Sequel to Murder: The Cases of Arthur Crook and Other Mysteries

by Anthony Gilbert

  “The poor devil was crazy, and I was a bit puzzled to know what to do with him. This persecution mania isn’t very uncommon, but it’s horribly painful for those who witness it.

  “‘He follows me wherever I go,’ the man went on, and wouldn’t be reassured when I told him the place was as clean as a whistle.

  “‘What’s the good of trying to fool me?’ he said. ‘You can’t hear him. I know, but he’s there just the same. Like a great cat he is, creeping up on paws like velvet, always waiting to pounce. And the ghastly thing is you never know when he’s going to jump. But he’s always there, just a few paces behind me?’

  “You can’t do much with a man with delusions except treat him as if he were normal. To contradict him would madden him, and then he might become dangerous. I didn’t know, you see, what story lay behind this haunting, if it was simply brain-fag or something worse. But I thought it best to humour him. At this moment a taxicab came creeping along, and I suggested that he should drive home in that.

  “ ‘Then he can’t catch you,’ I told him comfortingly. ‘And if you’re quick you’ll be in before he’s turned the corner.’

  “I’ll never forget the look he turned on me. ‘So you’re against me, too; he said, ‘I wonder why. I’ve never troubled the police. Do you think I’d dare get into that cage’—he pointed to the taxi, that half-halted, not sure if it had been hailed or not—‘and know that if I put out a hand I’ll touch something I can’t see?’

  “‘Can’t see?’ I echoed.

  “He nodded. ‘He has that power now. You’d think he’d be tired of haunting me. It was an accident, wasn’t it? All’s fair in business, isn’t it? Some go up and some go down, and that’s the way of the world. Was it my fault that I was lucky and he wasn’t? That man would never have made money, never, I tell you. He hadn’t the flair, and he was afraid of risks.

  “‘You’ll never get anywhere if you won’t take a chance—and be expected to be safe and do well. I told him you can’t do things like that. I told him to get cut while he could if he wouldn’t face the alternatives. But he hung on; he dogged me wherever I went, and when I began to go uphill and he went down, he said it was my fault. Could I help his temperament? He said I had private knowledge. What if I had? Didn’t I take the trouble to acquire it? Didn’t I pay an expert to tell me how to capture the market? He thought he could do everything by himself and when shares began to fall he blamed me. They did fall, you know.

  “He stopped and drew his hand over his forehead. ‘They fell as suddenly as Lucifer from heaven and nearly as far. I had shares, too, thousands of them, but I knew that the luck changes. I knew you couldn’t expect them to stay a hundred per cent above value for ever. Was it my fault that I was thrifty and had something put by?

  “‘I did what I could. I bought up his shares when, panic-stricken, he threw them on the market. I gave him the best price he could get. He was a coward, he was a fool, he didn’t understand speculation. He said I’d taken advantage of him. He thought I should have given him a better price. I couldn’t go behind the market. I gave him what his shares were worth.

  “Other men suffered as much as he. That’s the luck of the game. You’ve got to have the gambler’s temperament, you’ve got to be far-sighted, you’ve got to be prepared to lose everything and get out. He should have been a clerk, someone paid at so much a month, buying his furniture on the instalment plan: he shouldn’t have come into the biggest gamble in the world if he was going to whine because he couldn’t always win.

  * * *

  “ ‘After that,’ he caught my arm again, and his white face strained into the gloom ahead, as if he suspected his enemy of having circled invisibly round us and now to be approaching from the opposite direction, ‘it wasn’t my fault, was it, if the girl he was going to marry couldn’t stand any one so whitelivered, wanted a man who could face to things? He wasn’t right, was he, in calling me a thief and saying I’d ruined him on purpose in order to get Freda? “ ‘He knew I’d always loved her, but when she chose him I didn’t say a word of what I felt for her. She had to make her choice, and if she found out she’d chosen wrong and didn’t want to marry a snivelling little failure on the wrong side of forty, what right had he to write to me saying I was a murderer? None had he?

  “ ‘Ah, but it was worse than that,’ he stared up into my face, ‘he tried to make me a murderer. I that never had a thought of killing him. I hadn’t even pushed him out of my path, just stepped over him and gone on. Because after the slump the shares began to rise again. They went up and up like an a eagle to the sun. And he came to me again and demanded his shares back at the price I’d paid for them. Said I’d cheated him. I hadn’t, had I? I’d given him the market price. If he’d held on he could have made money the same as I did, but he was afraid.

  “ ‘You always pay for that, and so I told him. He didn’t lose Freda because I stole her but because his fear betrayed him. Then he wanted money from me, money so that he could start again. I couldn’t give him that, could I? I needed my money. I had to go ahead. I couldn’t stay beside him and be a failure, too. So I went on and Freda went on with me, because she chose to. It’s absurd to say I coerced her or bought her, as he did.

  “ ‘And then he did this awful thing to me. He came into my room one night and sat down in the chair opposite me. He said, “You’ve taken everything from me that I value—my money, my position, my woman. There’s nothing left but my life, and that’s worth nothing to me. You can have that as well.” And he cut his throat that same night, less than an hour later.

  “ ‘The news was in all the papers next day. “Jack-knife Used in Suicide,”— that was one of the headlines. He looked so ghastly with his head fallen back and the blood pouring. It’s pouring still. It’ll never stop.

  “ ‘Look here,’ he opened his coat, and I saw a dark mark on his shirt.

  ‘He did that to me—it’s the brand of Cain, and I’ll never escape. He ruined me, you see; he meant to; those letters of his, those infamous letters to the coroner and to Freda, in which he blamed me for everything. And neither of them would listen to me. The coroner said I had his blood on my hands, and Freda wouldn’t even speak to me. She went away and said she never wanted to see me again.

  “There was no doubt in my mind now, the man was cold sober, but he was raving mad, and he might be expected to do himself or some other person a severe injury. Jumping into the river was about the mildest thing he’d attempt, and that wasn’t the kind of night you’d want to go into the water after a lunatic. I began to cast about for the best way of luring the poor maniac to the station. Whoever he was, he mustn’t be allowed to roam about till morning. I thought most probably he’d escaped from some home. I kept him in conversation while I waited for some sign that there was some one near me to give a hand in case he got violent.

  “ ‘Didn’t you see her again?’ I asked him feebly.

  “ ‘No, I never saw her. But he’s never left me. If I take up one of her letters he leans over my shoulder; if I write a cheque he sidles up and whispers that half that sum would have saved him; if I go out to dinner he tweaks the best bits off my plate; he trips me up in the street, and makes me spill my cocktail over the frock of the woman next to me. He’s driving me mad, always hovering round with that white face on those narrow shoulders. Once he’s done what he meant to do I’ll be in his power for ever. You won’t let him get me, will you?’

  “ ‘You trust yourself to me,’ I told him. ‘I’ll take you where he can’t touch you,’ and I tried to persuade him to come along. But he only laughed.

  “ ‘You don’t know what you’re up against,’ he said. ‘Look here.’ He pulled a revolver out of his pocket. ‘I bought that. At first I thought I could frighten him, but it was no use. If he wasn’t supernatural I’d have done for him, but this might as well be a child’s pea shooter. And if I put a bullet through my own head, which would please him, I still wouldn’t be free.’

  “At this point, to m
y relief, I heard the sound of footsteps, and I shoved my whistle into my mouth and blew it. It was risky, because I knew it meant frightening him, but you have to take some chances. And my luck stood me in. A man came hurrying round the corner and I explained almost before he reached me. My lunatic had panted, ‘Here he comes. You stay here while I get away,’ and had dived into the darkness of the cul-de-sac. He came out again now, calling shakily, ‘Keep off. I—I’ll shoot you, I’ve warned you. I won’t have you haunting me like this. It was all perfectly fair, but you’ve lost... .’

  “ ‘Is he armed?’ muttered the man to me. It was pretty dark here, and I couldn’t see him at all.

  “ ‘I’ve got his gun,’ I told him. ‘I slipped it out of his pocket while he stood over me just now. I thought it would be safer.’

  “ ‘Tell him, to come on,’ said my companion, gruffly, ‘I don’t want to steal your thunder, Field, and I must say your luck’s dead in. Good heavens, fancy getting Scotland Yard’s wanted man within an hour of the hue and cry. How the devil did you recognize him in that get-up? Had you ever seen him before?’

  “ ‘I said no, I didn’t think so. ‘I didn’t try to explain. It was no duty of mine to start an argy-bargy with my superiors.

  “ ‘His voice gives him away, that curious lisp,’ my companion continued.

  ‘It’s an infernal shame we can’t take him for murder. He killed that boy as assuredly as if he’d taken the jackknife in his own hand and drawn it across young Chester’s throat. How in heaven’s name we’re going to tell the father I don’t know.’

  “ ‘Who is the boy?’ I asked, trying to find my feet, as we got our man between us, and hailed a taxi to drive us to the Yard.

  “ ‘Young fellow called Chester, Barely twenty. Sent to London by a father with more money than brains, told to have a good time. Young fool’s idea of a good time is to mix with the most raffish society of the town and the most conspicuous people. Not that Farrant’s been conspicuous, exactly. Of course, we’ve known for a long time that he ran a gambling-hell, but we haven’t been able to locate it. He covered himself extraordinarily neatly.

  “ ‘He made some of his money honestly—by which I mean to say he didn’t get it by cheating—but most of his income came from the pigeons he plucked, pigeons like poor young Chester. He’d strip ’em of every penny and then get their I.O.U.s. Then he could enforce blackmail when they were twenty-one.

  For the most part they didn’t want to take the risk of being arrested for illicit gambling at the outset of their careers.

  “ ‘When they’d skinned young Chester they got him to forge his father’s name to a cheque, and then thought they could blackmail him for years to come. And Chester, inconsiderate fellow, spoiled their plans by cutting his throat with a jack-knife. In Farrant’s house. That was the end for Farrant, and he knew it. He couldn’t get rid of the body, and even if he could the place was saturated with blood. He knew it meant a stiff sentence for him. There was more than one charge against him. His only hope was to get out of the country before the tragedy was discovered.

  “ ‘He went upstairs, hurriedly put on a disguise, and came down with a few things in a case—and then discovered that his manservant had already found the body and was telephoning to the police. He thought it was murder, you see, and didn’t want to be implicated. Farrant knew he’d no time; nothing but the most stupendous luck could save him now. His disguise was his one hope—if he didn’t run across any one who recognised his voice. Now, what happened?’

  “ ‘He came dodging into this cul-de-sac,’ I told him. ‘I suppose he was trying to avoid some other bobby—and ran clean into me. It looked suspicious, him dodging into an alley like this, and on the spur of the moment he told me a mad story about being followed by a ghost. He tried to impress me as much as he could with his fake personality, so that I shouldn’t connect him with Farrant.’

  “ ‘And how the devil did you?’ Wilson asked. That was Superintendent Wilson who tracked down the Blue Train murder, and died of ’flu the same week as the armistice.

  “ ‘There’s some things you can accept,’ I told him calmly, ‘and who am I to say there’s no such thing as a ghost? But when it comes to a ghost having real blood and sprinkling it on another fellow’s shirt-front—that’s too much even for the force.’ ”

  * * *

  “And is that all you told him of the story?” asked the man with the whisky cure for colds. “Heavens, how you unromantic chaps miss your dramatic effects!”

  “If you can produce a more dramatic effect than the one we were responsible for when we marched into the Yard with our man between us, false moustache and all, I’ll buy it,” Field promised.

  “As for being romantic, life looks after that side of things. There you go for months wearing out the London pavements with your great flat feet, then suddenly Fortune picks your name out of the hat for a winner. It’s patience does it, and that’s the truth. All things come to him who waits. Though some things,” he added with dark significance, “are longer coming than they’ve any right to be,” and with a lordly gesture he pushed his empty tankard the width of the bar.

  Three Living ... And One Dead

  When the police arrived in the big dark room where Marcus Moore awaited his victims, they found four people—three living and one dead. The dead member of the party was Moore himself, who lay sprawled over the table that was spattered with his blood. In life he had been a big, arrogant, greedy fellow; in death he was a monstrosity.

  The three living were a little chap called Grey, one of those nondescripts to be seen a hundred times a week and instantly forgotten; a woman, young, beautiful, terrified, wearing a fur coat, a wedding ring, and (oddly enough) only one ear-ring, an emerald set in platinum; and another man, taller and older than the first, with a dark, tragic face and a scornful expression.

  It was he who had telephoned the police. “I got here about—say—ten or twelve minutes ago, by appointment. The door wasn’t locked, so I walked in, and found these two people and Marcus Moore, as you see him now.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Moore? I’d been coming here on the third of every month for five years, always at the same time and for the same purpose. Apart from that, he didn’t exist for me.

  “I used to think he was like some monstrous robot who came to life one day a month to collect his dues, dues he exacted for the blunders (or sins) even society has forgotten. But not Moore. He was the spider and we were the flies who nourished him. As to his real life, where he lived, his work, if he had any, I know nothing. The others will probably tell you the same.”

  “I’ll do the questioning,” said the sergeant, drily, “Did you two come together?”

  “No,” said Grey. “He was alone when I came in.”

  “Did he let you in?”

  “In that state? Of course not. The door was on the latch.”

  “Was that usual?”

  “It had never been unfastened before. I suppose X was afraid of attracting notice by slamming the door.”

  “Seeing that this man has been shot—did you hear nothing?”

  “No.”

  “And see no one?”

  “No. I came by appointment, as usual, and for the usual reason.” “You didn’t telephone us.”

  “I didn’t mean anyone to know I’d been here. I stopped to open the safe. Oh, yes,” as the sergeant’s brows lifted, “that was one of my accomplishments—once.”

  “And Moore knew it?”

  “He had proof—in that safe. If he’d sent that document to my employers I’d be out on my ear at once. And I’m a married man who loves his wife. As I say, I stopped to open the safe, and the document that brought me here month by month all these years doesn’t exist anymore.” He nodded toward the grate where fragments of ash were scattered. “Then, as I turned to go, I caught sight of this, lying on the rug.”

  He opened his hand to display an emerald ear-ring set in platinum. The girl beside h
im drew a long shuddering breath.

  “You identify, it, madam?” said the sergeant.

  She nodded. “I was wearing it tonight when I came here. On my way back. I realised it was missing. I had to come back for it.”

  “You were sure it was here?”

  “No. But—he was putting on the screw. I told him I couldn’t pay more, I couldn’t. I begged him for mercy. How could I ask my husband for money without telling him the truth? He said. ‘Those ear-rings would fetch something, let me see them,’ so I took one off. I suppose in my agitation. I didn’t fasten it securely when I put it on again. Anyway, I came back, and it wasn’t in the passage, it wasn’t on the stairs. I listened and the room was quiet, I thought he was alone, that his next visitor had gone already or perhaps had not arrived—yes, he was expecting someone else, he told me—so I came in, and he was here.” She indicated Grey. “Marcus Moore was dead. But he was alive when I left him. I swear it.”

  The sergeant turned to the third visitor, whose name was Paul Whitaker. “And you?”

  “I’ve told you my story. I’ve nothing to add. If you want to know what I thought, I was amazed none of us had had the guts to do this before. So three cheers for X, whoever he may be.”

  “X?”

  “The chap who shot him. Did you notice the weapon’s missing? When we realised that, we decided to telephone you. Because if it’s not here X must have taken it away with him. And we’re all here—and so far as we can see, the gun isn’t. And it can’t have been chucked out of the window because it’s not only shuttered, it’s padlocked. He wasn’t taking any chances he could help. I suppose being a blackmailer is a dangerous profession. Your victims write you threatening letters that for obvious reasons you can’t take to the police. That’s why he got himself a gun ...”