Now Dora—that is, Mr. Jones, I mean Jane!—for, remember, I got acquainted with her under the name “Dora,” and I’m trying here to report on her under her right name, and the name which she now admits to me is her right one—well, Jane had seen both of these scripts in Marceau’s desk, even prior to his murder. But she had kept her mouth rigidly shut. Because, she says, she didn’t want to stir up servant gossip there—and have it leak to Marceau—and then have him maybe get suspicious of Heaven knows what, and start asking for references which she now couldn’t give—and which he’d refused cholerically even to consider when he hired her from Miss Vinlay. And later, when he was murdered, she was certain, she tells me, that her brother Tom, who is somewhere in Australia today—that is, right now, Mr. Jones, he’s en route for South America—was mixed up in the killing, and that Tom had sent both of those tiny green enveloped threats (as such they undoubtedly were). For, she says, he was always buying odd stationery—doll stationery, and God knows what—at the 3d/6d store; and he always had delusions, moreover, that anybody and everybody she was mixed up with in either a social or business way was trying to seduce her; and, she says, Marceau had met up with Tom on Ivington Road, the week before his own death, and had words with him, for she recognized, in Marceau’s angry description to her of “some fellow” who had shouted “seducer”—or “Frog seducer”—or something like that at him, and who had then dived off into a thicket or something, as Tom. Who, she figured, must have come up from London for the first time to see her—but had lost his fool head on meeting her employer, in his car, on the road—and had fled hastily back to London before the town constable could be set on him.
Anyway, Mr. Jones, to make a long story short, the night that Inspector Sheringham shooed her and Mattie Tullivant and Grimes back into the house—after Marceau’s murdered body, you’ll remember, was found on the rolled lawn?—she ran straight upstairs to Marceau’s room—and got both of those manuscripts. And slipped them into her bosom. And hid them, both, back of a canvas lining in her trunk.
And all these months since Marceau was killed, she has kept silent—believing implicitly that she was protecting her brother from the gallows. That he was involved with the crew who killed Marceau. For oh—such a mixup as exists! First, some friend of his—some Red—so she knew—can operate a Knepp-Chandley autogiro. And, again, Tom would have been highly resentful of anyone who was down on the midget tribe, for once, when a young boy, he’d actually been in love with a man midget who was putting on an act in a carnival, with a yellow girl’s wig on. An act called, she says, “Little Lady Goldilocks, the Sweet Singer of Lilliputiana.” I won’t relate the whole story here, but Tom had even run away from home to follow the carnival. And his inamorata! Who, to this day, he still believes is a girl midget! Such—a—mixup! Perhaps Jane had some sort of reason to fear all that she did.
But anyway, Mr. Jones, she finally heard from this Tom—from Sydney, Australia. He had reached her through writing her care of some old lady in Grundy Street, London, where she occasionally picks up her mail.
And she wrote him at once, she relates to me—sadly telling him that she knew he was mixed up in that murder of date May 10, 1935!—but that she had protected him by holding on to those incriminating manuscripts.
And—what does he do but come right back at her, almost by return mail. And tells her that she is crazy—informs her that he was locked up incommunicado in Old Bailey from the second night before May 10th till the first night after—for spouting “Burn the King” and what not else in Hyde Park; and that he’d been released finally only providing he’d ship on the freighter Wind Off the Thames—just due to pull out from Milwall Dock for Sydney, Australia—and still needing a few men. Which he did. And so he was, you see, in the clear.
And, she says, she went straight to Old Bailey and checked up on it all. And it was all true. And of record. For the bobbies there knew Tom more than well.
And so she at once sent him—well—not both of the scripts, no—but one. She was afraid, she said, to risk both in the mails. At least at the same time. Particularly the one naming Marceau’s murderer, which might be valuable some day (even if she had to send it to the Crown Prosecutor anonymously) toward convicting Marceau’s killer. But the other script—detailing the probable mode of Marceau’s death—she did send to Tom—to see if he could “decode” it. For he was up, she says, on certain sorts of puzzles—and “crypgams.” And lo, 7 days after the script left her hands, she got a letter from him in Australia saying he was just leaving for Chile, South America, to work in the “night-rate fields”—and that he was leaving no for warding address.
Hence, Mr. Jones, this manuscript is bound to be back to her in—so she figures—about a month from now, more or less. Since her own present address is on it.
And so now, Mr. Jones, about that other manuscript. The one in which, in one of its lines, is contained the name of Marceau’s probable murderer.
Mr. Jones, she got scared of this American detective, I referred to—this fellow named Aleck Snide, who got track of her somehow—she didn’t say how—and I don’t believe, moreover, he informed her as to that. This chap, it appears, is working only for some chain of newspapers that wants the inside true story of the Marceau killing—and, I presume, wants it ahead of anything that you will release eventually to all newspapers. Could this chain be, do you think, the All-America News Service? Whether or not, he “bluffed” her, by threats to expose her to Mrs. Stuyves-Cherryvant, into giving him all the foregoing facts—facts which she wouldn’t give you because you are a British detective. That is, Mr. Jones, she realizes that she has violated English law in suppressing and holding back evidence in a homicide case—and to her you are the very embodiment, if not personification, of all English law! And so, after thinking things over for the 4 days or so this fellow Snide gave her to think them over, she mailed him that manuscript—No. 2!—containing Marceau’s murderer’s name—for she had suddenly been whisked, in the meantime, up there to Switzerland. Together with a promise to send him the other one, too, as soon as it gets back to her.
And then, two days later, afraid perhaps that this Snide would locate her “boy-friend” (me!) around Redcliffe Square, she wrote me everything. Everything! Which I, in turn, am now conveying to you—all, that is, except the affectionate parts!
But—unfortunately!—this Snide has this exceedingly valuable clew to the killing. And not I! And worse—not you!
What shall I do, Mr. Jones? I am about to write Jane, at Switzerland. What would you wish me to say?
Sincerely,
Gerald W.
DOCUMENT XXXII
Short manuscript, entitled “A Cheque for 200 Guineas” typewritten by André Marceau May 8, 1935, a notation on the top of the final page of which, in red ink and in André Marceau’s handwriting, and dated May 8, 1935—states that the name of his murderer—in case he were ever found dead under mysterious circumstances—lies concealed within the text of the story.
A Cheque for 200 Guineas
A Short-Story by
ANDRÉ MARCEAU
Herbert Maitland Warwick, writer of short-stories, read with exceeding care the prominent boxed notice, occupying a full half page, printed in The International Writers’ Gazette. And which ran:
THE EDITORS OF CHESTERTON’S MAGAZINE, published at 53 Fleet Street, London, E.C. 4, England, are in immediate need of short-stories which possess distinction in the matter of either oddness of plot, uniqueness of theme, keen characterization, human interest, or style. As for settings, so long as a story possesses universality of appeal, the setting may be American, British, or any other locale in the entire world. For the best story, fulfilling any of the requirements of the above general description, received by August 1st, the publishers of Chesterton’s Magazine will pay a prize of 200 guineas regardless of length or author. The prize money will be remitted on or about September 1st. There are no second or subsidiary prizes, but all other stories accepted in this con
test will be remitted for, upon publication thereof, at the magazine’s usual rates of a shilling for each 25 words.
Here then, reflected Herbert Maitland Warwick, thoughtfully, was a chance for his latest tale “Strange Romance”—at least as soon as it should be finished. 200 guineas! Think of it! Jolly well enough money to—Why perhaps—And, after all, who could tell? Herbert Maitland Warwick—winner of the 200-guinea prize offered by Chesterton’s Magazine! It would mean prestige among his friends. It would secure recognition for him in editorial circles, not only here in Britain, but over abroad where so many more magazines were published. And last, but not least, for one like himself, who had no relatives whatsoever on earth, and who lived in a dingy Liverpool rooming house, it would bring absolute freedom from financial worries for a full year while the Great British Novel should be written. The novel which would, immediately upon successful publication in Britain, secure American publication. And then, on top of that, be filmed in that far off almost-mythical Hollywood.
Two—hundred—guineas! That would no doubt cause plenty of competition. Particularly since this notice had appeared in a trade journal which went to American writers as well as British writers—and to both amateurs and professionals alike. To secure such a prize as that would require a trifle more than the usual good fortune. However—Two hundred guineas! One thousand American dollars! Well—it was certainly worth trying for.
Herbert Maitland Warwick worked more diligently than usual, in his 4-shilling-a-week attic room, during the following week. Not merely content with rewriting “Strange Romance” a bit to adapt it to the general style of Chesterton’s Magazine, he polished it word by word, phrase by phrase, till it shone—then, by ruthless pruning, simplified it again, till he felt that it read like a first-grade school primer—after which he stuck word-feathers all over it again, and then, troubledly, shaved half of them off!
And finally, unable quite even to judge it any more, he sent it off to London by post.
Two hundred guineas! If, through the remotest chance he should be so lucky as to obtain it, then future stories from his pen would command higher rates from other editors. From even American editors, too. And it meant also, incidentally, that all those sneering acquaintances who took such pains to discuss him and his work behind his back would be at last compelled to admit that in adopting such a precarious—and genteel—livelihood as literary work, he had merely stepped into his proper element—and was, likewise, a success in that element.
And so now why not stop writing for a while and take a rest? The lucky four pounds he had received from that Australian magazine the previous week would pay plenty of weeks of room rent—and jellied eels, at sixpence the bowl, were cheap if one’s money went low! Besides, there was $10 coming, on publication—but which was to be now in a few weeks—from that far-Western Canadian magazine. With a sigh, more of weariness however, than of regret, he placed his rickety portable typewriter, his stack of white manuscript paper, and his box of carbon paper with its few remaining sheets, in the bottom drawer of his bureau, and proceeded to spend the days sitting in Calderstone Square—as now, at least, it was called—smoking his pipe and dreaming of the possibilities that lay in the winning of a 200-guinea prize. Better, the 200-guinea prize!
At night, up in the low-roofed attic room, he began to remain awake longer than usual, forming conceptions of what one’s feelings must be upon opening an envelope and extracting therefrom a 200-guinea cheque. For the first few nights he pictured it as being salmon-colored—like a certain two of the nominal—very nominal ones—he had received in the past. Particularly that $6 check he’d received from 10-Story-Book Magazine, way off in Chicago, for his very first story. But this was to be a cheque such as he had never yet received—from any company—on either side of any ocean. So he decided, a few nights later, to picture it mentally as being blue. And to this color he adhered from that time on. It was to be blue, and written, of course, on smooth slightly glazed paper.
But, unfortunately, Herbert Maitland Warwick, in his capacity as a mere author, could not possible know as he dreamed daily in Calderstone Square, that the editorial desks of Chesterton’s Magazine were stacked high with unread manuscripts—manuscripts which came from America, from Australia, and from British South Africa, as well as from the British Isles; manuscripts written by white men in all sorts of lonely outposts as far away, in some cases, as Central India; manuscripts of which many were of exceptional merit; manuscripts sent in by the so-called topnotchers as well as by the most obscure and amateur writers; manuscripts in such profusion that several extra readers had been engaged to sift the grain from the chaff.
And so, being ignorant of all this, Herbert Maitland Warwick sat each day in Calderstone Square, thinking, wondering, anticipating, hoping, and holding foremost in his mind the picture of a rectangle of shiny blue paper bearing the printed words “Pay to the order of”—and ‘“Two hundred guineas.”
* * * *
Several weeks later, Lucille Caslow, a lady more commonly known as Lu—at least known thus, that is, down around Liverpool’s water-front—passed through Calderstone Square to enjoy a whiff of real ozone coming off of green grass, and the furtive sight of a posy or two—if not a baby, as well—for Lu liked babies. Lu had had a most unlucky day in her profession; the swell lavender ostrich plume trailing from her red plush hat should, by rights, ’ave ’ad the s’iler blokes followin’ up; even in spite of the fact that Lu’s rawboned face was homely in spite of her twenty-eight summers—and the coat of paint and powder she ever wore quite failed to cover that fact up. Gord, w’at a stinkin’ d’y! The bloomin’ s’ilors on Front Street all ’ad w’isky breaths tod’y, orl right—but nary a bloody copper. And that big first myte of the H’Amurrycan Nancy Lee who had cursed her for a—But at this juncture in her sad reflections she happened to espy, lolling back upon a bench further up the diagonal flagstone walk, someone whom she knew—at least from having more than once sat upon the same bench with him and talked with him casually about this, or about that—for a cameraderie, of course, exists amongst those who are poor and struggling, whether they are striving to sell the product of their art, or whether they are striving to sell what’s left of their much-sold bodies. Lu quickened her pace—for misery, after all, loves company—and, at the bench in question, drew up and waited with feline caution, for the welcome that, under these conditions, would have to come first from the other. And receiving it in the form of the lone incumbent’s half-smiling nod of friendly greeting, seated herself down alongside of him and opened up a conversation. Not a business conversation, this time, for Calderstone Square wasn’t Front Street. And besides, this young ’un wasn’t that kind of a bloke!
“Well, ’Erb—and didn’t yer tell me larst time we tarked that yer nyme was ’Erb?—’ow’s that there writin’ gyme o’ yer’s gying? Are yer tykin’ in much coin? Or little?”
Herbert Maitland Warwick turned and gazed straight into the eyes of his interrogator.
“Well, Lu—and I think you told me that was your name—or rather—er—what you were called—suppose I should tell you one of these days, when next you come over here maybe, that I carried off a 200-guinea prize offered by Chesterton’s Magazine? Would you call that ‘little coin’?”
“Blimey, ’Erb! Little?” Lu Caslow’s dreary eyes actually glistened. “I’d call it ’igh an’ ’andsome—a prize like that! But yer down’t mean yer actual ’as a chanct to win it?”
“Why not?” queried Herbert Maitland Warwick—though with not all the conviction in the world in his own voice. “We all have a chance to pick up a killing, don’t we? And we—but yourself, Lu? What luck have you had today?”
“Rotten,” affirmed Lu Caslow succinctly. “I think, by Gord, ’Erb, I was jinxed. Th’ d’y begins by a s’ilor givin’ me the ’igh sign—which means he ’as money—and no sooner am I going orf with him, than Blondie Nelly, a new gal workin’ the Front there, gives ’im the ’igh sign—and ’e deserts me for ’
er! Jist count o’ ’er ’avin’ yaller hair—for she’s ’omely as all get-out. Then a first myte of an Amurrycan vessel cusses me out and calls me the most ungryceful nymes—w’y, next a bloke like ’im, ’Erb, you’re a knight o’ the Garter. Righto—if you ’int. And then, I sees—or thinks I sees—a bit o’ money blowin’ tords me—thinks I, it’s mybe a 5-pound note—but when I snatches it up it’s only one o’ them United Ceegar C’tiff’cates that some big chain o’ tobaccy stores all over Amurryca—a chain like them A-B-C teashops in Lunnon—’ands out by the bloody millions. You know? With every purchase—even a pack o’ fags. W’en an Amurrycan ’as a hunderd thousand or so of ’em—as it says on the fyce o’ each ’un—’e gets a bloody piece of glass on the end of a pin, called a scarf pin! With a half million or so of ’em, he can get a raddio. An’ so forth. Well, this ’un fell out o’ some Amurrycan s’ilor’s ’baccy pouch, and—”
“Yes,” interpolated Herbert Maitland Warwick, with a faint smile at Lu’s woes, “I’ve seen them myself, Lu, often and again, fluttering around Liverpool’s streets. That’s because, Lu, the Americans don’t like our tobacco—and always stock up well before they come here. And—but go ahead, Lu. This is your story. And what next?”
“And then,” she continued, “a new bobby catches up with me, and ’e sez to me, sez ’e, ‘Lu, my gal—I knows ’oo you are, orl right—if I finds you on my beat again, I’ll jolly well run yer in. I’m warnin’ yer now!’ So that means that now, ’Erb, I’ve gotter cut my terr’tory down to w’ere the Chinese ships only is. An’ narry a copper, ’Erb, all d’y—just breaths, breaths, breaths!—Gord, what breaths!—blowin’ on me from doorw’ys from the mouths o’ blokes what has spent all their money on w’isky. And—”
X. Jones—Of Scotland Yard Page 7
