Silent Nights (13 page)

“What's the trouble?” said Reggie, with his head out of the window: and slipped the catch and came out in a bundle.

The chauffeur's face was the face of Lady Chantry. He saw it in the flash of a pistol overhead as he closed with her. “I will, I will,” she muttered, and fought him fiercely. Another shot went into the pines. He wrenched her hand round. The third was fired into her face. The struggling body fell away from him, limp.

He carried it into the rays of the headlights and looked close. “That's that,” he said with a shrug, and put it into the car.

He lit a cigar and listened. There was no sound anywhere but the sough of the wind in the pines. He climbed into the chauffeur's place and drove away. At the next crossroads he took that which led north and west, and so in a while came out on the Portsmouth road.

That night the frost gathered on a motor-car in a lane between Hindhead and Shottermill. Mr Fortune unobtrusively caught the last train from Haslemere.

When he came out from a matinée with Joan Amber next day, the newsboys were shouting “Motor Car Mystery.” Mr Fortune did not buy a paper.

It was on the morning of the second day that Scotland Yard sent for him. Lomas was with Superintendent Bell. The two of them received him with solemnity and curious eyes. Mr Fortune was not pleased. “Dear me, Lomas, can't you keep the peace for a week at a time?” he protested. “What is the reason for your existence?”

“I had all that for breakfast,” said Lomas. “Don't talk like the newspapers. Be original.”

“‘Another Mysterious Murder,' '' Reggie murmured, quoting headlines. “‘Scotland Yard Baffled Again,' ‘Police Mandarins.' No, you haven't a ‘good Press,' Lomas old thing.”

Lomas said something about the Press. “Do you know who that woman chauffeur was, Fortune?”

“That wasn't in the papers, was it?”

“You haven't guessed?”

Again Reggie Fortune was aware of the grave curiosity in their eyes. “Another of our mysterious murders,” he said dreamily. “I wonder. Are you working out the series at last? I told you to look for some one who was always present.”

Lomas looked at Superintendent Bell. “Lady Chantry was present at this one, Fortune,” he said. “Lady Chantry took out her car the day before yesterday. Yesterday morning the car was found in a lane above Haslemere. Lady Chantry was inside. She wore chauffeur's uniform. She was shot through the head.”

“Well, well,” said Reggie Fortune.

“I want you to come down and look at the body.”

“Is the body the only evidence?”

“We know where she bought the coat and cap. Her own coat and hat were under the front seat. She told her servants she might not be back at night. No one knows what she went out for or where she went.”

“Yes. Yes. When a person is shot, it's generally with a gun. Have you found it?”

“She had an automatic pistol in her hand.”

Reggie Fortune rose. “I had better see her,” he said sadly. “A wearing world, Lomas. Come on. My car's outside.”

Two hours later he stood looking down at the slight body and the scorched wound in that pale face while a police surgeon demonstrated to him how the shot was fired. The pistol was gripped with the rigour of death in the woman's right hand, the bullet that was taken from the base of the skull fitted it, the muzzle—remark the stained, scorched flesh—must have been held close to her face when the shot was fired. And Reggie listened and nodded. “Yes, yes. All very clear, isn't it? A straight case.” He drew the sheet over the body and paid compliments to the doctor as they went out.

Lomas was in a hurry to meet them. Reggie shook his head. “There's nothing for me, Lomas. And nothing for you. The medical evidence is suicide. Scotland Yard is acquitted without a stain on its character.”

“No sort of doubt?” said Lomas.

“You can bring all the College of Surgeons to see her. You'll get nothing else.”

And so they climbed into the car again. “Finis, thank God!” said Mr Fortune as the little town ran by.

Lomas looked at him curiously. “Why did she commit suicide, Fortune?” he said.

“There are also other little questions,” Reggie murmured. “Why did she murder Bigod? Why did she murder the lady doctor? Why did she try to murder the child?”

Lomas continued to stare at him. “How do you know she did?” he said in a low voice. “You're making very sure.”

“Great heavens! You might do some of the work. I know Scotland Yard isn't brilliant, but it might take pains. Who was present at all the murders? Who was the constant force? Haven't you found that out yet?”

“She was staying near Bigod's place. She was at the orphanage. She was at the child's party. And only she was at all three. It staggered me when I got the evidence complete. But what in heaven makes you think she is the murderer?”

Reggie moved uneasily. “There was something malign about her.”

“Malign! But she was always doing philanthropic work.”

“Yes. It may be a saint who does that—or the other thing. Haven't you ever noticed—some of the people who are always busy about distress they rather like watching distress?”

“Why, yes. But murder! And what possible motive is there for killing these different people? She might have hated one or another. But not all three.”

“Oh, there is a common factor. Don't you see? Each one had somebody to feel the death like torture—the girl Bigod was engaged to, the girl who was devoted to the lady doctor, the small Gerald's mother. There was always somebody to suffer horribly—and the person to be killed was always somebody who had a young good life to lose. Not at all nice murders, Lomas. Genus diabolical, species feminine. Say that Lady Chantry had a devilish passion for cruelty—and it ended that night in the motor-car.”

“But why commit suicide? Do you mean she was mad?”

“I wouldn't say that. That's for the Day of Judgement. When is cruelty madness? I don't know. Why did she—give herself away—in the end? Perhaps she found she had gone a little too far. Perhaps she knew you and I had begun to look after her. She never liked me much, I fancy. She was a little—odd—with me.”

“You're an uncanny fellow, Fortune.”

“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I'm wholly normal. I'm the natural man,” said Reggie Fortune.

The Absconding Treasurer

J. Jefferson Farjeon

Joseph Jefferson Farjeon (1883–1955) came from a distinguished family. His grandfather was the American actor Joseph Jefferson, and his father, Benjamin Farjeon, was a prolific and successful novelist, while his sister Eleanor became renowned for her stories and poetry for young people. Farjeon's crime novels included
No. 17
; originally a stage play, the story was the source for Alfred Hitchcock's 1932 thriller
Number Seventeen
. Dorothy L. Sayers was among his many admirers, saying: “Jefferson Farjeon is quite unsurpassed for creepy skill in mysterious adventures”. A striking reminder of the enduring appeal of Golden Age crime writing came in late 2014, when the British Library reissue of Farjeon's
Mystery in White
became a runaway best-seller.

The short stories that Farjeon wrote early in his career are less well known, and not even the British Library possesses a copy of “The Absconding Treasurer”. We are therefore indebted to Monte Herridge, a very knowledgeable American enthusiast, for tracing and supplying the text of the story. Herridge's researches, published on the excellent Mystery*File website, have revealed that Farjeon wrote no fewer than fifty-seven stories featuring Detective X. Crook which originally appeared in
Flynn's/Detective Fiction Weekly
between 1925 and 1927. They are straightforward stories when compared to Farjeon's later work, but they display his developing craftsmanship as a writer of mysteries.

***

“I be secretary of the Slate Club, d'ye see,” said Mr Jenks, nervously rubbing his somewhat stubbly chin, “and so, naterally, I do feel sort o' responsible.”

“Naturally,” agreed Detective Crook. “But no one suspects you of having run off with the money?”

“'Ow could they?” responded Mr Jenks, frowning heavily. “I
ain't
run off. I be 'ere. Well, then.” He rubbed his chin again. “But Mr Parkins, the treasurer—well, 'e ain't 'ere, d'ye see? And 'twas '
im
'ad the money. And the
money
ain't 'ere.”

“So, of course, Mr Parkins is suspected, not you,” nodded the detective. “That's quite obvious. When was the sharing out to have been?”

Mr Jenks looked doleful. They were sitting in the back room of his toy-shop, and the blinds were half drawn, as though in mourning for the departed cash.

“To-morrer, it was,” he groaned. “And a rare day it was to 'ave been. Ninety-three pound eight-and-twopence—we reckoned it up on'y lars' night, sir. And twenty-six on us to share it, which was more'n three-pound-ten each, and many on us wantin' it badly, you may be sure, sir, and some on us spent it already. And Mrs Mason ill, and countin' on 'er three-pound-ten fer med'cine, and my own son jest lost 'is job, too—”

“Yes, I can imagine it must be a blow to you all,” interposed Crook, “but perhaps we may be able to trace the money yet. You say Mr Parkins and you reckoned up the amount last night?”

“That be right. Lars' night, it was,” answered the secretary.

“Do you mean you reckoned it out on paper, or actually counted the cash?”

“On paper. But Mr Parkins, 'e 'ad the cash, too, locked away in a drawer. And, I'll allow, we checked the amount.”

Mr Jenks' eyes glistened at the memory. It had evidently been a pleasant occasion.

“But how did Mr Parkins happen to have the money there?” was Crook's next question. “Wasn't he in rather a hurry to withdraw it from the bank? Or hadn't it been put in the bank?”

“Oh, 'twas put in the bank, that's right enough,” exclaimed the secretary. “Mr Parkins was most methodical. That's why he was chose for treasurer when Mr 'Ardcastle put 'im up, ye see. But 'e got sorter worked up—Christmas excitement, I put it down to—and said 'e'd get the money out, and 'ave plenty o' time to divide it up.

“‘Why not wait till tomorrer, Jim,' I said. ‘W'ot's the 'arm in takin' it out today?' 'e said. ‘Wouldn't ye like to see it?' 'e said. ‘Well, I wouldn't mind,' I said. So 'e draws it out, and lars' night round I go to 'is room, and we reckon it up, as I've told ye.”

“What is Mr Parkins?”

“Treasurer. 'E be the treasurer—”

“Yes, but what's his job?”

“Oh, I see. 'E was with Mr 'Ardcastle, the grocer—been 'is assistant for well nigh two year.”

“Married?”

“No. Nor goin' to be, that I knew on.”

“Where was his room? The room where he kept the money?”

“'E 'ad a bedroom over the shop.”

“And that's where you last saw him?” asked the detective. Mr Jenks nodded. “What time did you leave his room?”

“'Twas near ten, I reckon. ‘Come for a stroll?' I said. ‘Walk back with me. Jim?' ‘Not it,' ses Jim. ‘Not with all this money lyin' about.' And then, when I'm outside, I whistles up to 'is winder, and 'e pops 'is 'ead out, and I said: ‘Lock it away, and come round for a drink,' but ‘no,' 'e ses, ‘I'm not leavin' it.' And then back I come, sir, and that's the lars' we see o' Jim Parkins. Nex' mornin' 'e was gone, 'is bed not slep' in, and the money was gone. too.”

A silence fell upon them. It was broken by a small voice from the shop.

“Mr Jenks!” called the small voice.

“That you, Elsie?” exclaimed Mr Jenks, and went to the door.

An odd sensation passed through Detective Crook as he overheard the short ensuing conversation.

“Excuse me,” said the small voice, “but mother ses 'as anything been found out, yet, if you please?”

“Nothin,' ” replied Mr Jenks. “But you go back and tell 'er, we're doin' all we can.”

“'Er cough's awful bad today, Mr Jenks.”

“That's a shame, that is. Well, you see she takes 'er med'cine reg'ler, then she'll get better.”

“Thank you, Mr Jenks.”

There was a sound of retreating feet, which suddenly paused as Mr Jenks called out:

“Hey! Wait a minnit! Santa Claus 'e come by 'ere today, and 'e left somethin' for you. Now, what was it? Ah—'twas that stockin' 'anging by the door. Take it down.”

“Oh, Mr Jenks!” gasped the child.

“Whoa! Not the big 'un! 'E didn't leave that 'un. 'Twas the—the middle-size 'un. Ay, that be it. Now run along, my dear—I gotter go back and try and find that money!”

When Mr Jenks returned to the little back room, he found his visitor in a very thoughtful mood, and watched him hopefully, without speaking. Detectives should not be interrupted.

“Tell me, was Mr Parkins in financial trouble of any kind?” asked Crook suddenly.

“Not that I knows on.”

“Would you say his character was as good as the average?”

“If it 'adn't been, 'e'd not 'ave been made treasurer,” responded Mr Jenks. “We always thought 'im honest. Took Mr 'Ardcastle's word for it. But there—you never know, do we?”

“No, you never know,” nodded Crook. “Who is this Mr Hardcastle?”

“E's boss, where 'e worked.”

“All right, I think I'll go and call on him, and also take a look at Parkins' room.”

Mr Jenks opened his eyes wide.

“That be no good!” he exclaimed. “We all on us done that first. There ain't a penny in it!”

“I don't expect there is, Mr Jenks,” answered the detective. “But maybe I'll find something else.”

II

Mr Hardcastle, the grocer, received the detective with considerable pleasure. Though he stood to lose his three-pound-ten, he was troubled less about that than about his assistant, for whose honesty, he told the detective, he would have sworn.

“Not that there weren't others who held a different view,” he admitted frankly. “You see, not much was known about him when he first come to our town, and he wouldn't have found a job here, not if I hadn't given him a chance.”

“Why not?” asked Crook.

“Dunno, sir. Prejudice, I expect. We like our own people, and don't much care about strangers. And then, as I say, we knew next to nothing about him.”

“What made
you
give him a chance?”

The grocer rubbed his nose, and looked a little puzzled.

“Danged if I can say, exactly,” he answered. “Something about him, I expect. You can't explain it, can you? Anyhow, there it was.

“I took him on, and when my chief assistant got a better job in London, I put Jim in his place.”

“And he justified himself?”

“Absolutely.” But the detective noted a slight hesitation, despite the definiteness of the word.

“Better tell me everything, Mr Hardcastle, if I'm to help you,” he suggested.

“Yes, you're right,” frowned the grocer. “It's true, he never did a wrong thing after I promoted him—until this present business, that is—but, before then—well, I
did
catch him over a small matter. Nobody knew it but him and me—and you're the third. He took ten shillings from the till.” The grocer paused, and his frown grew. “He'd got a sister—not quite right in her head. He's keeping her in a home somewhere.”

“So there's our motive,” muttered Crook reflectively. “What happened, after you found him out?”

Mr Hardcastle shifted rather uncomfortably.

“I ought to have kicked him off, of course,” he grunted. “But I couldn't, somehow. You know how it is. I said I'd overlook it, and he bucked up wonderful, and when this chance came—well, I thought it might just do the trick and make a man of him. Some of us are only waiting for a bit of trust from other folk to give us the right view of things. Or don't you agree?”

“Of course, I agree,” said Crook. “Many a man has gone wrong through mere suspicion.”

“Now, there you are! That's how I argued. So I gave him the chance, and I went further, and proposed him for the treasurer of our Slate Club when I'd been asked to take it on and didn't want to.”

Crook shook his head slightly.

“You were right to take a risk on the man yourself,” he commented, “but were you right to take a risk on other people's money?”

Mr Hardcastle did not reply. Instead, he rose and walked to a desk. For a few seconds he remained there writing, and then he returned to the detective with what he had written.

“There's my check,” he said bluntly. “Ninety-three pounds eight-and-twopence. If you don't trace that money, Mr Crook, hand that to Mr Jenks tomorrow.”

Crook took the slip of paper, looked at it, and then looked at the grocer.

“You're a white man, Mr Hardcastle,” he said.

“Not a bit,” came the gruff retort. “It's what I ought to do. When I proposed Jim for treasurer, I said to myself that I'd stand the racket if things did go wrong. Well, I stand by my word, whether it's down on paper or not. So please say no more about it. Only,” he added, with a faint smile, “I'm not a millionaire, and if you can catch the silly young devil, I'm not saying I won't be glad.”

“I'll do my best,” replied the detective. “I'd like to see his room now, if I may.”

The room in which Jim Parkins had slept—though not on the night of the theft—was at the back of the building. It was on the first floor, and its small window overlooked a narrow street. There was a side door below the window, and it was out of this side door he had undoubtedly gone, for it had been found open in the morning, and all the other doors were locked.

“He'd naturally go by that door,” added the grocer. “Just down one flight of stairs, and passing nobody's bedroom. Easy!”

“The door was found wide open?”

“Wide.”

“I should have thought he'd have closed it behind him,” commented Crook.

“A man in a hurry don't always think of those things,” answered Mr Hardcastle.

“Perhaps not.” Crook turned to the bed, and noted its disorder. “You said the bed had not been slept in?”

“Nor had it. It wasn't like that this morning. But we've turned the place upside down, looking for the money.”

“You had small hope of finding it!”

“That's right. But there was one or two in here near went off their heads! Ted Blake even ripped up the mattress!” He pointed to a slash in the bedding, and then turned to a small chest in a corner. “And he smashed that drawer, getting it finally open!”

“This chair's broken.”

“Ay, and I saw it broke. Joe Binder sat upon it a bit too hard this morning through emotion. A leg was loose.”

“There seems to have been a good deal of emotion flying around,” smiled Crook. “I shall be quite half an hour in this room, Mr Hardcastle, if you've anything else to do.”

III

Mr Hardcastle took the hint and departed. Left alone, Detective Crook made a thorough examination of the little room, taking his full time over it. Then he descended the narrow flight to the side door, examined that, and emerged into the lane.

A small group of villagers, standing outside a cottage on the opposite side, watched him, and one or two straggled forward.

“Be you a detective?” asked one.

“You never know,” replied Crook.

“Haw, haw,” guffawed the speaker awkwardly. “Well, if you be, are you goin' to find that money for us?”

“You never know,” repeated Crook, smiling.

“'E's a close 'un!” exclaimed the other, nudging his neighbour. “But that's what I'd do, if I was a 'tec!” He turned back to Crook. “'E must 'ave slipped out quiet, mustn't 'e? Ted Blake 'ere never 'eard 'im, and 'e sleeps oppersit.”

“Wish I '
ad!
” grunted Blake. “'E'd not 'ave got far, blast 'im!”

“You sleep too 'eavy, Ted,” retorted the first speaker. “What's goin' to 'appen to my Christmas turkey?”