The two murderers I want to see in the condemned cells are the murderers of Forsythe and Hurlby. That will do for this morning, gentlemen. The conference at an end, Detective Gossett made his way back to his room, shared by two other fellow workers in the crusade against crime, and looked through his diary.
There were various enterprises to which he was partly committed. He might have gone out after a wife-beater, investigated a reputed case of smuggling in the neighbourhood of Deptford, or spent an hour or two in the West End haunts of one or two well-known criminals, just to keep them under observation. He did none of these things. He filled in that vital and ominous form requesting an interview with the Chief of the Staff, to obtain which he had to make his way into the main office, and as it happened the Chief of the Staff himself was rather at a loose end.
The interview was accorded in half an hour's time. The Sub-Commissioner, a wizened-looking man with beadlike eyes, a tired mouth and a rasping voice, received him with no special favour. Staff work only here, you know. What the devil do you mean by such nonsense? I have come to the conclusion that I am only wasting my time.
We have a magnificent establishment here and everything to help, but if our science belongs to to-day, our methods are a hundred years out of date. I have written out my resignation, sir. I should he glad if you would accept it. Malcolm Gossett spent a busy but not profitless afternoon. He took over the lease of a small office in that nest of small streets in the neighbourhood of the Adelphi, together with a Turkish carpet and various articles of office furniture, once the property of a commission agent who had gone abroad for the good of his health.
He ordered a small brass plate, a supply of stationery, and engaged the services of a smart errand boy. These preliminaries completed, he turned up for his evening meal at Number Twelve, Medlar's Row, at the accustomed hour, to receive a rapturous greeting from his beautiful but crafty young wife, who came flying down the stairs, looking as much like Marlene Dietrich as anyone else in the world could.
You did say something about a cinema this evening, didn't you? I've laid down my career upon the altar of sacrifice. I am no longer a Scotland Yard man. Uncle Henry's business is just being wound up, you know. I decided, however, to live by my wits. I am a gentleman at large, Cynthia, with a brass plate upon his door which means nothing. Cynthia, as full of prejudices as most women but with little curiosity and immense confidence in her man, gave him first her lips and, after a decent interval, a glass of sherry. Then she led him towards the easy chair. Malcolm Gossett was a man of his word and after dinner the evening was duly spent at the neighbouring cinema.
He held his wife's hand most of the time, watched her consume an incredible number of chocolates and sympathised whole-heartedly with her breathless appreciation of the film. Afterwards he took her to a little supper place close by and, on their return to Medlar's Row, they lingered only for a moment outside their home to glance at the brilliantly-lit edifice opposite.
On the following morning, after a substantial breakfast and an affectionate farewell to his wife, Gossett's curiosity seemed for the first time to be aroused. He crossed the road and accepted in friendly fashion the salutation of the policeman standing at the gate. The latter stood on one side to let him pass.
Sure yon wouldn't like to go inside, sir? The Inspector, solemn and ponderous, came swing down the garden path. He was smoking a cigarette and had the air of a man content with himself and the world. Plain as a pikestaff. I shall be tapping the young man on his shoulder within an hour. I hope that will take the Chief off his grouch for a time. Can I give you a lift? From the moment he entered the room nothing was heard but angry voices and then the shot. The servant saw the young man running down the stairs, saw him throw his revolver away, climb into a car and dash off.
There wasn't another soul in the house. I'm going to get a warrant first, though.
It looks better and I have men posted on the spot. A "back-slang" formation from " police " spelt backwards—" ecilop "—" slop ". Malcolm Gossett descended, crossed the road, looked in a shop window for a moment, passed two plain-clothes policemen without recognition, entered the vestibule of the Malvern Building and, ringing for the lift, mounted to the second floor.
A worried-looking manservant admitted him into a suite of rooms, and Gossett found himself confronted by the most terrified-looking young man he had ever seen in his life. I can't see anyone. I'm waiting for the doctor. The cup of tea which he had been holding slipped from its saucer onto the floor.
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The young man himself, scarcely noticing it, sank into a chair. His hands gripped the tablecloth, the sweat was standing out in little in little beads upon his forehead. I'm not well, I tell you. What do you want? I can't help it. Of course I didn't shoot Monica. She was my girl. We never had even a serious quarrel. I have a latchkey. I went into her room just as usual and there she was, lying dead.
I get nervous fits. When I saw her lying on the floor, I couldn't bear it. I just ran out. The young man gripped the back of his chair as he swung round. Ghastly fear shone out of his eyes. He was white almost to the lips. His hands were twitching in agony. A coroner's inquest was held upon the body of Monica Quayles, There were only four witnesses of any importance, the first of whom was Hannah Miles, the housekeeper and sole domestic of the dead young woman.
She gave her evidence clearly but with some natural reluctance, and she kept her head sympathetically turned from the ghastly-faced young man who was seated between two officials of the Court. She did not admit him into the house that afternoon, because he had a latchkey of his own, but she watched him enter her mistress' room. She admitted that he was in a state of great agitation.
She heard the sound of loud and angry voices, she heard the shot, and within five minutes of his arrival she saw him rush out of the house, throw the revolver into a small shrubbery, jump into his car and drive off. Cunningham, she thought, had always been very fond of her late mistress but be was of an exceedingly jealous disposition. She admitted reluctantly that there were times when her late mistress had secretly received other guests.
She was followed by Inspector Grinan, who produced an anonymous letter of the usual type, addressed to Ernest Cunningham, Esquire, at Malvern Chambers, containing a brief record of visits paid to the deceased by various men.
That letter had been found by the side of the dead body, as though the young man had forced it upon her attention. The revolver with which the deed was done, and from which only one bullet was missing, bore the initials 'E. The other two witnesses, the chauffeur and a passer-by, merely testified—the former with the utmost reluctance—to the distracted appearance of the young man and the fact that he was carrying the revolver when he left the house. Cunningham, when arrested, appeared to have been half stupefied with drugs and drink; he vehemently protested his innocence but could give no coherent description of the tragedy.
The coroner's summing-up was merely a matter of form. The jury, without leaving the box, found that the deceased had met her death through a bullet wound inflicted by Ernest Cunningham. The verdict was, in short, one of wilful murder against Cunningham. Detective Inspector Grinan and ex-detective Gossett left the Court together. The former, according to his custom, paused to light a cigarette. There is circumstantial evidence enough there to hang any man and a perfectly convincing motive to clinch the matter.
Ernest Cunningham, I imagine," the Inspector rejoined. The Chief told me I might have the run of the place and there are some records I should like to look up. George Littledale was a busy man and he rather grudged the quarter of an hour which he knew he must give to ex-detective Gossett who was next on the list of his waiting callers.
He welcomed him pleasantly, however, and installed him in a comfortable chair. I am briefing Julius Read, with Pennington for junior. Can't do better than that for him and I understand there's plenty of money. As a matter of fact, his chauffeur would swear that he was half tight and would swear that he didn't take the revolver with him, which, of course, would do away with a murderous intent, but even then I don't think it would help him a tinker's dam to plead guilty. The case is too flagrant. Don't you think so yourself?
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The young man doesn't seem to me as though he'd have the courage to go and shoot a woman in cold blood, when he must have known that there was no getting away with it. However, I don't want to take up your time, Mr. You'll be seeing him now and then, of course. There's one thing I did want you to ask him. Does he know much about Mrs. She's over sixty years of age, she was a stranger to Monica Quayles when she took the position but had the most excellent references, and she seems to have had not an interest in life except doing her work and doing it, I should think, extremely well.
She was always perfectly civil to Cunningham but they scarcely ever met. Both the back and the front doors are open to public observation, and do you suppose if anyone else had been seen about the place we shouldn't have heard of it at once? Besides, the way she gave her evidence was altogether convincing, and there are numberless little points we won't go into now which are dead against such a theory. The Crown are perfectly satisfied with their case, and I'm a lawyer, not a detective.
If you want to make any inquiries along any other lines, Gossett, I'll guarantee your expenses, but I tell you at once that I'm convinced it's hopeless. The Spaniards, in their devotion to a somewhat bloodthirsty sport, have at least sufficient sporting instinct to adopt a lukewarm attitude towards a bull fight in which the animals concerned are hopelessly outclassed. The English public who frequent the famous murder trials have never learnt the same spirit. They like a killing for their money.
After the hours in the stuffy court and the occasional patches of dullness, they want their final thrill, they like their victim thrown to the sacrifice. Therefore, although the odds freely offered amongst the white-bewigged gentry in the front of the Court at the trial of Ernest Cunningham were at least a hundred to one on his conviction, the Court was still packed from floor to ceiling and the usual hundreds of pairs of greedy, libidinous eyes hung on the face of the slim, white-faced man, twisting about in the dock with the air of a caged animal.
The final thrill they knew was a certainty! The Crown case was presented almost scornfully. It was not until the great Julius Read himself rose to cross-examine the principal witness for the prosecution that anyone was conscious of a new sensation of interest. Sir Julius had suddenly the air of a man who had something lurking underneath his silken tones and his air of gentle consideration with this elderly and most respectable witness.
One or two in the well of the Court, people of quick perceptions, remembered the telephone messages that had been streaming in during the last half-hour, remembered too the entrance of a weary-looking man with strong features but tired eyes, a man who had been found a place at the solicitors' table next the famous lawyer for the defence and who, during a brief interval, had been admitted to a conference with the great Julius Read himself. Others had noticed something even more significant—a briefly pencilled note had been passed by his lawyer to the prisoner himself, who was standing with dazed eyes fixed upon his counsel.
The latter was unaccountably silent for several moments after he had risen for purposes of cross-examination. Miles, indeed, would have left the box but for the kindly restraining hand of the policeman. Miles," the great King's Counsel said at last, and his tone was gentleness itself, "you were in service with the deceased lady, I believe, for about one year. For the first time this quietly spoken, responsible woman seemed to hesitate. There was a faint sensation of interest in the Court not yet wholly born, the mutterings of the passion to come.
There was a change in Julius Read's tone. He leaned slightly forward. Every word he spoke now reached the farthermost corners of the Court. You knew that be was the young man who had seduced your daughter three years ago and who had lived with her until he transferred his affections to the deceased. Then there was a shiver, a rustling of half-spoken words and half-drawn breaths. The woman in the witness box clutched at the ledge in front of her. Her face was suddenly grey. You knew that Monica Quayles was the woman for whose sake he had deserted her.
The witness' hand groped for the glass of water which lay by her side. Her fingers shook so that she could barely carry it to her lips. She set it down. There was a strange sound of voices in the Court. It seemed as though everyone was speaking at once. It was quite half a minute before order could be restored. Then again the silence became momentous. Miles, to have to ask you this question. I myself know, but I want you to tell the Court. Where is your daughter at the present moment?
The pilloried woman seemed incapable of speech. The barrister's gesture was one of scornful compassion. Is your daughter now an inmate of the Wandstead Lunatic Asylum? The woman's voice came back to her. There was the fury of a demon in her face as she pointed across the court to Ernest Cunningham. Again the sea of voices was beaten back into silence only by threats to clear the Court.
Julius Read was in no hurry. He waited calmly and patiently. When he spoke, there was no mercy in his tone or in his words themselves. Miles, because the prisoner at the bar was guilty of the seduction of your daughter, and because it was the woman you served, Monica Quayles, who had supplanted her, you murdered your mistress and hoped that the young man there who had wronged you would hang for a crime he never committed. The rest of the proceedings were purely formal, but Ernest Cunningham, although he was not a popular criminal, had to wait four hours before the crowds would let him leave the Court.
Julius Read took Littledale and ex-detective Gossett across to his rooms in the Temple. He produced tumblers of an especial size, whisky of great age and a syphon of Schweppe's soda. His arm rested almost caressingly upon Gossett's shoulder.
Blue Book Balloon: July
I never doubted but that Cunningham was guilty. I never saw a gleam of hope anywhere. I don't wonder at the Crown thinking their case was overwhelming. Circumstantial evidence and motive both there. I can't think what made you persevere, Gossett. Either Cunningham was guilty or the woman knew all about it and was playing false. The more I've seen and heard of Cunningham, the more I dislike him, and yet somehow I didn't believe him guilty. I explored the hundred-to-one chance. I went for the woman. Every one of her references was genuine. She's been in two places over fifteen years.
There's never been a thing against her. Yet I wasn't convinced. I was almost giving up when I got Grinan to let me see the envelope of that anonymous letter. That corresponded with a packet I found in the flat. I look the letter to a handwriting expert. He compared it with Mrs. Miles' account books and found a marked similarity in the capitals.
I discovered a box of the cartridges in a drawer of the murdered woman's bedroom—not the room in which she was found. This seemed to indicate that Cunningham was telling the truth when he said that he had given her his revolver and that he had not brought it with him that day. I found out that Mrs. Miles used to take a day and a half off every three months—she was in service then with an old-fashioned family in Harley Street, where she had been for twelve years; I found out where she went—to Wandstead.
I saw the girl she visited there—I even took a snapshot of her. I took it to the theatre and the rest was easy. It was the girl whom Cunningham used to fetch from the theatre every night, before, by some evil chance, he met Monica Quayles. Some months after Cissie Miles had been certified insane, her mother took service with Monica Quayles.
The rest is horrible to think of, but it is one of the most complete and devilish schemes of revenge on the part of a distracted mother which one can possibly conceive. Miles has been there for two hours now and they say she's raving mad. She'll never have to stand her trial. A few men like you are needed outside. Scotland Yard has only one job and that is to hunt for criminals and prove them guilty. The defending lawyer like myself is on the other side, of course, but a lawyer is not a detective.
Gossett here, for instance, had a hunch that the man was innocent. I've talked to him for hours at a time and I would have laid a hundred-to-one that he was guilty. Bring me a few more cases like this, Gossett, and I'll squeeze you into the firm. Gossett wore his rarely-used tails, a white tie and a white waistcoat. They were really rather an unusually good-looking couple. You can tell your friends that I am no longer a policeman. A lawyer has very nearly offered me a share in his practice and a barrister is only too anxious to divide his fees with me. They were all so interested to know that you had started a new business on your own account.
He felt for his pocketbook. She beat expectantly upon the table with her hands. Very slowly he rolled out an unmounted photograph. I wanted to bring you the cheque to see but I wanted also to cash it. I compromised, had the cheque photographed, then cashed it, banked the money and here we are. Barclay's Bank November the Seventeenth. Cynthia looked cautiously around. They were dining very early, as they were going on to a theatre, and their table was in a secluded corner.
No one was looking. Her hand stole out towards him. He bent his bead. She kissed him on the lips and Malcolm Gossett was very happy. EX-DETECTIVE Malcolm Gossett stood upon the edge of a crumbling and rudely constructed wooden dock and decided that with infinite pains, skids, misdirections and discomforts he had found his way into the most God-forsaken and dreary hole upon the face of the earth. Behind him, mist-ridden and rain-soaked, stretched many acres of marshland, across which wound the narrow track by which he had come.
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Facing him on the fog-hung horizon was the sombre glow of the East End lights. The curve of the river, marked by the gaunt buildings, factories and warehouses which rose here and there in stark and portentous ugliness, stretched to the limits of his obscured vision. The stink of some chemical works poisoned the air.
Between him and the river itself was nothing but a blank sea of mud. Immediately below him was his destination—a miserable inlet or backwater of the river—and secured to some iron rings at his feet was a dirty and ill-looking ketch, with untidily furled sails and sloppy deck. Nothing but the reflection that it had cost him an hour and a half to get here, and that if he returned with his mission unaccomplished he might be compelled to make the journey again, kept Gossett from turning his back upon the whole inferno and hurrying back to the corner beyond which his taxicab driver had refused to attempt further progress.
There was a sound of movement below, a flash of light. Presently a head only half seen presented itself from the cabin below. Even then Gossett had to struggle with the inclination towards prompt and undignified retreat. He held hie ground unwillingly. The voice startled Gossett almost as much as the hideousness of the place had chilled and depressed him.
A torrent of oaths and threats would have seemed in keeping with the surroundings and with so much of the man as was visible; the slow Oxford drawl, the gentle weariness came as an incredible shock. I came down to have a few words with you on business. Like her damned cheek.
I don't know who you are, sir, but do I look like receiving visitors here? You haven't seen my cabin yet. A tall figure, a man in rough, blue serge trousers, a fisherman's jersey and without tie or collar, suddenly loomed into shape. His hair was unkempt but his features matched his voice. What kept Gossett for the moment motionless, however, was the fact that he was looking into the barrel of a shotgun. I do shoot a duck sometimes, at this hour of the night, and I was, in fact, just loading my gun when you arrived. It would pain me to use my weapon for any less lawful purpose.
I cannot endure curiosity, however, so I am compelled to ask you to descend into my cabin and, so long as you have found your way here, to tell me why you came and what you want. Gossett considered the situation for a moment. In a loosely hanging little pocket easily accessible through the slit in his mackintosh, he possessed a much deadlier lethal weapon than the carelessly held shotgun which he was convinced the man on the ketch had no intention of using.
He shrugged his shoulders, therefore, and gave in. The man kicked some steps into position. Carelessly though he held his gun, he evidently had no intention of parting with his apparent advantage. Gossett scrambled down and followed his host into the cabin.
The latter inspected him curiously under the hanging oil lamp. I have an inherited aversion to a loaded sporting gun. He broke it and, extracting the cartridges, slipped them into his pocket and stood the gun up in a corner. Then he seated himself opposite his visitor and leaned across the strip of table. Gossett's eyes wandered round the place in a curiosity which he took no trouble to hide. The ketch had evidently been used as a yacht, for the cupboards were of thick mahogany and had been kept in decent repair.
On one side were bottles, mostly whisky and brandy bottles and unopened; on the other side were books, books of extraordinary variety and quality. There was an exquisitely bound copy of Verlaine's poems, half a dozen volumes of Alfred de Musset, a rare edition of Shelley and a Chiswick Press Shakespeare.
Sprawling across them, half-opened, was an outrageous copy of Le Sourire. What do you think of me? However, the fact remains that, whatever her profession may be, the lady whose name you recognised managed to rake together ten pounds, which she handed over to me as a fee to come down here and see if I could help you out of your troubles. I have already, I must confess, lost my desire to do so. You probably don't deserve help and don't want it. The owner of the ketch leaned forward. His mouth had lost its half-humorous curve, his expression was somewhat more unpleasant. The other man's muscles seemed to stiffen and tiers was an ugly glitter in his eyes.
Gossett continued, however, indifferently:. I decided that the suspected criminal, or even the actual criminal, if he become so through no fault of his own, deserved some measure of help in the world and could probably afford to pay for it. I struck out a profession of my own.
Map of Blue Book Balloon
I have not found a suitable name for it yet, but outside my office, Number Seventeen, Macadam Street, you will find a brass plate bearing the name of Malcolm Gossett and nothing else. You seem to be very well supplied. I should like a whisky and soda. Gossett's host produced a bottle of a choice brand, a syphon, and two glasses.
He sneered at his visitor's modest portion, filled a tumbler half full of whisky for himself and splashed in a little soda water. There was a moment's silence.
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From outside came the gurgling from the backwash of a passing steamer. There was no other sound. The two men seemed equally tense, their eyes fixed on each other. It was the owner of the ketch who relaxed. She has a conscience. Earn your ten pounds. Otherwise, I shall deduct my expenses and hand back the balance of my fee to—your lady friend. Gossett, if that is your name. You've got the smell of the policeman about you still. You'd be off to Scotland Yard if I told you my story. You can tell me your story, if you have one, as you would to a lawyer. If I can help you, I shall tell you so. If I can't, not a word of what you have said will ever be repeated.
Ever hear the name of Alexander Hurlby? It was one of the reasons why I left the Yard. I am dead enough. This is my burial place and you're sitting in my coffin. Have a drop more whisky? Gossett rose to his feet and swung the chain-hung oil lamp so that the light shone full into his neighbour's face, then he resumed his seat. Yes, I'll have a drop more whisky. On one condition, though. Drink like a human being—two fingers and not more.
I'm a corpse and this is my coffin. Nothing left for me in life but to get drunk here or to steal out in one of those back streets, on the other side of the river where the police don't come, and look for my fun there. Much more respectable to get drunk like a gentleman here. In the war, you got your D. When I was at the Yard, I was assistant to the man who had your case in hand. I know all about you. I'm rather glad I took Bella Truslove's ten pounds. Captain Alexander Hurlby rose to his feet. He leaned across the table which the flat of his hands were clutching.
There was something portentous in his face, as there was in his tone. Gossett's office boy came into his master's private room to make his announcement, a few mornings later, with a subdued chuckle. Bella Truelove in her halcyon days had been called a flaming blonde. Nowadays the light had faded from her eyes and from her hair, and she had acquired the patient, drab humility of the partially submerged. She was dressed as quietly as she knew how, and she had reduced to the last possible degree the perfumes and cosmetics on which she relied.
Nevertheless, she entered Gossett's plain little office almost shyly and she was obviously ill at ease when he rose to his feet and himself placed her chair. As soon as the door was closed, however, a certain eagerness came into her face. Afterwards we got on all right, though. Gossett's expression was very grave. The Alexander Hurlby case was already beginning to trouble him.
A spot of colour burned through the pallor of her cheeks, the light in her faded eyes was almost of fear. She had drawn off her gloves and her thin veiny hands, overladen with sham jewellery, were clenched nervously together. Something of the old hopelessness was back in her face. Gossett sighed as he counted out a little packet of notes which he had drawn from his pocket. I did not understand when I took it. Everything that can be done will be done without that.
She opened her bag and slipped in the money. The packet found its place amongst throe sixpences, a few ha'pence and an overperfumed but none too clean handkerchief. I stole some of it," she added faintly, "and God, how I struggled for the rest! Gossett," she went on, her voice suddenly hysterical, "they told me you were such a clever man. Can't you drag him out of all that?
Don't tell me there is only one way. He never did anything wrong. He was too great a gentleman. Gossett moved uneasily in his chair. He felt that the words which he should have spoken would have been the last refinement of torture. He rose to his feet and led her to the door, his hand upon her shoulder in friendly fashion. Bella Truslove made no further appearance, however, at Gossett's office, and in the Sunday papers, which seem to have a flair for hitting upon such items of news, he learnt the reason.
He came upon the following paragraph quite by accident. Woman of bad character ejected from Cabinet Minister's house. Attempts to fight her way in to study of well-known peer. Given into custody by Lord Hurlby. There followed a brief report of the case, in the course of which it was stated that a woman giving the name of Bella Truslove, whom the police described as being of bad character, was brought before the magistrate and remanded.
Gossett's face darkened as be read. The next morning he sought an interview with the Chief Commissioner at Scotland Yard. The Alexander Hurlby affair was one of them. I believe I have a chance from outside of bringing you information which would clear that matter up. Just tell him that I am a respectable man who has left the Service here of my own accord.
I want an interview with him. He can please himself if he sees me, of course, but a letter from you will give me the chance I require. Sir Henry nodded and summoned his secretary. Gossett left the building with the letter in his pocket. Even then there were difficulties. It was a week's time before Gossett was ushered into the magnificent library of Lord Hurlby's town house in Grosvenor Place. The secretary who had escorted him in advanced to his master's desk with a few explanatory words. Gossett, sir," he announced. The secretary passed into the shadows of the great room and out of the door.
Gossett, his purpose gained at last, was in no hurry to begin. He found himself studying with avid curiosity the grey, masklike face of the man whom the illustrated press of the country had made so familiar. A long face with straight hard features, sombre grey eyes and immobile expression. Not in the least like the man in the shabby ketch on that filthy backwater. Gossett," Hurlby said, with the faintest note of impatience in his tone.
I was assistant to Inspector Grinan who took charge of the investigations concerning your brother's murder case. I might remark, however, that they were perhaps unduly handicapped. It is a painful subject and closed forever, so far as I am concerned.
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It has, however, become necessary. There was a brief silence. A solemn grandfather's clock, a chef d'oeuvre of one of the famous makers of the Georgian epoch, ticked ponderously. From outside all sounds of traffic, almost the honkings of the motor horns, were smothered by those closely drawn curtains. I'm not here to demand money or anything that money could buy. In other words, who is your inspiration for this visit?
Are you acting for yourself or for someone else? Lord Hurlby tapped lightly with his finger tips upon the desk. His indifference was magnificent. However, will you forgive me if I suggest a little more directness? My time, as you probably know, is not wholly my own. Eighteen years ago, Lord Hurlby, when you were second secretary in the Embassy at Berlin and known as the Honourable Philip Hurlby, there was some trouble concerning a very large sum of money which it was understood had come into your possession ins very questionable manner.
That principal witness has since had from you about fifty thousand pounds in blackmail. Two years ago he travelled down to one of your country homes in Cornwall with the usual demand. You confided in your brother, who was staying with you. Whose idea it was I don't know, who did the actual killing I don't know, but between you, you murdered George Passiter. There were members of Passiter's household who also knew your secret and who knew that Passiter had come to see you. Naturally his disappearance would make them suspicious. However you disposed of the body, they were likely to discover it, and you were still more than ever liable to blackmail.
The scheme you hit upon for getting out of the trouble was quite ingenious. This Passiter seems to have been is man of about your brother's height and build. Your brother and he exchanged clothes and identities. Your brother, as George Passiter, made a successful disappearance.
Passiter was buried as Captain Alexander Hurlby. A hospital nurse who was in attendance on your wife, but who was also a particular friend of your own, helped you with the details. She was the Bella Truslove you sent to prison the other day. There was no trouble about the death certificate. The body was practically unrecognisable and your local doctor who signed it was over seventy years old.
It was an excellent scheme for you, because Passiter's family, who naturally believe him the murderer, dare not come near you and, in fact, have all left the country. What you didn't seem to have taken sufficiently into account was the very terrible position in which your brother was placed. He cannot go to his clubs, he cannot mix with his friends, he cannot indulge in the usual sports which men in his position enjoy. The whole civilised world is closed to him. I don't know which of you killed Passiter, but it is very clear which one of you is paying for it.
I have heard a part of the truth, of course, and I have seen your brother. I may have made mistakes in the story, but on the whole I believe it to be very near the truth. Gossett," he remarked, "in your—what did you call it? What arc you here to say to me? Did my brother send you? The tone was callous, almost indifferent. It seemed to Gossett in those few seconds that the whole ugly story was flung out before his eyes in black and white.
The brutal selfishness of the man seated a few yards away from him, with a suppressed sneer hovering always unsaid the corners of his lips, was mercilessly apparent. He is drinking too much and I should say that if he is allowed to remain where he is, under the same conditions, he will probably go mad before many months are past.
Gossett restrained himself with an effort. He could almost realise the thought, not to say the hope, which was framing in his companion's brain. Not a bad way out of the situation. Death, of course, would be better. If he is to bear the whole brunt of this affair, it seems to me that he should at least be allowed to do it in comfort. You say that the spot which my brother has selected for his temporary abode is a lonely one? Lord Hurlby smiled slowly, as though he had been paid a compliment. His finger was upon the bell. In the characters of any one of us there is always likely to be one defect Parkins, the door for Mr.
Into the somewhat chaotic field of Malcolm Gossett's reflections and theories came, towards the end of the fourth day after his visit to Lord Hurlby, light from an unexpected quarter. At the sound of the latchkey in the door of his Medlar's Row villa, Cynthia came into the little square hall, a whirl of draperies and flashing feet.
So impatient that he scarcely looked at me. He came in a most marvellous car, too. Let me deal with this prodigy of my sex, who scarcely looked at you. I have only just left the office and I didn't know anyone had my private address. Cynthia led him into the small room at the back of the home which they called the study. A young man of distinguished presence rose eagerly at their entrance.
Gossett recognised him at once. It was Lord Hurlby's private secretary. Gossett," the visitor said. I am Lord Hurlby's private secretary—his social secretary, perhaps I ought to say. Sinclair looks after him in the House, of course. My name is Wilfred Chaplin. What can I do for you? Gossett," he said, "if you could spare me five minutes upon a strictly private matter. Gossett nodded to Cynthia, who was already on her way to the door, which the young man had hastened to open for her.
I shall not detain your husband long. She bowed pleasantly and passed out. Chaplin closed the door with care and returned to the chair which he had vacated. Gossett," he begged, "but I felt that I wanted to see you at once. You will remember your visit to Lord Hurlby the other afternoon. I had some matters to discuss with Lord Hurlby directly after your departure and I couldn't help noticing that he was far from being his usual self.
He is so precise in his statements and habits of thought that I became convinced something had happened to upset him very much. In the house that night, my colleague Sinclair told me that he very nearly broke down in the midst of a very simple speech. I know that he had no sleep that night, and Tuesday and Wednesday his manner was so unlike his usual self that I ventured to persuade him to see a doctor.
Found nothing the matter with him at all. He gave him a sleeping draught and prescribed a tonic. The next day, however, Thursday—yesterday morning—his lordship went down to Downing Street, where he transacted some business with Sinclair. Afterwards he sent the car home and left Downing Street on foot. Since then, no one has seen a thing of him. Gossett, but I do beg for your entire discretion. I beg that you will have nothing whatever to say to any member of the press. Last night he was due at a dinner party with his wife, at the house of some private friends, the Duke and Duchess of Lechester, which he neither attended nor did he send any excuse.
There were a good many papers waiting for his signature at his room in the House, and he had three appointments for this morning, not one of which did he keep. In fact, we have none of us seen him. We don't know where he is. All the telephones are going continually, her Ladyship is in great distress and we are beginning to receive enquiries from the newspapers.
So far as I am aware, his lordship had nothing on his mind nor any business on hand likely to afford him anxiety. I come to you, therefore, hoping that you can give me a hint. In plain words—did you bring him any disquieting news? We are all in the dark and I cannot keep Lord Hurlby's disappearance a secret any longer. Gossett rose to his feet and paced the room restlessly. Already a sinister foreboding was forcing itself into his mind. He pushed it back. There was the present to be dealt with.
Hurlby had challenged action by his disappearance. This young man most be told a measure of the truth. We understood that the police were holding back information until they had found the man Passiter, who was suspected of being the murderer. Well, she was connected with it too. I brought Lord Hurlby some information concerning it. When you speak of his disappearance, I can imagine it possible that he may have decided upon a course of action which would induce him to pay a visit to a certain place.
I did suggest to his lordship that he should visit a certain person. He may have done so and it may have led to trouble. A still night, dark with drifting mists. In the distance was the yellow halo of blurred lights on the river way, beyond a blanket of hazy red, where the lights of the great city struggled against the everlasting fog. Beneath the feet of the two men was black and oozy mud. You may want it later on. The tall mast of the ketch loomed up out of the darkness. There was no sign of any human presence on board.
This time, too, she was not lying flush with the dock. She was attached by ropes to the same ring but she was drawn a couple of yards away and fastened on the other side to what seemed to be a floating buoy. As she lay, there was no method of boarding her. Chaplin looked around him, aghast. Gossett walked alongside the ketch, upon the quay, peering down and trying to look in from every point of vantage. There was no sign of any light, no indication of any human presence; neither was there any sound except the soft gurgle of the water lapping up against the mouldering woodwork.
The latter lowered himself on to his stomach and stretched out toward the ketch. He was just able to reach the rail but the fastening on the other side was too secure and he could draw her no nearer. Suddenly he saw, lying a few yards farther down, an old dinghy with a punt pole. He lowered himself into it as silently as possible, followed by Chaplin. They made dangerous progress, but finally scrambled on board. Gossett laid a restraining hand upon his companion's arm and pointed downwards.
There was a thin line of light underneath the cabin door below. They made their way cautiously down the steps. With a sudden jerk Gossett opened the door. Both men stood on the threshold aghast. On the settee before the fixed table was seated the Right Honourable Lord Hurlby, his pen in his hand. Before him was a cunningly shaded light and there were at least a dozen sheets of paper, scattered about, covered with his thin, decisive handwriting. He showed no surprise at the entrance of his visitors, but he dropped his eyeglass and frowned. I don't suppose you did, but I thought—this man Gossett too—".
Chaplin, fold up these sheets, place them in an envelope and address them to the Home Secretary. Gossett, grope about behind you there and see if you can find me another bottle of whisky. I finished the last one in twelve hours. Both men stared at him. A terrible conviction was creeping into Chaplin's mind. He reached for the papers with trembling fingers. Gossett, on the other hand, dragged down a bottle of whisky, drew the cork and filled the glass by Lord Hurlby's side.
He raised the tumbler to his lips and drank nearly half of its contents without flinching. The two men looked at him in amazement. Gossett was all the time on his guard. His companion was trembling. There was a puzzled look in his face. Gossett drank a liqueur glass full of the neat whisky. Yesterday I'm sorry to say we couldn't hit it off. I don't know why, but he has become peevish. After all we have been through together, that is foolish. Listen to him now. The two visitors held their breath.
Distinctly they heard from the cabin behind a low groan as though of a man in deadly pain. Gossett took a quick backward step and opened the door. Stretched upon the small bedstead was Alexander Hurlby, a ghastly sight. He's been programming and writing ever since. Thankfully, his readers and users of his software agree he has improved on both fronts over his eight-year-old self. While a fan of mysteries, fantasies, and science fiction, Frank tends to write whatever strikes him as interesting, amusing, or fun.
Are you an author? Help us improve our Author Pages by updating your bibliography and submitting a new or current image and biography. Learn more at Author Central. Growing Better Information Systems. I haven't had much time, in a very long time, to write much here. I generally find myself too tired to be bothered, because for all intents I spend my days baffled by the view of Information Technology IT that plagues the world of business.
The narrow view that IT is a thing, an object, and simple is one that I have difficulty understanding for two reasons: This is one of those self-supportive posts I love to discover. I have used ODP. NET and Oracle for ages the latter for more than 20 years , and generally I don't run into anything too odd, but in a very recent project I encountered something that threw me.
In fact, it took a few kicks at the can to even be sure it was what I thought. Since the project was in VB. NET, I'll show a similar line: As any developer who has ever dealt with Access, especially ancient versions, knows, the product is a kludge upon a kludge. I don't usually blog about this sort of technical stuff, though I deal with it daily.
That probably explains right there why I avoid it as if it is tainted by the plague. But this particular problem was interesting enough that I thought it might be worth conveying it. The challenge for my associate came in the form of a bit of SQL that needed to pull apart a string unknown until runtime before it was inserted into a data store. A stored procedure wasn't possible, and the parsing r.
This is one of those posts of frustration, so take it for what it is worth. I have been doing development work since the very early eighties, and a trend has been becoming more notable in those many, many years. Part of it is probably that the industry has devalued itself with the pretence that software is an entertainment-focused industry. You flop Facebook into place, for example, and it becomes the superficial representation of the industry. That it is a poorly designed consumers-as-pro. As I sit here with my coffee this morning I contemplate life lessons learned over the last 6 months.
Primarily, I'm thinking about trust; but I'm also thinking about the method whereby we self-induce our experiences. Trust is the principle focus of my thoughts today, though, specifically how perception can alter our awareness of relationships. If you take any two people who have a trust deficit you need to consider the views of both to reach an appreciation of truth.
After all, nothing is. What Comes From The Mind Over the last week or so I've been thinking a lot about what comes from the mind, about trust, and about the human condition. My conclusions are both amusing and disturbing to me, but oddly not so much surprising. As much as folks pay lip service to the value of ideas, honest assessment of the value of ideas is not really a human approach.
If an idea excites it is held up as vital, and if it bores it is degraded as being tired; but if you historically analyze ideas you often find th. It's been a while that I've been using Windows 8, and thanks to Classic Shell I don't often have to look at the funky, chunky, ugly new start menu. First, to defenders of the new look and feel It isn't that the new UI elements are all bad, but they were not designed with desktop computing in mind. They were designed for some specific form factors t.
I really ought to give up the field and become a maintenance engineer!
- Frank Buchan.
- The Golden Face A Great Crook Romance.
- Legends of the Realm of Janos: Tales of the Crown.
This thought keeps rolling in my head, as once again I find myself playing the role of the underemployed programmer. Yes, there are jobs to do, but it appears that I passed my best before mark, and so I am once more underemployed. Well, I just finished my first self-publishing exercise with Amazon's Kindle Self-Publishing platform, and