‘But it broke the medico, of course. Nobody would think of calling in a doctor who took realistic views about human life, and thought a few thousand sick niggers in the bush more important than a butler in the hand. What happened to the poor devil I don’t know. I believe he changed his name and went abroad. Anyway, somebody else did the work on the manuscripts, which form as you probably know, the basis for our whole modern practice with regard to sleeping sickness. I suppose the Davenant-Smith treatment must have saved innumerable lives. Now, Padre, was that young medico a martyr or a murderer?’
‘God knows,’ said the Padre. ‘But I think, in his place, I should have tried to rescue the butler.’
‘Woof!’ said the Colonel. ‘Damned awkward. Drunken old ruffian’s no loss. Too many of ’em about – no good to anybody. But all the same, damned unpleasant thing, letting a man burn to death.’
‘Sleeping sickness is pretty unpleasant, too,’ observed the Stranger. ‘I’ve seen a lot of it.’
‘And what is your own opinion, sir?’ inquired the Padre.
‘The young doctor was a fool,’ said the Stranger, with bitter emphasis. ‘He should have known that the world is run by sentimentalists. He deserved everything he got.’
Old Popper turned and considered the Stranger with a slow and thoughtful eye.
‘The terms of that problem were comparatively simple,’ he observed. ‘The papers were undoubtedly valuable and the butler undoubtedly worthless. Now I could tell you of a problem that really was a problem. The thing actually happened to me – years ago, many years ago. And even now – especially now – it gives me the jim-jams to think about it.’
The Colonel grunted, and Timpany said:
‘Go on. Popper; tell us the story.’
‘I don’t know that I can,’ said Popper. ‘I’ve tried not to dwell upon it, I’ve never mentioned it from that day to this. I don’t think–’
‘Perhaps if you told us now,’ said the Padre, ‘it might relieve your mind.’
‘I rather doubt it,’ said Popper. ‘Of course, I know I can count upon your sympathy. But perhaps that’s the worst part of it.’
We made suitable noises, and the Stranger said, rather primly, but with a queer kind of eagerness:
‘I should very much like to hear your experience.’
Old Popper looked at him again. Then he rang the bell and ordered a double whisky.
‘Very well,’ he said, when he had put it down. ‘I’ll tell you. I won’t mention names, but you may possibly remember the case. It happened when I was quite a youngster, and was working as a clerk in a solicitor’s office. We were instructed for the defence of a certain man – a commercial traveller – who was accused of murdering a girl. The evidence against him looked pretty formidable, but we were convinced, from his manner, that he was innocent, and we were, naturally, extremely keen to get him off. It would be a feather in our caps, and besides – well, as I say, we believed he was an innocent man.
‘The case came up before the magistrate, and things didn’t look any too good for our client. The defence was an alibi, but unfortunately he could bring no evidence at all to prove it. His story was that after having a row with the girl (which he admitted) he had left her in a country lane – where she was afterwards found dead, you understand – and had driven away without noticing where he was going.
‘He said he remembered going into some pub or other and getting exceedingly drunk and then driving on and on till he came to a wood, where he got out and went to sleep for a bit. He said he thought he must have woken up again about three o’clock in the morning, when it was still dark.
‘He had no idea where he was, but after going through a lot of side-roads and small villages which he couldn’t put a name to, he had fetched up, round about six o’clock, in a town which we will call Workingham. He had spoken to nobody after leaving the pub earlier in the evening, and the only other bit of help he could give us was that he thought he had lost a pair of woollen gloves at some time during his wanderings.
‘The police theory, of course, was that after leaving the pub, he had gone back and strangled the girl and had then driven straight through to Workingham. The murder hadn’t taken place till after midnight, if one could trust the medical evidence, but there was plenty of time for him to do the job and get to Workingham by six. The case went up for trial, and we didn’t feel any too happy about it, though there was something about the man that made us believe he was telling the truth.
‘Well, two days after the first hearing, we got a letter from a man living in a village about twenty miles from Workingham, who said he had some information for us, and I was sent up to interview him. He turned out to be a shifty-looking person of the labouring class, and after a good deal of argument and a ten-bob note had passed between us, he more or less admitted that he got his living by poaching. His story was that on the night of the murder, he had been setting snares in a wood near his village. He said that he had visited one particular snare just after 10 o’clock and again at one in the morning. He had seen no man and no car, but on his second visit to the snare, he had found a pair of woollen gloves, lying close beside it. He had taken the gloves home and said nothing about them to anybody, but after reading the report of the magistrate’s inquiry, he had thought it his duty to communicate with us. He also made it pretty obvious that he expected a reward for his testimony.
‘He showed me the gloves, which corresponded fairly closely to the description given by our client. Not that that proved very much, because they had been described in court and might have been purchased for the occasion. Still, there they were, and if they did belong to our client, and he had left them in a wood near Workingham before one a.m., he couldn’t possibly have been doing a murder at midnight eighty miles away. It did seem as though we might be able to get them identified, either by somebody who knew our man or through the manufacturer. I took down a statement from the poacher and set off home, carrying the gloves in my handbag.
‘I had no car in those early days, and had to return by rail – a nasty cross-country journey in a ramshackle local train with no corridor. It was a dark November night, with a thick fog, and everything running late.
‘I don’t remember the crash. We found out afterwards that the London express had somehow over-run the signals and rammed us from behind just before we cleared the points. All I knew was that something hit me with a noise like Doomsday, and that, after what seemed an endless age, I was crawling out from under a pile of wreckage, with blood running into my mouth from a bad cut on my head. I had been snoozing with my feet up on the seat, otherwise I should have been cut clean in two, for when I did get clear, I could see that the three rear coaches of the local had been telescoped. The engine of the express had turned over and set fire to the wreckage, and the place was an inferno. The dead and injured were sprawled about everywhere, and the survivors were working like navvies to extricate the unfortunate devils who were trapped in the blazing coaches. The groaning and screaming were simply ghastly. Booh!! I won’t dwell on that, if you don’t mind. You might touch the bell, Timpany. George, bring me another whisky. Same as before.
‘As soon as I got my wits about me,’ continued Popper, ‘I remembered the gloves in my handbag. I must get them out, I thought. I couldn’t find anyone to help me, and the flames were already licking up the side of the coach. Where the bag had got to I had no idea, but somewhere underneath all that mass of twisted iron and broken woodwork was the evidence that might save our client’s life.
‘I was just starting in to hunt for it, when I felt a clutch on my arm. It was a woman.
“My baby,” she said. “My little boy! In there!”
‘She pointed to the compartment next to mine. The fire was just beginning to take hold, and when I peered in I could see the child in the light of the flames. It was lying on the underside of the overturned coach, pinned in by some timbers which had saved it from being crushed to death, but I didn’t see how we were going to shift al
l that stuff before the fire got to it. The woman was shaking me in a kind of frenzy. “Be quick!” she said. “Be quick! It’s too heavy – I can’t lift it. Be quick!” Well, there was only one thing to do. I had another shot at getting help, but everybody seemed to have their hands full already. I clambered through the window and clawed about in the wreckage till I could reach down and satisfy myself that the boy was still alive.’
‘All the time I was doing it, you know, I could smell and hear the fire crackling and crunching the bones of my own compartment – eating up my bag and my papers and the gloves and everything. Each minute spent in saving the child was a nail in my client’s coffin. And – do remember this – I felt certain that the man was absolutely innocent.
‘And yet, you see, it was a pretty slender chance. The gloves might not be his, and even if they were, the evidence might not save him. Or, take it the other way. Even without the gloves, the jury might not believe his story.
‘And there was no doubt about the baby. There it was, alive and howling. And its mother was working frantically beside me, tugging at blazing planks and cutting herself on broken window glass, and calling out to the child all the time. What could I do? Though, you know, I had serious doubts whether we shouldn’t lose both the child and the evidence.
‘Well, anyhow, just when I was giving up hope, two men came along to lend a hand and we managed to lift the wreckage free and get the boy out. It was touch and go. His frock was alight already.
‘And by that time my own compartment was nothing but a roaring furnace. There was nothing left. Not a thing. When we hunted through the red-hot ashes in the morning, all we could find was the brass lock of my handbag.
‘We did our best of course. We got the poacher to court, but he didn’t stand up very well under cross-examination. And the whole thing was so vague. You can’t identify a pair of gloves from a description, and we failed absolutely to find anybody who had seen the car near the wood that night. Perhaps, after all, there never was a car.
‘Rightly or wrongly, we lost the case. Of course, we might have lost it anyway. The man may even have been guilty – I hope he was. But I can see his face now, as it looked when I told my story. I can see the foreman giving his verdict, with his eyes everywhere but on the prisoner.’
Popper stopped speaking, and put his hands over his face.
‘Was the fellow hanged?’ asked the Colonel.
‘Yes,’ said Popper in a stifled tone, ‘yes, he was hanged,’
‘And what,’ inquired the Padre, ‘became of the baby?’
Popper lowered his hands in a hopeless gesture.
‘He was hanged too. Last year. For the murder of two little girls. It was a pretty revolting case.’
There was a long silence. Popper finished his drink and stood up.
‘But you couldn’t have foreseen that,’ ventured the Padre at length.
‘No,’ said Popper, ‘I couldn’t have foreseen it. And I knew you will say that I did the right thing.’
The Stranger got up in his turn and laid his hand on Popper’s shoulder. ‘These things cannot be helped,’ he said. ‘I am the man who saved the Davenant-Smith manuscripts and I have my nightmares too.’
‘Ah! but you’ve paid your debt,’ said Popper quickly. ‘I’ve never had to pay, you see.’
‘Yes,’ said the other man thoughtfully, ‘I’ve paid, and time has justified me. One does what one can. What happens afterwards is no business of ours.’
But as he followed Popper out of the room, he held his head erect and moved with a new assurance.
‘That is a very dreadful story,’ said the Padre.
‘Very,’ said I, ‘and there are some rather odd points about it. Did commercial travellers dash about in motor-cars when Popper was a youngster? And why didn’t he take that evidence straight to the police?’
Timpany chuckled.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘Popper attended the inquest on Davenant-Smith’s butler. He must have spotted that doctor bloke the minute he set eyes on him. Popper’s the kindest-hearted old bluffer going, but you mustn’t believe a word of those stories of his. He was in great form tonight, was old Popper.’
An Arrow O’er the House
‘THE FACT IS, MISS Robbins,’ said Mr Humphrey Podd, ‘that we don’t go the right way about it. We are too meek, too humdrum. We write – that is, I write – a story that is a hair-raiser, a flesh-creeper, a blood-curdler, calculated to make stony-eyed gorgons howl in their haunted slumbers. And what do we do with it?’
Miss Robbins, withdrawing from the typewriter the final sheet of The Time Will Come! by Humphrey Podd, fastened it to the rest of the chapter with a paper clip and gazed timidly at her employer.
‘We send it to a publisher,’ she hazarded.
‘Yes,’ repeated Mr Podd, bitterly, ‘we send it to a publisher. How? Tied up in brown paper, with a servile covering note, begging to submit it for his consideration. Does he consider it? Does he even read it? No! He keeps it in a dusty basket for six months and then sends it back with a hypocritical thanks and compliments.’
Miss Robbins glanced involuntarily towards a drawer, in which, as she too well knew, lay entombed the still-born corpses of Murder Marriage, The Deadly Elephant, and The Needle of Nemesis, battered with travel and melancholy with neglect. Tears came into her eyes, for, though Heaven had denied her brains, she was as devoted to her work as any typist can be, and cherished, moreover, a secret and passionate attachment to Mr Podd.
‘Do you think a personal call –?’ she began.
‘That’s no good,’ said Mr Podd. ‘The beasts are never in. Or if they are, they are always in conference with somebody of importance, ha ha! No. What we want to do is to take a leaf out of the advertiser’s book – create a demand – arouse expectation. The “Watch This Space” stunt, and all that sort of thing. We must plan a campaign.’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Podd.’
‘We must be up to date, dynamic, soul-shattering,’ pursued the author. He swept back the lock of fair hair which was trained to tumble into his eyes at impressive moments, and assumed the air of a Napoleon. ‘Whom shall we select as our objective? Not Sloop – he is too well-fed. Nothing could make that swill-fatted carcase quiver. Nor Gribble and Tape, because they are both dead and you cannot hope to stagger a bone-headed Board of Directors. Horace Pincock is vulnerable, but I would rather starve in a garret than become a Horace Pincock author.’ (Not that there was any chance of Mr Podd starving, for he had an ample allowance from his widowed mother, but the expression sounded well.) ‘Nor Mutters and Stalk – I’ve met Algernon Mutters and he reminded me of a lop-eared rabbit. John Paragon is out of the question – his own advertising is pitiable, and he wouldn’t appreciate us. I think we will concentrate on Milton Ramp. For a publisher he is intelligent and go-ahead, and my friends tell me he is highly strung. Go and get me a broad pen, a bottle of scarlet ink, and some of that revolting bright green paper you buy from the sixpenny bazaar.’
Oh, yes, Mr Podd,’ breathed Miss Robbins.
The campaign against Mr Milton Ramp opened that day with an emerald missive marked ‘Private and Confidential’. Inside the paper bore only the words: THE TIME WILL COME! executed in scarlet letters an inch high. Miss Robbins posted this at the West Central Post Office.
‘They must all be posted from different places,’ said Mr Podd, ‘for fear of discovery.’
The second message (posted in Shaftesbury Avenue) had no wording; it consisted merely of an immense scarlet arrow with a venomous-looking barb. The third (posted in Fleet Street) showed the arrow again, together with the mysterious caption: ‘Time has an arrow – see Eddington – its mark is ruin and desolation.’ The fourth drove home this ambiguous remark with a quotation from Mr Podd’s latest work: ‘Ruin may seem far distant, but – THE TIME WILL COME!’ At this point the week-end intervened, and Mr Podd rested on his oars. He spent Sunday morning in picking out choice bits from his novel. The story lent itself to this, being conce
rned with the activities of an indignant gentleman wrongfully condemned to penal servitude by the machinations of a company promoter, and devoting his remaining years to a long-drawn-out series of threats and revenges. On Sunday night, Mr Podd posted the next letter with his own hand. It was an excerpt from Chapter IV, where the hero, in a great scene, defies his oppressor, and ran:
‘Guilty as you are, you cannot escape for ever. Truth shall prevail. THE TIME WILL COME!’
On Monday he was assailed by the thought that Mr Ramp might take the whole thing as a joke. This worried him. He made researches into the life-history of a more celebrated author, and wrote:
You laugh now – but THE TIME WILL COME when you will hear me! – see Disraeli.’
This pleased him until the moment when he found Miss Robbins throwing a letter into the waste-paper basket
‘Only an advertising circular, Mr Podd,’ explained Miss Robbins.
‘Woman!’ cried Mr Podd, ‘you alarm me! How if the hippopotamus-skinned Ramp has protected himself with a bulwark of women like you? Perhaps he has never even seen our well-thought-out nerve-shatterers! Damnable thought. But stay! Did not that idea also occur to the injured Rupert Pentecost?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Podd. In Chapter XV. I’ll look it up for you.’
‘A quotation to suit every situation,’ said Mr Podd. ‘Ah! thank you, Miss Robbins. Yes. “Remember the woman whose life you laid waste! If you persist in your obduracy, the warnings will go to your private address.” That will do nicely. Pass me the red ink. Post this in Hampstead on your way home and find out where the unspeakable Ramp has his detested lair.’
The task was not a hard one, for Mr Ramp’s lair was quite openly entered in the telephone directory, and the next letter was posted (from a pillar-box in Piccadilly) to that address:
‘Nemesis sits on the ruined hearth. THE TIME WILL COME!
This was embellished by a clock-face, in which arrow-shaped hands pointed to half-past eleven.