always looks better on its second viewing,” Unwin said. “Familiarity is the most important element in the layman's appreciation of art.” The layout of the galleries guaranteed that a thief looking for a single group of drawings would find the task far more difficult than anticipated, but the police had no intention of allowing the thief time for a leisurely search.

  Closing time came; the galleries emptied of visitors and customers. Max, resplendent in evening dress, placed a chair in a dark corner and arranged himself so as to do as little damage as possible to the crease in his trousers.

  "A fine thief-catcher you would make,” Steer announced.

  "I am not here to catch a thief,” Max said. “I have a grievance against him, so I am here to see him captured, but I will be perfectly content to watch. Some men are destined to keep the wheels of life turning; others have a powerful inclination to watch them do it. I am a watcher."

  "I am not,” Steer said. “If I get my hands on this thief, I will keep him turning, all right—inside out."

  Two hours later, Max announced in a whisper, “I never knew time could pass so slowly."

  "That's always the case when one has nothing to do but wait,” Steer returned.

  When the long wait finally came to an end shortly after one o'clock, everyone was taken by surprise, especially the police. For one thing, the lock on the rear door was picked so quickly and expertly that the thief was inside in what seemed like an instant. For another thing, there were three of them. One headed directly for the front of the store; the others moved towards the exhibit of Beerbohm drawings with a sureness that could only have come from careful advance inspection of the premises.

  The thief in the front of the store was reaching for the drawing on display in the window when the police closed their trap. All three of the thieves fought like demented wildcats, and there simply were not enough police on hand to fulfill the inspector's pledge of no damage to the premises. Wilson Steer delightedly waded into the fray and exacted a measure of revenge for the errant dray driver.

  Finally, the thieves were immobilised, lights were called for, and the cloths that covered their faces ripped off. Max indicated one of them with a chortle—the sharp nose and furtive look were familiar.

  "May I present—Lord George Pallister, Duke of Arlington, and two of his low friends."

  A police constable scrutinised His Lordship perplexedly. “Blimey! What's become of ‘is ‘air? Did ‘e shave it off?"

  "If he ever had it,” Max said. “I always thought he displayed far too much beard and moustache for such a young man. Find his residence, and you may find a choice assortment of false whiskers. But hair isn't the evidence you need. Take his gloves off."

  The police did so—with another struggle—revealing a pair of hands deeply and repeatedly scratched.

  "If he's not the Montagu Square murderer, he'd better have a good explanation for this,” the inspector said. “All right, all right,” he added, as his captive began to babble hysterically. “You can tell us all about it at headquarters. Bring Mr. Beerbohm's drawings—they're evidence."

  "The caricature of Lord George Pallister is the one in the window,” Max said. “That should be all you'll need. Let the galleries continue to exhibit the others. The publicity will provide Unwin with some small compensation for being invaded and wrecked twice."

  * * * *

  Sir Edward Bradford called on Max the following Tuesday. Max entertained him in his mother's drawing room since he had none of his own.

  "His Lordship still isn't talking,” Sir Edward said. “Probably he never will. Since he's a peer of the realm, he can't be tried in an ordinary assizes, but that's none of our concern. Wherever he's tried, a case against him must be presented, and that's what we're preparing. We've accumulated a mass of evidence already. His Lordship was leading a double life. He pretended to go off by himself to the wilds of Scotland or Wales, and instead he assumed a second identity in London, where he consorted with his mistress, Letty Tapping, and was well known in London's underworld. As we understand the case, he had a falling out with his mistress, attempted a reconciliation, and lost his temper and strangled her—getting his hands thoroughly and viciously scratched in the process.

  "After the murder, he was in a desperate hurry to put as much distance between himself and Montagu Square as possible before he risked hailing a cab. When he rushed past you in Gloucester Place, he must have recognised you."

  "I'm sure he did,” Max said. “He doesn't often appear in public, but I can remember being present at two dinners he condescended to attend, and I've encountered him once or twice at public gatherings. As for why he would remember an unimportant writer and artist—I've heard it said that I dress conspicuously."

  "I wonder where anyone would get that idea,” Sir Edward murmured.

  "Once seen, always remembered—that's a dandy's fate."

  "In any event, he did recognise you, and when he saw a caricature of himself listed among the drawings Ackroyd was exhibiting, he went to see it. The banda
ged hands told him you had recognised him. You had seen him in London near the scene of the murder shortly after it occurred, which meant that as long as you were around to give evidence, his carefully contrived Scottish alibi was worthless.” He paused and scrutinised Max. “I still consider it remarkable that you recognised him without his beard."

  "I've trained myself to imagine what faces would be like with different features or with the features exaggerated. Even so, it was a belated recognition. I didn't realise that I'd seen him until several days later. At the time, my mind was searching for a subject for a drawing to replace one I didn't like in the group I had put together for the Ackroyd exhibit. To me he was a stranger with something about him that weirdly reminded me of Lord George Pallister—which was just the inspiration I was searching for.

  "I went home and drew a new caricature of Lord George Pallister, but due to some odd twist of memory, I drew him like the stranger I had just seen—a Lord George skulking along in a great hurry as though fearing to be seen. I gave the caricature the caption, ‘Lord George Pallister skulks from the House of Lords after calling the Earl of Walmly a tarradiddler.’ You may remember that several weeks ago he denounced the earl in such strong language that he was officially reprimanded for it. But by another odd twist of memory, I made both of his hands crudely bandaged, just as the stranger's hands were bandaged. Perhaps I sensed some symbolism in this that I was only half aware of. So the caricature was really a drawing of the stranger with the Duke's beard added."

  Sir Edward nodded. “When he saw the drawing, he knew it was evidence that could get him hanged for murder. That set in motion everything that followed. He didn't do all of it himself, of course. We have confessions from the two low friends who were captured with him. One of them turned your room inside out, and the other, an expert locksmith turned thief, accompanied the duke to the two exhibits to steal your drawings. The duke was trying to divert attention from the theft of the caricature of himself by handing us a much larger mystery. Then it occurred to him that you probably could redraw the caricature of him from memory, and he hired a dray driver to trail after you when you left the theatre and contrive to have an accident. No doubt he planned other accidents when that failed, but before he could carry any of them out, he learned from the newspaper advertisements that you did redraw the caricature, and he found it on display in Ackroyd's window. As you anticipated, he arranged to steal it at the earliest opportunity. We have the complete case now—with you as our star witness."