Six Against the Yard Read online

  Already she has made certain mistakes which may have serious consequences. She has been too ready to assume, for instance, that Kate, the maid, has no suspicion of the true state of affairs. Like her husband, she apparently thinks that Kate is ‘dumb.’ A great many people do think that about their servants, but the average domestic is by no means as stupid as her employer imagines. She usually knows far more about the family in which she is working than its members would believe possible.

  The police are aware of this, and the officer in charge of the case would give Kate every chance and every encouragement to talk. He would allow her to tell her story in her own way. A great deal of what she said would have no practical bearing on the case, but he would get a fairly accurate account of the relations between the strangely assorted husband and wife. And I should be considerably surprised if the following facts did not emerge:

  (a) That two days before the death of Eddie Tuffun, while he had locked himself in the bathroom, Myrtle had locked herself in the attic.

  (b) That one of Myrtle’s George IV silver teaspoons had disappeared, and that Kate couldn’t think where it had got to.

  (c) That some days before the tragedy, Eddie had been very busy writing; something very unusual for him, and that he was at some pains to keep what he was writing secret.

  (d) That Myrtle had been aware of, and interested in, this unaccustomed activity on the part of her husband.

  (e) That immediately before the big explosion Kate had heard a ‘little pop.’ Myrtle records having heard it, and as Kate was with her at the time, she must have done so also.

  These facts alone would provide food for thought, especially as the police would quickly discover about Eddie’s will and the ranch, and Myrtle would no doubt announce her intention of going out to America. Then Kate and Myrtle would be interviewed separately, and it is quite certain that Myrtle would say nothing about the attic, the silver teaspoon, Eddie’s manuscript, or the ‘little pop.’ Now, none of these things might be suspicious in itself, but taken together, they seem to call for some explanation, and Myrtle’s silence about them underlines their significance.

  But while Kate would almost certainly reveal these facts, which would in themselves be sufficient to give a new turn to the investigation, she might not stop there. She might also tell the police:

  (a) That the key of Myrtle’s dispatch-case fitted Eddie’s bureau. (She might even have seen Myrtle open the bureau and read the manuscript.)

  (b) That Myrtle had been in the bathroom shortly before the explosion.

  (c) That Myrtle’s manner had been strange when she hurried Kate out of the house just before Eddie met his death.

  Myrtle, you remember, was sure that Kate had noticed nothing peculiar, because, if she had, being ‘very strong on premonitions and forebodings and all that kind of thing,’ she would certainly have remarked on it. That is true, if Myrtle’s behaviour had suggested a premonition to Kate. If, however, the maid’s suspicions had been aroused, she would say nothing to her mistress, but she would tell the police.

  There is yet another possibility. Where, as in this case, husband and wife are at loggerheads, servants tend to take one side or the other. If Kate felt friendly towards Eddie—and the fact that he thought of trying to get her out of the way before the explosion which he planned occurred, suggests that there was at least no enmity between them—all that she said to the police would be coloured by that fact. She might even denounce Myrtle as a murderess.

  Another point suggests itself. Would Myrtle be able to burn the manuscript without Kate knowing about it? If Kate knew, she would certainly inform the police.

  But here we may ask an interesting question. Kate, we have decided, would tell the police about Eddie’s writing. After they had found that Myrtle was not going to volunteer any information about this, why did not the police question her regarding it? If the manuscript was still in existence, it might contain important evidence.

  If no questions were asked on this point, it was because the police already suspected Myrtle, but did not wish to let her know that fact. In short, they were giving her the rope to hang herself.

  In that case, it is probable that a man was left to watch the house. When Myrtle came downstairs to burn her manuscript, this officer would see her—or, at least, he would see lights going on. What would Myrtle’s reaction be if he suddenly rang the bell or knocked at the door? He would have a story ready—something he had left behind, or an important question which had been overlooked. Perhaps a question about the manuscript, which Myrtle must have laid down somewhere before going to the door—and she could not ignore the summons without arousing suspicion. Nor could she put the manuscript in the furnace first without giving away the fact that she was burning a document.

  What a dilemma for the woman who had just written: ‘And that, I submit, is the perfect murder!’

  Suppose that the question is about the manuscript—and I think that, if I were the officer, that is the line I should choose. Myrtle might be clever and resourceful enough to produce it and tell the officer: ‘Yes, I found this after my husband’s death, and I was trying to suppress it. If you read what he wrote, you will see why. I did not want to let the whole world know what a fool I had been, or what sort of man it was I had married.’

  That would have been highly irregular, but human and understandable. It might have gone far to explain Myrtle’s previous equivocations, and helped to allay the suspicions against her. But—her own narrative was with Eddie’s. Could she give the officer the one—and keep him from seeing the other?

  Even if she managed to do this, if Kate knew that she had read it before the explosion, and had so informed police, Myrtle’s quick thinking might not be of much service to her. Why had she not gone to the police? What answer could there be but that she had chosen to protect herself in another way—as a result of which her husband was dead?

  But let us give Myrtle the benefit of the most favourable conditions possible. Let us suppose that she burns her own and Eddie’s confession. The discrepancies between her statement and Kate’s remain, and the police will not be satisfied until they have sifted the matter to the bottom.

  Now we come to another of Myrtle’s mistakes. ‘His will was genuine enough,’ she wrote. ‘I had taken steps to make sure about the will. He really had a ranch, and it really would come to me if he died.’

  These ‘steps’ will certainly be traced. How are these inquiries going to look in the light of Eddie’s subsequent death?

  True, it was Eddie himself who bought the chemicals required to make the fulminate of mercury. But, with his manuscript destroyed, there is no evidence that he had been plotting murder, or that he knew anything about chemistry. On the other hand, Myrtle has admitted to a knowledge of that subject. It is known that she ordered Eddie about—sent him to make purchases for her. It might have appealed to the perverted mind of a murderess to make her prospective victim buy the materials by means of which she planned to launch him into eternity.

  I can see a case against Myrtle taking shape on these lines—a case which, if proved to the satisfaction of a jury, would mean that there was no hope of her escaping the gallows. I think the very suggestion that the police were going to proceed on this theory would be sufficient to force Myrtle to confess—and to tell the true story.

  It may be during further questioning by detectives that she will break down. It may be in the coroner’s court, when she is giving evidence, and the coroner, apprised of the results of the police investigations, proceeds to interrogate her. But break down I think she will.

  Very possibly this point will be reached, and she will make her confession, when she is confronted with a detailed reconstruction of the steps leading up to the murder. Personally, I am not an expert on explosives, but the police can command the services of men who are real authorities on this and on every other subject which may be useful in the investigation of a crime. These men would at once appreciate the significance of the missing si
lver teaspoon and the ‘little pop’ that was followed by the big explosion.

  Armed with the experts’ report, backed, perhaps, by traces of Myrtle’s experiments in the attic—I do not share her touching confidence that there was nothing there for the police to find—and, in any case, by the appropriate passages in her own text-books, detectives would tell her exactly how she had carried out her crime. I think that grim recital would be followed by a full confession.

  Even if it were not, I believe that the police would have a strong enough case to secure a conviction. It would be based purely on circumstantial evidence—but if there is enough of it, circumstantial evidence is just as deadly as direct testimony.

  No. The chances are heavily against Myrtle. Mr. Berkeley has told a very clever story, but he has not devised the perfect murder.

  Russell Thorndike

  STRANGE DEATH OF MAJOR SCALLION

  I

  I HAVE A CLEAR CONSCIENCE, FOR IF ANYONE deserved death it was Major Scallion. I cannot say exactly when first the idea of murdering him entered into my brain, but I remember the calm relief when the germ of that idea had grown into grim determination. This was during the first evening of his last visit to my home, and the first occasion on which he had met my wife. I remember how the heat of my wild resolution was cooled by my careful reasoning, and that very night I said to myself: ‘It is not clues only that I must beware of, but motive. I must conceal all motive. The first thing the police look for in a murder case is motive, for motive leads to the murderer. Therefore let me review the motive and then take steps to hide it.’

  The motive was disgust—a disgust that turned to hatred. A cold, terrible hatred. Add to this a jealousy and an irritation acute to the screaming point. I think that from the first I wished to kill him. I know that his mere existence, the sight of him, the thought of him, the knowledge of him and the growing irritation I suffered at either sight, thought or added knowledge, turned my wish to murder into a settled resolution, and so having reached this pass I made a close study of murder as an art. I carefully considered all the murders I could remember. I turned to the books of famous trials. I even delved back into the black print and crude woodcut records of the Newgate Calendar. I noted the silly blunders that had locked men and women in the condemned cell, and I asked myself the question: ‘Had that blunder not been committed, would this have been the perfect murder?’ I explored the pages of fictional criminals, and from all these sources, I collected a number of murders that pleased me. Many of these I decided were not for me to attempt, because one should not play a part unsuited to one’s temperament. So, one by one, I eliminated my list till it grew concise. I knocked this one off my list, then that. My list diminished till there were but ten left from which to choose. I took ten days with these, making a firm rule to knock off one a day till I achieved the favourite! I thought this out when I lay awake at night, chuckling to myself in the darkness. Upon the ninth night my decision was so difficult that I resolved to employ both methods in my perfect murder. One should support the other. Neither of these winning murders in my self-imposed competition had been discovered in their time, but I fully realised that since the day of their committal, the police had added science to their methods of sleuthing, and although I had been educated in chemistry I was well aware that the Home Office Experts had a greater knowledge. One of my chosen murders had been committed towards the end of the eighteenth century by that ingenious smuggler parson Doctor Syn, sometime Vicar of Dymchurch-under-the Wall in the county of Kent. It was a murder that appealed to me more than all the rest, and it appealed to my grim sense of the comical. But I cautiously recollected that Doctor Syn had only to deal with the authority of the local Beadle, a man of no education. Also a friendly magistrate, a general practitioner, and his own cloak of parsonic sanctity. How would he have fared with such a man as Sir Bernard Spilsbury or that other enemy to murder, Mr. Cornish? No, I found that I must improve upon the methods of the eighteenth century or never get away with it, for I had to deal with far more dangerous antagonists. I therefore reviewed dispassionately my favourite murder and inspected the flaws. One joint in the armour of my defence would bring me to the scaffold, and so I set about the preparations which I shall hereafter describe.

  But first let me give you a sketch of the man I had decided must die and by my hand.

  Major Scallion was fat, full-blooded, loud-voiced, bearded and young. To be fat in youth is irritating to one who is lean and fit. But to be bearded and young, bloated and young, loud of voice and young, yes, surely that is terrible. There was also a strident heartiness about the Major, that as far as my nerves went sealed his death warrant. That and a conceit, a self-satisfaction that became unbearable. The man was not content with the title of Mister. He must be ‘Major’ Scallion. What a name! What regiment he was major of I do not know. I never could bring myself to ask. I think there was no regiment in which he gained the title. Perhaps he was just christened Major, for though he was a distant cousin of mine, I never knew. I think he was everyone’s cousin. He had a knack of digging out connections which would allow him a full familiarity. Save from his own lying lips I never discovered anyone who could tell me what he did in the War, though he would talk about it a great deal. But whenever you asked him any pertinent question, he would switch the conversation, and talk down any interruption. I’ll give his invention the credit of being amusing and exciting. He compelled his listeners to be thrilled. As to his War yarns, he had a vast vocabulary of ‘Who’s Who in the Divisions,’ but they were usually Divisions of which his hearers were ignorant. ‘You remind me of Colonel So-and-so,’ he would say. ‘We used to call him ‘Old So-and-so.’ Joined the So-and-so Division. Gunner on the Mespot Front.’ And if anyone of the company said: ‘I was there, and don’t recollect,’ he would hedge glibly with: ‘Did I say Mespot? I’m scatty to-day. Too many chota pegs. I meant Salonika.’ The mention of chota pegs reminds me of yet another nail in his coffin as far as I was concerned. He would use foreign idioms to convey that he was widely travelled, when I am pretty sure the extent of his voyaging did not exceed a cheap trip to Boulogne. He was too lazy to travel, even when in funds. Besides he had no need to attempt abroad when he knew there were muts like myself at home that he could bleed for his own convenience. And what a hog he was over his food. No matter who was in the company, he treated every meal as though it had been prepared for his special benefit, his swinish self. A mouthful with him was a mouthful indeed, for he stoked in the food, and not wasting time to chew it, would swill it down with copious draughts of whatever alcohol there was to hand, and so long as it was strong enough, he could drink anything. Had he been dying of thirst, he would have preferred turpentine to water. ‘Anything with a kick in it,’ he would say, and this was fortunate for me and for the murder I had planned for him. He was no connoisseur, but he possessed a capacity. And then one other thing that was so helpful to me in what I had to do. Tobacco. He was a factory chimney. The greatest smoker I have ever met, inhaling the strongest shag, or the foulest cigars. There was no tobacco too rank for his lungs. His great strong teeth were discoloured with nicotine, so that when he smiled he put one in mind of an old hyena. When he failed to conjure money from other’s pockets to supply him with cigars, he contented himself with Woodbines and talk about his old pal Woodbine Willie, when I am very sure that he had never met that saint. But that was the way of the Major. Anyone famous, lie knew. Oh, yes, and very well too. He would refer to Lawrence of Arabia as ‘Laurie,’ and once had the effrontery to speak of Earl Haig as ‘Doug.’ I longed to shout out at his lying familiarity. I vowed that all his faults should be the means of his death, and it was his excessive misuse of tobacco that made me think of nicotine. I recalled the celebrated case of Count Bocarmé and how he killed his brother-in-law with nicotine in five minutes. I knew from reading that two or three drops of nicotine taken into the stomach would be fatal. There was also a case in the annals of medicine of a boy who died within three hours from s
moking a pennyworth of twist. In the Major’s case who could say that it was not his excess that killed him, when I knew that his whole system must be impregnated with smoke poison. But I was not going to depend on nicotine alone. It would have been too easy a death for my hog. I wanted him to die of a horror more acute. That horror I planned later.

  Now the Major had no property, save the clothes he stood up in, and one black trunk. It was one of those black leather ones, shiny with a rounded top. The tray was filled with papers referring to many of his bogus businesses, signed photographs of women, who to their cost, he boasted, had had to do with him. There was also a vast collection of obscene postcards. Oh, yes, his faults were foul. They stank to Heaven, and I resolved to use every one of them to his undoing. Gluttony, drunkenness, excessive smoking, and God forgive me for trying the patience of the noblest woman that ever lived, my wife, but through her, I included his arrogant confidence where all women were concerned. Yes, under this last heading, I was to use my wife as a bait to his downfall. And oh, how easily he walked into the trap.

  Now I have said that the Major claimed relationship with me. There was a very distant sort of connection I allow, but too remote to allow him any claim upon my purse and hospitality. He knew this well enough during the first years in which he crossed my path. But through my own stupidity, he was soon enabled to strengthen a claim upon my generosity. This claim was nothing more nor less than blackmail. The truth is that I had once got into a difficulty. There is no need for me to state the details, for it has no bearing on the murder. I confess, however, that a clever lawyer fighting against me might well have proved a criminal case which might have sent me to prison. In my adversity, fool that I was, I went to the Major for advice. To give him his due, he extricated me from my dilemma with great skill. But oh, how often I regretted this kindness, for he forged it into a sword of Damocles, and I knew that the blade would fall upon my defenceless head the moment that I refused to fall in with his slightest wish. He began to use my purse at his convenience. When things were well with him, he left me severely alone, and my estate was the more gracious. But no sooner did things go awry with him than he descended upon me with his trunk. I believe he regretted these necessities as much as I, because I think no man’s company bored him as mine did. I did all I could to escape from him. During several of his absences I would move my quarters, but he had an uncanny knack of nosing me out and subjecting me to some new tyranny. And he would stay with me till I had seen to it that his affairs looked up a bit. I suppose I should have told him to do his damnedest, but I was cowardly enough to value the world’s opinion, and I knew that he would expose me as a criminal and do it with revengeful relish, because there was no sort of sneakery in which he would not indulge. He knew well enough that I liked to be a good citizen, that I paid my bills on the nail, and had a cowardly dread of Income Tax Collectors and policemen.