The Measure of Malice

by Martin Edwards

  “Enid Bragg.”

  Bentinck assented. “Enid Bragg. And a fortnight ago even she packed it in—since when Ellingham’s had to look after himself.”

  “What sort of girl was she?”

  “Not bad looking in a trashy sort of way,” said Bentinck. “I don’t know that there’s much else good to say about her… Anyway, point is, this Enid lives—lived—in a cottage with her parents not far from the Ellingham estate. And it was yesterday morning, while she was waiting for the 8:50 bus so as to come into town and do a bit of shopping, that someone picked her off with a rifle, presumably from behind the hedge opposite the bus-stop.

  “Well, of course, when the bus came along, there she was with a hole in her head, and it wasn’t long before me and the sergeant got out there and took over. We went through all the usual motions, but the only worth while thing we got out of it was the bullet.” Bentinck opened a drawer in his desk and produced a small jeweller’s box in which a squashed rifle bullet lay on a bed of cotton wool. “It’d gone clean through her and buried itself in an ash tree behind the bus-stop.”

  “No cartridge-case?”

  “Not that we’ve been able to find. So I said to myself, well, better look up Ellingham first, because I knew he’d got a gun, and after all, the girl had been working for him until just recently, and what should I find but that—”

  Here Bentinck broke off at the return of Pinder, who announced that he had dusted and photographed the two or three blurred prints on the rifle, and that it was now at everyone’s disposal. Taking it from him, Humbleby squinted down the barrel.

  “Clean as a new pin,” he said cheerfully. But Pinder noticed that something had made him more than usually pensive.

  “Well, that’s it, you see,” continued Bentinck, not very lucidly. “When I got to the lodge, there was Ellingham cleaning that thing, and it turned out he’d been out on his own, looking for something to shoot, since eight o’clock. I took the gun away from him, with all the usual gab about routine, and I’ll say this for him, he didn’t make any fuss about it. And until we see whether the murder bullet came from it, that’s really all—oh, except for the autopsy. Five months gone, our Enid was.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Humbleby in genuine dismay. “Not that again. The number of times—”

  “Yes, it’s common enough, I suppose. Ah, well. If you get a nasty sort of girl like Enid Bragg into trouble, you must expect a bit of blackmail. And the only certain way of putting a stop to it—”

  “Damn!” Thus Superintendent MacCutcheon, breaking in violently on Humbleby’s thoughts in the first-floor office at Scotland Yard. He had finished reading the report, and now whacked it down angrily on the desk in front of him.

  There was a long silence.

  “Not pleasant,” said MacCutcheon at last.

  “Not pleasant at all, sir,” Humbleby agreed. From the particular expression on his superior’s face he was in no doubt that the evidence had been interpreted correctly. “And I don’t think we’re going to be able to pin the murder on him, either. There’s no alibi—that much I found out before I left. And if we worked hard at it, I dare say we could establish the connection with the girl. But we’ll never find the bullet, and without that—”

  “We shall have to try,” said MacCutcheon grimly. “If it’s just a charge of fabricating evidence people will think he only did it to get a conviction. That’s damaging enough, of course, but even so…”

  He reached for a blue-bound book from the shelves behind him, and riffled through the pages until he found what he wanted.

  “Gross’ Criminal Investigation,” he announced. “Third edition, page 157. ‘A rifle barrel reasonably clean on one day will show plain traces of fouling next day. In such cases the barrel sweats after it has been cleaned.’

  “But when you looked at it, the barrel of Ellingham’s rifle was perfectly clean.”

  “Yes.”

  “It oughtn’t to have been, if Bentinck’s story was true.”

  “No.”

  “So Bentinck, the only person with access to that rifle, had recently cleaned it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And there’d be no point in his cleaning it unless he’d fired it.”

  “No.”

  “And there’d be no point in his firing it, and subsequently lying, unless he happened to want a bullet to substitute for the real murder bullet which he dug out of the tree.”

  Again there was silence. “I suppose there’s no chance we’re wrong?” MacCutcheon burst out fretfully. “I mean, there were even traces of blood and brains on that bullet he gave you… I suppose—”

  “No, no chance at all.” Humbleby was definite. “As to the traces—well, after all, a quick visit to the mortuary with a—a pair of tweezers, say…”

  “Yes.” MacCutcheon relapsed into gloom again. “Yes… What gun do you think he used to kill the girl?”

  “His own, I imagine. I got a look at the register, and he certainly has one, and it’s a .360 all right. But his sergeant told me he’d hardly ever used it—which would account for his not realising about the fouling.” Humbleby rose. “He had one morning’s shooting, it seems, years ago, and after that never went out again… No stomach for blood sports, the sergeant said.”

  The New Cement

  Freeman Wills Crofts

  Freeman Wills Crofts (1879–1957) pursued a career as a railway engineer in his native Ireland before his success as a detective novelist enabled him to move to England and write full-time. He was apprenticed to his uncle, who worked for the Belfast and Northern Counties Railway prior to being involved with the construction of an extension to the Donegal Railway. Subsequently, he became chief assistant engineer for part of the LMS railway network in north-east Ireland. Among other projects, he worked on the building of the Bleach Green railway viaduct, and chaired an inquiry into the Bann and Lough Neagh Drainage Scheme. The technical skills he developed in his day job influenced his approach to writing detective stories; the hallmark of his fiction was his meticulous method of construction.

  Crofts, like John Rhode, has been damned with faint praise as a “Humdrum” writer by the novelist and genre historian Julian Symons. Admittedly, Crofts didn’t indulge in literary flourishes, and his gifts of characterisation were limited, but there is compensation to be had in the soundness of his plotting. That readers enjoy well-made stories of the kind in which Crofts specialised is evidenced by the success of recent reprints of several of his novels. Excellent examples include the “inverted mystery” Antidote to Venom (1938) and The Hog’s Back Mystery (aka The Strange Case of Dr Earle, 1933), both of which have appeared in the British Library’s Crime Classics series. “The New Cement,” taken from Many a Slip (1955) is typical of his short fiction, brief and to the point.

  * * *

  PROVIDENTIAL was the adjective Superintendent French always used when he told of his call on his old friend Mark Rudd precisely at the most critical moment of the latter’s life. Tragedy threatened, and tragedy French could not wholly avert, but his visit reduced the calamity to one over which people shook their heads and said it really was for the best.

  French was enjoying a week’s leave in early spring and had set out for a tramp round Leith Hill. It was a day of bright sunshine, and he swung along revelling in the clear air with its scents of earth and wood and the great vista over the Weald stretching away to the blue line of the South Downs on the horizon. Rudd had built himself a bungalow among the pines, a low, rambling house full of unexpected corners and gables. His hobby was sculpture, and as he was very well off, he had included at one end a large studio. He did good work and had quite a name among the lesser lights of his art. Though turned sixty, he had recently married a comparatively young woman, a doctor’s daughter and an ex-nurse. It had been a marriage more of convenience than of love, he wanting a housekeeper and she a home. Though Fre
nch did not greatly admire Mrs. Rudd, the arrangement had seemed to work well.

  There was no answer to French’s ring and he turned to the studio. It had two doors, one out into the grounds, the other leading into the house. There he found Rudd, bending over bottles, a basin, and a heap of sand.

  “Hullo, Rudd! Turned chemist for a change?”

  The old man swung round. “My dear fellow! I’m delighted to see you. What good wind blows you here?”

  They chatted while Rudd produced drinks and smokes. “Sorry Jean’s not so well,” he said, speaking of his wife. “She’s just back from a few days in London with her father, the doctor, and is lying down. But you’ll see her later.”

  French replied suitably, though secretly he was pleased. It was with Rudd that he had come to chat, and the presence of Mrs. Rudd cramped both their styles. Presently he pointed to the table. “What’s the great work?”

  Rudd turned back to his bottles. “I’ve had some new cement stuff sent me,” he explained, “and I was just going to try it. But you wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Yes, I should,” returned French, sensing regret in his tone. “Let’s see the doings.”

  Rudd brightened up. “It’s a stuff called Petriflux. Chap invented it and sent me a sample to try out. It’s in these two bottles, and as long as they’re separate it keeps indefinitely. But when you mix them it begins to harden into a form of silicon, taking about twenty-four hours to do it.”

  The bottles were of good quality, with glass stoppers, tied down and sealed with parchment covers. French picked one up. It bore a typewritten label: “Petriflux—A. This preparation contains acid and must not be allowed to touch the skin.” The liquid was clear and brownish. In the other bottle, which was marked “B” and had a wider mouth, was a white powder.

  “How do you use them?” French asked.

  “You empty the powder into a basin and pour the acid on it. The powder dissolves and makes a viscous liquid. Then you add sand or powdered stone, stirring till all the grains are coated. You press the compound into the shape you want and it hardens into sandstone or marble or granite, according to the sort of stone you’ve used.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Well, that’s the claim. I’ve not tried it yet.”

  “The acid may attack your basin.” French pointed to a chip in the enamel showing dark metal.

  “I’ll try that first.”

  Rudd poured three or four drops from his “A” bottle on the defective spot. It boiled and smoked.

  “Bless us,” French grunted, “you’ve got strong stuff there.” He took the bottle and put it gingerly to his nose. “Vitriol, I imagine.” He replaced the stopper, picked up the second bottle, and pushed the blade of his knife slowly through the contents. For some moments he sat motionless, then his manner changed and he spoke more decisively. “I’d like to try an experiment.”

  Rudd was mystified, but French would not explain. He emptied a few grains of the powder into a saucer and placed it on the ground in the centre of a grass plot. Then he tied a small medicine glass to a fishing-rod and put six drops from the acid bottle into the glass. Lying down, he pushed it towards the saucer and carefully emptied in the drops. There was an instant reaction. A sharp explosion eliminated the saucer.

  “I thought that not unlikely,” he declared grimly. “That powder’s chlorate of potash and mixed with vitriol, which as you know is commercial concentrated sulphuric acid, it explodes. I suppose you realise you were about to make enough to blow yourself to kingdom come?”

  Rudd was overwhelmed. He discussed the affair wonderingly, though it was some time before he reached the inevitable conclusion. At last he muttered shakily: “Someone surely must have intended to murder me!”

  “You don’t mean it?” French returned. “Well, someone did, and someone who knew your circumstances. That ingenious tale of the silicon cement spells ‘sculptor’ all through. It was quite a scheme, for all incriminating evidence would have been destroyed.”

  “I just can’t believe it.”

  “I find that sooner or later I’m forced to believe the evidence of my eyes.” French’s voice was dry. “Now, Rudd, pull yourself together. We’ve got to get the chap who did this. Let’s see what we know. First, show me the letter that came with the bottles and the packings of the parcel.”

  These were available, and French noted that the letter was on the usual sheet torn from the usual cheap block, and was typed with the usual machine with identifiable defects. It purported to come from Ralph Spence, of 26 Hillside Crescent, Battersea, and contained a statement as to the action of the alleged invention, together with Spence’s earnest hope that a man of Rudd’s eminence would be so kind as to test it. The packing was elaborate. One bottle—obviously the acid—had come in a cylindrical tin, held steady by sawdust. The other had been protected by corrugated cardboard. Placed together, the two had been rolled in more corrugated cardboard, covered with stout paper and corded.

  “I don’t wonder he took you in,” said French. “Where’s your telephone?”

  Rudd indicated the hall. In a few minutes French returned.

  “I thought that not unlikely also,” he declared. “There’s no Hillside Crescent in Battersea.” He picked up the paper wrapping. “Posted yesterday at Charing Cross. H’m. That’s not too hopeful. However, if we get a suspect from your statement, we’ll nail him through the typewriter and probably the purchase of the chemicals. Very well, let that go for the moment and tell me about your enemies.”

  “Enemies?” Rudd blinked. “I have no enemies.”

  “Haven’t you? You’ve at least one, you know. Think again, old man.”

  Rudd shook his head helplessly.

  “Well, let’s see.” French looked at him speculatively. “You’re a rich man, I always fancied, Rudd. Worth how much, if you don’t mind? It’s not curiosity.”

  “Of course not. About twenty thousand, though I don’t get much out of it these days.”

  “Who would have got it if you had mixed your bottles?”

  “Some to my wife, my own money: the greater portion to my nephew, James Rudd, a family inheritance.”

  “H’m. Tell me about him. Is he well-to-do also?”

  “As a matter of fact he’s hard up. I know because he wanted me to help him out quite recently. But I refused. It’s no use. I’ve done it again and again, and it’s always the same. He just throws everything away at the races.”

  “That so? What’s his job?”

  “He’s a chemist in one of the big patent food firms: I forget which.”

  “A chemist? Good Lord! Rudd, what more do we want?”

  Rudd looked profoundly shocked. “Oh, come now, French, you’re not going to accuse him of such a thing. He’s a bit of a waster, I admit, but a murderer! No, I couldn’t believe that.”

  “I don’t accuse him. I don’t know who’s guilty. Can you think of anyone else?”

  “Well, no,” hesitatingly. “But then I shouldn’t have thought of him.”

  “Quite.” French began to pace the room, obviously lost in thought. Then he swung round. “I believe we could find out at the Yard who sent that parcel, but I’ve an idea we might get the information more easily. Perhaps your nephew would tell us if he’s guilty?”

  “I suppose that remark has a meaning, but I admit I don’t get it.”

  “Never mind,” French smiled. “I think we’ll try it. But you’ll have to do what I ask you’ll have to do what I ask you.”

  “I’m not the expert in murder. What do you want?”

  “Having no locus standi here, I must first have a chat with the local police. Then I’ll come back and tell you.”

  When French had gone, Rudd sat on, puzzling over the affair. He was a kindly old man, always looking for the best in people and for ways in which he might help them. He was on good
terms with friends and neighbours and could think of no one who might have a spite against him. That his nephew—or for that matter anyone else—could have desired his death he could not believe. And yet French’s demonstration was conclusive. The whole thing was most distressing. Indeed, the only bright spot in it was that French himself was available to take charge.

  The afternoon was well advanced when French returned. He was close about how he had spent his time, except to say that he had seen the superintendent and asked for a constable to guard the bungalow during the night.

  “My dear fellow,” Rudd protested, “you surely don’t expect—”

  “Now you must trust me,” French interrupted. “You’ll see what I’m up to in due course. Tell me, can you ring up your nephew?”

  “Yes, of course: at his works.”

  “Then do so. Be chatty and friendly. Say a Mr. Spence has sent you—what he said he sent you, and ask your nephew whether as a chemist he ever heard of the stuff? Say you think the invention might be of great value in repairing weathered stone on buildings, and that you’re much interested. Then go on that by a lucky chance your friend So-and-so—mention some big pot in your own line—is coming down to see you tomorrow, and you’re going to let him do the actual experiment. That’ll give the stuff a great test and a great boost if it works. Finish by apologising for troubling your nephew and explain again that you had wondered if the inventor was a well-known man.”

  “I suppose there’s a meaning in that too, French, but again—” Rudd shrugged resignedly.

  “Well, don’t you see, old man? If your nephew’s guilty that message will put him in a cleft stick. Some innocent stranger will be blown to bits and you, you who will undoubtedly be able to put two and two together, you will probably survive. That is to say, unless he acts promptly he’ll be facing a conviction for a murder he didn’t wish to commit and which wouldn’t benefit him. What will he do? Just answer that for yourself.”

  While Rudd was waiting for his call there was a step in the passage and Mrs. Rudd appeared. French sprang up to greet her. She certainly seemed ill, with her pale, haggard face, absent manner and slightly twitching hands. But she spoke to him normally enough, apologising for being unable to entertain him, and asked him to put a letter which she gave him with those for the post. A brief word of conversation, a briefer smile, and she disappeared and he heard the door of her room close. He turned to speak to Rudd, but just then the call came through. Nephew Jim seemed somewhat taken aback by his uncle’s inquiry, though he expressed interest in the idea. Both inventor and invention were, he said, entirely unknown to him.