Six Against the Yard Read online

  Everybody in the house was running out into the street and I remember coming out under the porch and standing there in the bright sunlight.

  I didn’t see him. There was a crowd round him and one of the Denver boys, who had the ground floor rooms, came and put his arm round me.

  ‘Don’t look, Ma,’ he said, ‘don’t look.’

  I told the young policeman exactly what happened right up to the moment when I caught Frank by the feet. Then I said I was so frightened that I just hung there until he overbalanced and went out, jerking his ankles out of my arms.

  He was very kind to me, I remember.

  Then the other men came and I told them the same thing and they said there’d have to be an inquest. And all the time he was lying out there in the yard, with a sheet off the Denver boys’ bed over him.

  They’d just finished with me when Louie came back. The other Denver boy had told her over the ’phone what had happened.

  I shall never forget her as she sat in my kitchen with the police there and listened while I told my story yet another time. She didn’t break down and when I saw the calm in her face, the extraordinary repose and dignity, I felt it was worth it.

  She never reproached me. Instead she came over and kissed me and said:

  ‘Don’t worry, Polly. I know you did what you could.’

  Then the first floor people took her in and wouldn’t let her go upstairs.

  The police were very careful but they were never unkind, they never bullied. I thought how young they were, even the oldest of them. I remember the Inspector particularly. Such a boy he looked when he took his cap off.

  They couldn’t understand how he got out on the parapet, but when I told my story there were lots of people to back me up: Ma Pollini and the Denver boys who had been in bed when he fell downstairs the day before. They all knew him for what he was, and told stories about how he’d show off and how he’d lie and the idiotic things he’d do, and gradually the police got him straight in their minds.

  They chose two or three of the boarders for witnesses at the inquest and I had to go too. There was only one awkward moment and that came from the Inspector.

  ‘You know, you killed him, Ma,’ he said just as he was going.

  I suppose I gaped at him because he dropped a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Let that be a warning to you not to try to drag a man in through a top-floor window by his feet,’ he said.

  I expect you read a report of the inquest. It took up quite a bit in the paper. The Coroner put me through it, but I stuck to my story: I was frightened and I held him round the feet. It was a silly thing to do, but they were all I could get hold of.

  Finally they were satisfied. The jury brought in Death by Misadventure and I went home.

  A lot of my boarders had come to the inquest with me. Louie was there too, of course, and she gave her evidence very quietly and calmly and I thought she looked years younger, poor old girl.

  She went to bed early that night. She didn’t want to talk to me and I didn’t want to talk to her. I knew it had been a shock and I wanted her to get over it and wake up and find out what it was like to be cured, what it was like to have her chance all over again without the dead weight that had been dragging her down half her life.

  I got so used to telling my story that I believed it. It was such a simple story, so easy to remember, so like what really happened.

  It became so real to me in the next two or three days that now I have to strain my memory, as it were, to get at the truth.

  People were very kind. We had to borrow for the funeral, but it was worth it and as I stood beside his grave I hoped he’d lie quiet and have more rest himself than ever he gave Louie or me.

  That would have been the end of the story. I should never have tried to remember the truth and I should never have set it down if it had not been for the one thing that beat me, the one thing that had always beaten me, the one vital fact that I never recognised until now.

  This is the day that Louie ought to have gone to Manchester. There are a lot of bills up there now advertising her triumphant return. But she’ll never come through the silver curtains and blow a kiss to the orchestra and sing Fonah Likes a Little Bit of Pink in Manchester or anywhere else.

  This morning my little girl tapped on my door when she came at six o’clock to tell me there was a smell of gas in the house. I didn’t go up. Somehow I knew what had happened.

  Latte Pollini found Louie lying with her head in the gas oven for all the world as if she’d gone to sleep.

  She loved him, you see. I never knew that, or perhaps I never knew what it meant. Poor dear loving old girl.

  Ex-Supt. Cornish, C.I.D. investigates Margery Allingham’s Crime

  WOULD THE MURDERESS TELL?

  WHEN I FINISHED READING ‘IT DIDN’T WORK Out,’ I jumped to my feet with one thought—and one thought only—in my mind: to get to Maida Vale as quickly as possible and arrest Margery Allingham, alias Margaret Hawkins, alias Polly Oliver, on a charge of wilful murder.

  Then I remembered:

  (a) That the address had not been given, and that it might take some little time to trace it.

  (b) That I was no longer at Scotland Yard.

  (c) That a confession alone cannot be accepted as proof of guilt.

  (d) That it was only a story, anyway.

  It is the highest compliment that I can pay to Miss Allingham’s skill in the creation of character and atmosphere to say that these eminently practical considerations only occurred to me as I was reaching for my hat—and that they occurred to me in that order.

  But was the murder of Frank Springer really a perfect crime?

  Frankly, I don’t know. Margaret Hawkins might have brought it off in the way that she describes. On the face of it, there was nothing to suggest foul play, and there was the evidence of Ma Pollini and other people which, at least, indirectly, backed up Hawkins’ story. But the police, without being definitely suspicious, would, I think, have made a rather more thorough investigation than they appear to have done. And they might have found fingerprints which suggested that the landlady’s account of the tragedy was incorrect.

  They would certainly have discovered that Hawkins did not like Springer, and her sudden change of attitude, followed by the ‘accident,’ would have put them on the right track.

  It is possible, also, that someone witnessed the struggle, or some part of it. Were there no houses overlooking the one in which the murder took place? If there were—and remember, the place is ‘up Maida Vale way, nearly to Kilburn,’ the murderess was taking a big chance. And even if luck were with her, that takes the killing out of the ‘perfect murder’ class. The perfect murder mustn’t depend on luck.

  Yet even when we make all these allowances, the crime remains diabolically ingenious. It might, in favourable circumstances, have been completely successful.

  I think, however, that Margery Allingham has forgotten one important factor—Louie Lester. She, at least, knew that her husband and Hawkins didn’t get on, and she loved her husband, worthless as he may have been.

  She needn’t suspect the truth. It would be quite sufficient that she couldn’t understand what had happened, that she couldn’t fit it in with what she knew of Hawkins and her attitude towards Springer, and that she should communicate her half-formed doubts to a police officer. The police would see the possibilities which she hardly dared put into words—which she hardly dared, perhaps, to acknowledge even to herself—and would follow up the new trail.

  Margaret Hawkins wrote her account of the crime on ‘the day that Louie ought to have gone to Manchester,’ the day when she was found ‘lying with her head in the gas oven for all the world as if she’d gone to sleep.’

  Artistically, the story ends there, just as Miss Allingham does end it. But there’s a difference between art and life. Things are never so easy—or at least, they are seldom so easy—either for the criminal or for the detective in life. Art falls into a pattern, but l
ife sprawls out beyond the pattern.

  So I don’t believe that, assuming this incident were reality, not fiction, it would, in fact, be closed.

  Hawkins would find the police back in her boardinghouse, not merely because Louie had committed suicide, but because, before turning on the gas, she had written—and dispatched—a letter to the police which suggested that Springer’s death was due, not to accident, but to murder.

  Louie might not have signed the letter. Perhaps she was ashamed of her own suspicions. But all anonymous letters of this kind are considered and investigated. Hundreds of them may lead nowhere, but it is worth while checking up on them all for the sake of the one or two which do contain valuable information. And if it were discovered, as it probably would be discovered, that the anonymous letter was in Louie’s handwriting, it would at once become very important indeed.

  The situation is now completely changed. Hawkins was able to produce a convincing story before, to reply to awkward questions, because she wasn’t really suspected, because she was confident that she was getting away with it, because she had a comforting sense of superiority over the police officers whom she was fooling so nicely. Everything was going according to plan. Now, however, the plan has broken down. She is confronting police officers who are no longer inclined to accept her word, who have become sceptical and suspicious.

  And she knows what these officers will be able to find out, now that they are on the track, about her hatred of Springer. She knows, too, that somewhere in the house, and certain to be found in the event of a search, is the story of the crime which she has just written. Above all, she has been unnerved by Louie’s death.

  Her replies to questions will be lame and halting. She will contradict herself. In the end, whether her written account is found or not, she will probably confess.

  That is at least a possible outcome of the situation Miss Allingham has outlined for us. I would even say that it is its probable outcome. You remember how badly the murderess was shaken when the inspector said to her: ‘You know, you killed him, Ma.’ And the very fact that she wrote down the story of her crime suggests a considerable degree of emotional tension, a profound need to unburden herself in some way. In short, on this morning of her friend’s death, she is in a psychological condition in which it would be easy to blurt out a full confession, and it probably requires a real effort of will to keep back the words. The work of a detective would be much simpler than it is if he found every suspect he had to interview in just this mental state.

  Yet, I repeat, I’m not sure. Louie Lester might not have written that letter, and there might be no interrogation by the police at this time, beyond questions relative to the suicide. And even if suspicions had been aroused, Hawkins might still have sufficient strength of will—and cunning—not to give herself away. Especially at this stage, when evidence that might have been secured earlier had doubtless disappeared completely, it would be a matter of extreme difficulty to prove Hawkins’ guilt to the satisfaction of a jury so long as she herself kept silence.

  There is, however, yet another possibility. The manner in which the crime is committed; the motive, which must seem hopelessly inadequate to any ordinary person; the callous, self-satisfied way in which the murderess writes of her deed, as if it were meritorious, all suggest someone who is not altogether sane, who is hovering on the borderline of madness.

  The shock of Louie’s suicide, in these circumstances, might well send her mind toppling over the verge, with the result that she would spend the rest of her life in an institution.

  I certainly cannot see Margaret Hawkins living happily and prosperously for the rest of her life, and taking her secret to the grave with her.

  I can, however, see her waking up, screaming, night after night, from dreams of Louie and Springer. I can see her gradually coming to believe that she was haunted by the ghost of her dead friend, until life transformed itself into a vast nightmare, and she was forced to seek peace in the confession and expiation of her crime.

  In suggesting these possibilities, I may be taking a more favourable view of her character than is justified. Let us assume that she is tougher and more resilient, and that remorse does not make her life a hell. Her secret may still be uncovered.

  The person who has committed murder and done it without being detected, usually suffers from the delusion that the method which has proved safe once, will be equally safe on another occasion.

  Smith, for instance, thought that he had discovered an infallible technique for doing away with unwanted women. Chapman cherished the same belief. They both killed once too often—and then the whole ghastly story of their multiple murders was laid bare.

  Is there any reason to suppose that Hawkins, having disposed of Springer, will stop short at that? Her narrative shows that she thinks it an easy matter to commit murder, and is no longer afraid of the police. Her first crime proves that she is prepared to kill from motives that must appear flimsy to any normal person. I think it is highly probable that, in a year or two, a situation will again arise in which she will be able to convince herself once more that murder is a reasonable and laudable act. And next time she will be more confident, and perhaps more careless.

  Whether she is careless or not, if she chooses to repeat herself and to stage another apparent accident, the chances of detection are at least fifty per cent greater than on the first occasion. Every policeman knows that coincidences do occur, but he also knows that coincidences of this kind may repay close investigation.

  Whatever happens in the present case, therefore—and there may, even now, be an unpleasant surprise in store for Hawkins—I should not be at all astonished if, in the end, she stood in the dock on a murder charge and were made to pay the penalty of her crimes.

  I can imagine the reader saying: ‘But the character whom Margery Allingham has depicted is not at all so bad as you have painted her. True, she has committed murder, but she has done so from no sordid motive. She killed a man who was an utter waster because she wanted to save her friend. Really, I think you are being a little unfair. You are taking altogether the wrong view. There can be no comparison between Margaret Hawkins, who is quite a sympathetic character, and the criminals whom you have mentioned.’

  There are certain sentimental people who always feel sorry for the convicted murderer—so much so that they have no pity to spare for his, or her, victim. There are others who, while horrified by certain murders, find excuses for others. But there is no excuse—there can be no excuse for murder. Human life is sacred, unless it has been forfeited to the law and is taken, after due legal process, for the protection of society. But no private individual can be allowed to assume the functions of judge and executioner. That way lies anarchy.

  Also, what authority does the reader have for concluding that Springer deserved to die, or that Margaret Hawkins’ motive for killing him was so purely disinterested? Only Hawkins’ own narrative. And it is my experience that criminals always try to put the best face possible upon their crimes. Investigation might reveal facts which would show both Hawkins and Springer in a different light. Even on her own account of these happenings, Hawkins is both callous and cunning. There may be something more sinister still in the background which has been suppressed.

  I take off my hat to Miss Allingham for having written a very clever story, and devised a particularly ingenious method of murder. But I’m glad, for her sake, that it is only a story.

  Father Ronald Knox

  THE FALLEN IDOL

  IT WAS HIGH HOLIDAY IN THE STREETS OF SAN Taddeo; shops, factories, even restaurants were empty, and few citizens had the courage to absent themselves from the great square, in which the bronze statue of Enrique Gamba was to be unveiled. For was not Enrique Gamba the Inspirer of the Magnolian Commonwealth; and was not any slight put upon him apt to be regarded in the light of unpatriotic activity? That meant prison for certain; and the Magnolian prisons, although herds of apparently harmless people had entered them of late, never showed
any large returns of discharged inmates—nor, on the other hand, did they find it necessary to increase their accommodation. Anxious relatives would receive, instead, a tactful intimation that So-and-so had unfortunately succumbed to the rigours of the climate, or that he had been shot by the warders in an attempt to escape. Everybody knew what that meant. There was rejoicing, therefore, in the streets of San Taddeo, and many were the huzza’s raised, and caps thrown into the air, especially among those citizens who stood nearest to been in attendance marched back, along the main street, to their barracks.

  What gave an extra fillip to these patriotic sentiments was a rumour which had lately gone round; a dastardly attempt was being made by the enemies of the State to burn down Enrique Gamba’s house, and Enrique Gamba with it. Did I say ‘enemies’? So cowed were the spirits of all who disagreed with the Government that only one enemy survived worth the name; and he was no more than a name, scribbled up on walls and subscribed under threatening letters, ‘The Avenger.’ Nobody knew who he was, or what party he had belonged to; but his activities were a useful stick to beat all the old political parties with—not to mention the clergy. ‘Gamba to be burnt out on Thursday evening’ had been scrawled up in chalk on an empty hoarding, and promptly rubbed out by the police: then the Government’s semiofficial paper had reported the threat, and next day—that was only yesterday—the Government’s official paper had semiofficially semi-denied it. That sort of thing was useful: it gave the people something to shout about, instead of wondering why bread was still dear.

  General Almeda’s car drew up outside the Inspirer’s house. It had, till the other day, been the Archbishop’s house, but Gamba had thoughtfully confiscated it at the exact moment when the Concordat was going to be signed. The Archbishop, not liking to make his own grievance an obstacle to peace, submitted under protest; the only stipulation he made was that the body of St. Thaddaeus the Magnificent, with the than Almeda used, on that long-remembered evening of October.