A LESSON IN CRIME

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22468, 11 July 1936, Page 17 (Supplement)

A LESSON IN CRIME

Short Story

JOSEPH NEWTON settled himself comfortably in his corner of a first-class compartment on the Cornish Riviera express. So far, he had the compartment to himself; and if, by strewing rugs, hags, books and papers about he couid make himself look numerous enough to drive fellow-travellers away, there was hope lie flight remain undisturbed—for the long train was far from full. Let us take a look at him, and learn a little about him before his adventures begin—and end.

Age ? Forty-five would not be a bad guess, though, in fact, he is rather less. As for his physical condition, "well-nourished" is a polite description : and we, who desire to have no illusions, can safely call him paunchy, and, without positive grossness, flabby with good living. His face is puffy, and whitish under the eyes, his- niourh is loose, and inclined to leer. His fair hair, -which is rapidly growing thin, is immaculately brushed, and his clothes are admirably cut and well-

| By | i G. D. H. and M. COLE j

i (Copyright Reserved) I L I tended, though he has not the art of wearing them well. Altogether he looks a prosperous, thoroughly self-satisfied, and somewhat self-indulgent member of the British middle class; and that is precisely what lie is.

His walk in life? You would put him down as a business man, possibly a merchant or a middle-sized employer, not a professional man. There you would right and wrong. He is a professional man, in a sense; and ho is certainly in business.

In fact, he is Joseph Newton, the best-seller, whose crime stories and shockers were plastered all over the bookstall he has just left with his burden of newspapers under his arm. He has sold —heaven knows how many million copies of his stories, and his serial rights, first, second, and third, cost fabulous sums to secure. But why describe him further? All the world knows him. And now he is on his way to Cornwall, where he has a pleasant little seaside cottage with twenty-seven bedrooms.

The train starts, and Newton's carriage still remains empty save for himself. He heaves a fat sigh of relief and picks up a magazine in which he turns instinctively to a story by himself. For the moment he cannot remember who wrote it. Poor stuff, he thinks. He must find out which "ghost" was responsible, and sack him. Joseph Newton was interrupted in his reflections at this point by the consciousness that someone was looking at 'him. He glanced up and saw the figure of a man who was standing in the corridor and staring fixedly at him, with a curious air of abstraction. Newton stared back, trying to look as unwelcoming as possible. It would be really bad luck, he felt, if someone .were to invade his compartment now.

The newcomer, after a moment more of staring, pushed back the door and came in, flinging down on top of one of Newton's bags a rug and a pillow done up in a strap. He seemed to have no other luggage. Newton unwillingly got up and cleared a corner of his belongings, and tho stranger sat down and began to unbuckle his strap. Then settled himself comfortably with the pillow behind his head, and closed his eyes. "1 hope to goodness ho doesn't snore," Newton thought. While our second traveller is thus peacefully settling himself for a doze, we may as well take a good look at him also; for it may be important to know him later 011. He is a scraggy little man, probably of sixty or more, with a'completely bald pint head and a straggling grey beard which emerges from an incredibly folded and puckered yellow chin. His height is hardly more than five foot six, and his proportions are puny; but there is a wiriness about his spare person that contrasts strongly with Newton's ficshv bulk.

He is dressed, not so much ill as with ? carelessness amounting to eccentric3t}\ His clothes, certainly cut by a good tailor, hang" in hags all over him. His Pockets bulge. His waistcoat is buttoned up wrongly, and sots awry, and his shirt has come apart at the neck, s° that a disconsolate shirt-stud is hanging out on one side, while his rod t'e is leaning toward the other. Moreover) the sole of one of his boots has corne loose, and flaps helplessly as his crossed le<* swings slowly to the rhythm °f the train.

Yet, in spite of these appearances, the newcomer is certainly a gentleman, ® n u one is inclined to deem him eccentric rather than poor. He might be an exceptionally absent-minded professor hough, as a matter of fact, he is not. "t who he is Joseph Newton has 110 idea. •

or some time there was silence in p le . co "ipartijient, as the Cornish sped westward past the long, ff.h° a ribbon of London. Newton's . ow "t r aveller did not snore. His eyes re closed whenever Newton glanced „ ~n ) > a nd yet between whiles the h<>; 6 st '" a 'l'icer feeling of R . stared at. lie told himself it in a !in d tried to bury himself "'hi est story, but the sensation

remained with him. Suddenly, as the train passed Maidenhead Station, his companion spoke, in a quiet, positive voice, as of one used to telling idiots what idiots they were. A professional voice, with a touch of Scots accent.

"Talking of murderers," it said, "you have really no right to be so caroless." "KhP" said Newton, so startled that his magazine dropped from his hand to tho lloor. "Eh, what's that?"

"I said you had 110 right to bo so careless," repeated the other. Newton retrieved his magazine, and looked his fellow-traveller contemptuously up and down. "1 am not aware," lie said, "that wo wore talking of murderers, or of anything else, for that matter." "There, you see," said the other, "you did hear what 1 said the first time. What I mean to say is that, if you expect intelligent people to read Your stories, you might at least trouble to make them plausible."

Newton suppressed the rejoinder that rose instantly to his lips, it was that 110 had far too large a circulation among fools to bother about what intelligent peoplo thought. He only said, "1 doubt, sir, if you are likely to find my conversation any more satisfactory than my books," and resumed his magazine. "Probably not," said the stranger. "I expect success has spoiled you. But you had some brains to begin with. . . .

Those Indian stories of yours—"

Perhaps no other phraso would have induced .Joseph Newton to embark upon a conversation with the stranger. Hut nobody nowadays ever read or bothered about his Indian stories, though he was very well aware that they were the best things ho had ever done.

" —had glimmerings of quality," the other was saying, "and you might have accomplished something had you not taken to writing for money." "Are you aware, sir." Newton said, "that you are being excessively rude?" "Quite," said the other with calm satisfaction. "I always am. It is so good for people. And really, in your last book, you have exceeded the limit." "Which of my last books are you talking about?" asked Newton, hovering between annoyance and amusement. "It is called Tho Big Noise," said the other, sighing softly. • "Oh, that," said Newton.

"Now, in that book," the stranger went on, "you call the heroine Elinor and Gertrude on different pages. You cannot make up your mind whether her name was Bobbins with two b's or with one. You have killed the corpse in one place on Sunday and in another on Monday evening. That corpse was discovered twelve hours after the murder still wallowing in a pool of wet blood. The coroner committed no fewer than seventeen irregularities in conducting the inquest; and, finally, you have introduced three gangs, a mysterious Chinaman, an unknown poison that leaves no trace, and a secret society of international Jews high up in the political world." The little old man held up his hands in horror as he ended tho grisly recital.

Well," Newton asked, "any more?"

"Alas, yes," said the other. "The volume includes, besides many misprints. fifteen glaring inconsistencies, nine cases of gross ignorance, and enough grammatical mistakes —to stretch from Paddington to Penzance." This time Newton laughed outright. " You seem to be a very earnest student of my writings," he said. The stranger picked up the rug from his knees and folded it neatly beside him. He removed the pillow and laid that down, too. He then moved across to the corner seat opposite Newton and, taking a jewelled cigarette case from his pocket, selected a cigarette, returned the case to his pocket, found a match, lighted up and began to smoke.

Then he again drew out the case and offered it to Newton.

Newton took the proffered cigarette and the stranger obligingly gave him a light. Newton puffed. Yes, they were good stuff, though rather heavy. " Now, in my view," the stranger was saying, " tho essence of a really good murder is simplicity. All your books—all most people's books—have far too much paraphernalia about them. A really competent murderer would need 110 special appliances, and practically no preparations. Ergo, he would be in far less danger of leaving any clues behind him. Why, oh why, Mr. Newton, do you not write a murder story on those lines?" Again Newton laughed. Ho was disposed to humour the old gentleman. " It wouldn't make much of a story,'' he said, " if the murderer really left no clues."

" Oh, but there you are wrong," said the other. " What is needed is a perfectly simple murder, followed by a perfectly simple solution —so simple that only a great mind could think of it, by penetrating to the utter simplicity of the mind of the murderer." " I can't abide those psychological detectives," Newton said. " You'd better go and read Mr. Van Dine." ("Or some of those fellows who would give their ears for a tenth of my sales," his expression added.) " Dear me, you quite misunderstand me. That wasn't what I meant at all. There would be no psychology in the story T have in mind. It would be more like William Blake's poetry." " Mad, you mean," said Newton. " Crystal sane," replied the other. " Perhaps it will help you if I illustrate my point. Shall I outlino the sort of murder I have in mind?"

"If you like," said Nowton, who found himself growing suddenly very sleepy. "Very well," said tho stranger. "Then I'll just draw down the blinds." He jumped up and lowered the blinds on the corridor side of the compartment.

" That's better," ho said. " Now we shall be undisturbed. Now supposing—only supposing, of course —that there were two men in a railway carriage just like us, and they were perfect strangers, but one of them did not really care for the other's face. Are you listening, Mr. Newton?" "Yes," said Newton, very sleepily. He was now having real difficulty in keeping his eyes open " And, further, supposing neither of them had brought any special paraphernalia with him, except what any innocent traveller might be carrying—say, a rug, a pillow and a rugstrap '' As he spoke, tho stranger picked up tho rug-strap from tho scat besido him. " Hey, what's that about a rugstrap?" said Newton, roused for a moment by a connection- of ideas he was too sleepy to sort out. "Except, of course, just one doped cigarette, containing an opiate —strong, but in no wise fatal," tho other went 011 blandly. " What the ?" murmured Newton, struggling now vainly against an absolutely stupefying drowsiness. " There would really be nothing to prevent him from committing a nice, neat murder, would there?" the old man continued, rising as be spoke with startling agility and Hinging the loop of the rug-strap over Newton's head. " Now. would there?" he repeated, as lie drew it tight around his victim's neck, and neatly fastened it. Newton's mouth came wide open; his tongue protruded and ho began to gurgle horribly; his eyes stuck out from his head.

" And then," said the stranger, " the pillow would come in so handy to finish

him off." Ho dragged Newton down on the seat, placed the pillow firmly on his upturned face, and sat on it, smiling delightedly. The gurgling slowly censed.

" The rug," the cheerful voice went on, " has proved to be superfluous. Keally, Mr. Newton, murder is even easier than I supposed—though it is not often, L imagine, that a lucky chance enables one to do a service to tho literary craft at the same time." Newton said nothing, lor ho was dead.

The stranger retained his position a little longer, still smiling gently to himself. Then he rose, removed the pillow from Newton's face, and, alter a careful survey of the body, undid the strap. Next, he picked up a half-smoked cigarette and throw it out of the window. folded his rug neatl.v, did it and tho pillow up in tho strap, and, opening the door into the corridor, walked quietlv awijy down the train. "What a pity!" he murmured to himself as be went. " It would make such a good story; and 1 am afraid the poor fellow will never have the sense to write it."

The body of Joseph Newton was actually discovered by a restaurant-car attendant who was tjoing round to collect orders for the first lunch. Opening the door of a first-class compartment, which had all its blinds drawn down, 110 found Newton, no pleasant sight and indubitably dead, stretched out upon the scat where his companion had left hint.

Without waiting to do more thnn make sure tho man was dead, he scuttled along to fetch the guard. A brief colloquy of train officials then took place in the fatal compartment, and it was decided to stop the train short of Newbury Station and send for the police before anyone had a chance of leaving it. It seemed clear, as there had been no stop since tjiev left Paddington, that the murderer must still bo on it, unless he had leaped from an express travelling at full speed. The police arrived, inspected the body, hunted the compartment in vain for traces of another passenger—for the murderer had taken the precaution of wearing gloves throughout his demonstration —took the name and address of every person on the train, to the number of some hundreds, had tho carriage in which the murder had occurred detached, with much shunting and grunting, from tho rest of the train, and finally allowed tho delayed express to proceed. Only those travellers who had been actually in the carriage of which Newton's compartment had formed a part were kept back for further inquiries. Hut Newton's companion was not among them. Having given his correct name and address to the police, he proceeded quietly upon his journey in tho empty first-class compartment two carriages farther back to which he had moved after his successful experiment in simplicity. There were four hundred and ninetyeight passengers on the Cornish Riviera express whose names were taken by the police at Newbury, or, if von count Newton, four hundred and ninety-nine. Add guards and attendants, restaurantcar staff, and the occupants of a travelling Tost Office van—total five hundred and nineteen.

Of these one hundred and twenty-six were women, one hundred and fift.V" three children, and the rest men. that allowed for quite enough possible suspects for the police to follow up. They wore followed up, exhaustively. But it did not appear that any single person among them had any acquaintance with Joseph Newton, or any connection w?th him save as readers of his l ooks. Nor did a meticulous examination of Newton's past suggest the shadow of a reason why ho should have been murdered. . The police tried their hardest, and the public and tho press did their best to assist, for the murder of a bestseller, by a criminal who left no clue,' was enough to excite anybody's imagination. Several individuals, in their enthusiasm, went so far as to confess to tho crime, and gave Scotland Yard several days' work in disproving their statements. But nothing helpful was forthcoming, and at long last the excitement died down.

It was more than three months Inter that the young Marquis of Queensferry called upon Henry Wilson, formerly the chief official of Scotland Yard, and now the foremost private detective in England. His modest request was that Wilson should solve for him the mysterv of Joseph Newton's murder. ■\Vhen Wilson asked him why ho wanted it solved, tho Marquis explained that it was for a bet. It appeared that his old uncle, the Honourable Roderick Dominic Acres-Noel, had bet him fifty thousand pounds to a pennv he could not solve tho problem, and he, who had the title but not the money, would be very willing to lay his hands on fifty thousand pounds which his uncle, who bad the money but not the title, would never miss. Asked the reason for so unusual a bet, he replied that tho reason was Uncle Roderick, who was always hotting on something, the sillier the better. " Our family's like that, you know, the Marquis added. "We're all mad. And my undo was quite excited about the case, because he was on the train when it happened. Ho even wrote to the Times about it." Wilson rejected the idea that he could solve a case which had utterly baffled Scotland Yard when the trail was fresh, now that it was stone cold, and all clues, presumably, vanished into limbo. Even tho most lavish promises of shares in the fifty thousand pounds did not tempt him, and ho sent the young Marquis away with a flea in his ear. But, after the Marquis had gone, he found that he could not get tho case out of his head. In common with everybody else, he had puzzled his brains over it at the time; but it was weeks since he had given it a thought, But now —here it was again—bothering his mind. Hang it all, it wasn't reasonableit was against Nature —that a man should be able to murder another man and get away without leaving any clue at all. So, at any rate, the Marquis' crazy old uncle seemed to think, unless, indeed, 110 was merely crazy. Most likely he was. Wilson could not say exactly at what moment ho decided to have ono more shot at this impossible mystery. Perhaps it was when he recollected that, according to the Marquis, Mr. AcresNoel had himself travelled on that train to Cornwall. It might be that Mr. Acres-Noel had noticed something that the police had missed; he was just the sort of old gentleman who would enjoy keeping a tit-bit of information to himself. At any rate, it was one thing ono could try. Wilson rang up his old colleague, Inspector Blaikie, at Scotland Yard, and Blaikie guffawed at him. "Solve it, by all means," he said. "We'll lie delighted. We're sick of the sound of Newton's name. . . Yes, old Acres-Noel was on the train —I don't know anything more about him. . . Oh, mad 'as a hatter. Completely . . . Yes, he wrote to tho Times, and they printed it . . . three days afterward, I think. Shall I have it looked up for you? . . . Right you are. Let us know when you catch the murderer, won't you?" Wilson sent for his own file of tho Times, and looked up the letter of Mr. Acres-Noel. The Times had not thought 1

it worth the honour of the middle page, but fortunately had not degraded it into the "Points" column. It ran: "Sir, —The methods of the police in dealing with the so-called Newton Mystery appear to show more than the usual official incompetence. As one of the passengers on the train on which .Mr. Newton died, 1 have boon subjected to considerable annoyance—and I may add compensated in part by some amusement —at the fruitless and irrelevant inquiries made by the police. "It is plain the police have no notion of the motives which prompted the murder. Their inquiries show that. If they would devote more attention to thinking what tho motivo was, and loss to the accumulation of useless information, the apparent complexity of the case would disappear. The truth is usually simple—too simple for idiots to sec. Why was Nowton murdered? Answer that, and it will appear plainly that only one {>orson could have murdered him. Motive is essentially individual. "I am, yours, etc., "R. D. Acres-Noel."

"Upon my word," said Wilson to himself, "that's a very odd letter."

He read it over soveral times, staring at it as if the namo of tho murderer was written between tho lines.

Suddenly ho leaped to his feet, and with an excitement ho seldom showed, dashed down Whitehall to Inspector Blaikio's oflice. Within ten minutes ho was making a proposition to that official which left him starkly incredulous. "I know," Wilson persisted, "it isn't a certainty, it's a thousand to one chance. But. it is a chance, and I want to try it. I'm not asking tho department to commit itself in any way, only 'to let me have a couple of men standing by. Don't you see, tho whole point about this extraordinary letter is the way it stresses the question of A motive? And, more than that, it suggests that the writer knows what the motive was. Now, how could he do that unless—"

"But, if that's so, tho man's mad I" Blaikie protested. "Whoever heard of anybody murdering a complete stranger just to show him?" "Well, ho certainly is mad, isn't he? You said so yourself, and his family's notoriously crazy."

"He'll have to bo pretty well off his rocker," Blaikie remarked, "if to be kind enough to come and shove his neck in a noose for you.''

"One can but try," Wilson said, "If you won't help me I'm going to try alone. I must have one shot at getting to the bottom of it." And eventually Blaikie agreed. The upshot was that Wilson, immediately after his interview, arranged for the posting of tho following letter, forged with extreme care so as to imitate the handwriting of the supposed author. It was despatched from the pillar-box nearest to Joseph Newton's Cornish cottage. It said: "Dear Mr. Acres-Noel, "Ever since our chance meeting a few months ago, 1 have been thinking over the very interesting demonstration you were kind enough to give me on that occasion. May I cortfess, however, that 1 am still not quite satisfied; and 1 should bo even more deeply obliged if I could induce you to repeat it. As it happens, I shall bo returning to London this week-end, and travelling down ,again to Cornwall on the Riviera express next Wednesday. If you too should chance to be travelling that way, perhaps we may meet again. "Yours very truly, "Joseph Newton."

Someone remarkably like the Into Joseph Newton settled himself comfortably in tho corner of a first-class compartment in the Cornish Riviera express. He had the compartment to himself, and, although the train had begun to fill up, no other traveller had entered when the train drew out of the station. Very discreetly, passengers who came near it had been warned away by the station officials.

The train had not yet gathered its full speed when the solitary traveller became conscious that someono was standing outside the compartment, and staring in at him. He raised his eyes from the magazine he was reading, and looked back. Slowly, tho newcomer pushed back tho sliding door, entered the compartment, and sat down in the far corner.

He was a little old man, with a straggling beard, wearing very shabby clothes. He flung down on the seat beside him a rug and a pillow tied up in a strap. Undoing his bundle, he settled himself with the pillow behind his head, tho rug over his knees, and tho strap on tho seat beside him. Then he closed his eyes.

Wilson did and said nothing. It was nervous work, waiting for his cue. But by this time he knew he was right. The millionth chance had come off. The train flashed at length—it seemed hours—through Maidenhead Station. Suddenly the old man spoke. "Talking of murders," he said, "it is mv turn to apologise. I am afraid I bungled it last time."

"Not at all," said Wilson, hoping that his voice would not give him away; "but if you would kindly just show me again how —"

"With pleasure," said the old man

Ho moved with alacrity to the corner opposite Wilson, took from his pocket a jewelled cigarette-case, and proffered it. Wilson took a cigarette, and did a second's rapid thinking before tho match was produced. A cigarette was something he had not allowed for, and it might even turn out to bo poisoned. However, no use hesitating now. He suffered Mr. Acres-Noel to light it, and tho heavy sweetish taste confirmed his fears.

Fortunately, however, it was hardly alight belore the other rose and went to tho window.

"You won't mind my pulling down tho blinds, will you?" he said; and Wilson took advantage of his movement to efloct a lightning exchange of tho suspicious cigarette for one of his own. This was a relief, but clearly he must show some signs of being affected by it. Sleepiness seemed the most likely cue. Ho yawned.

"You follow me so far, I trust," said the other.

"Perfectly," said Wilson slowly. "Please—go—" Slowly his eyes closed, and his head began to wag. The old man seized the rug strap.

"This is tlio next step," he said, attempting to cast it over Wilson's head. But Wilson sprang to his feet, warded oil' the strap, and pressed a button beside him which had been fixed to communicate with tho adjoining compartment. Almost as ho grappled with his now frenzied antagonist, two stalwart policemen in plain clothes rushed in to his aid. Mr. Acres-Noel, alternately protesting his innocence and shrieking with wild laughter, was soon safely secured. The train slowed down and stopped at the deserted station of Newbury Racecourse, where captors and captive descended almost unnoticed. Tiien it sped upon its way. Mr. Acres-Noel, safe in Broadmoor, has only ono complaint. The authorities will not supply him with Joseph Newton's now books. He wants to see whether that popular writer has benefited by his lesson in practical criini- i nology. ,