Hangmans Holiday (18 page)

The Chief Inspector smiled as he turned over the pages of a formidable bunch of documents. “You’re an admirable witness, Mr. Egg. Your account tallies perfectly with those of your seven fellow-travellers, but it’s the only one of the eight that’s complete. You are obviously observant.”

“My job,” said Monty complacently.

“Of course. You may be interested to know that the gentlemanly old bird with the long hair was Professor Amblefoot of London University, the great authority of the Higher Calculus, and that he described you as a fair-haired, well-mannered young man.”

“Much obliged to him, I’m sure,” said Mr. Egg.

“The foreigner is Dr. Schleicher of Kew—resident there three years—the sailor and the parson we know all about—the drunk chap is O.K. too—we had his wife along, very voluble—the tradesman is a well-known Coventry resident, something to do with the Church Council of St. Michael’s, and the pimply lad is one of Messrs. Morrison’s clerks. They’re all square. And they all went through to town, didn’t they? Nobody left at Rugby?”

“Nobody,” said Mr. Egg.

“Pity,” said the Chief Inspector. “The truth is, Mr. Egg, that we can’t hear of any person in the train who hasn’t come forward and given an account of himself, and the number of people who have come forward precisely corresponds with the number of tickets collected at the barriers at Euston. You didn’t observe any person continually hanging about the corridor, I suppose?”

“Not permanently,” said Monty. “The chap with the beard got up and prowled a bit from time to time, I remember—seemed restless. I thought he perhaps didn’t feel very well. But he’d only be absent a few minutes at a time. He seemed to be a nervous, unpleasant sort of chap—chewed his nails, you know, and muttered in German, but he—”

“Chewed his nails?”

“Yes. Very unpleasant, I must say. ‘Well-kept hands that please the sight seize the trade and hold it tight, but bitten nails and grubby claws well may give the buyer pause.’ So the
Salesman’s Handbook
says”—and Monty smirked gently at his own finger-tips. “This person’s hands were—definitely not gentlemanly. Bitten to the quick.”

“But that’s really extraordinary,” said Peacock. “Dr. Schleicher’s hands are particularly well kept. I interviewed him myself yesterday. Surely he can’t suddenly have abandoned the habit of nail-biting? People don’t—not like that. And why should he? Was there anything else you noticed about the man opposite you?”

“I don’t think so. Yes. Stop a moment. He smoked cigars at a most extraordinary rate. I remember his going out into the corridor with one smoked down to about an inch and coming back, five minutes afterwards, with a new one smoked half way through. Full-sized Coronas too—good ones; and I know quite a bit about cigars.”

Peacock stared and then smote his hand lightly upon the table.

“I’ve got it!” he said. “I remember where I met a set of badly chewed-up nails lately. By Jove! Yes, but how could he …”

Monty waited for enlightenment.

“Simon Grant’s secretary. He was supposed to be in town all that day and evening, having ’flu—but how do I know that he was? But, even so, what good could he do by being in the train in disguise? And what could Dr. Schleicher have to do with it? It’s Simon Grant we want—and Schleicher isn’t Grant—at least”—the Chief Inspector paused and went on more dubiously—“I don’t see how he could be. They know him well in the district, though he’s said to be away from home a good deal, and he’s got a wife—”

“Oh, has he?” said Mr. Egg, with a meaning emphasis.

“A double life, you mean?” said the Chief Inspector.

“
And
a double wife,” said Mr. Egg. “You will pardon my asking a delicate question, but—er—are you certain you would spot a false beard at once, if you weren’t altogether expecting it?”

“In a good light, I probably should, but by the light of the doctor’s reading-lamp— But what’s the game, Mr. Egg? If Schleicher is Grant, who was the man you saw in the train—the man with the bitten finger-nails? Grant doesn’t bite his nails, I know that—he’s rather particular about his appearance, so I’m told, though I’ve never met him myself.”

“Well,” said Mr. Egg, “since you ask me, why shouldn’t the other man in the train be all three of them?”

“All three of which?”

“Grant and Schleicher and the secretary.”

“I don’t quite get you.”

“Well, I mean—supposing Grant is Schleicher, with a nice ready-made personality all handy for him to step into, built up, as you may say, over the last three years, with money salted away in the name of Schleicher—well, I mean, there he is, as you might say, waiting to slip over to the Continent as soon as the fuss has died down—complete with unofficial lady.”

“But the secretary?”

“The secretary was the man in train, made up as Grant made up as Schleicher. I mean, speaking as a fool, I thought he might be.”

“But where was Schleicher—I mean, Grant?”

“He was the man in the train, too. I mean, he may have been.”

“Do you mean there were two of them?”

“Yes—at least, that’s how I see it. You’re the best judge, and I shouldn’t like to put myself forward. But they’d be playing Box and Cox. Secretary gets in at Birmingham as Schleicher. Grant gets in at Coventry as Grant. Between Coventry and Rugby Grant changes to Schleicher in a wash-place or somewhere, and hangs about the platform and corridor till the train starts with him in it. He retires presently into a wash-place again. At a prearranged moment, secretary gets up, walks along the corridor and retires elsewhere, while Grant comes out and takes his place. Presently Grant walks down the corridor and secretary comes back to the compartment. They’re never both visible at the same time, except for the two or three minutes while Grant is re-entering the train at Rugby, while honest witnesses like me are ready to come forward and swear that Schleicher got in at Birmingham, sat tight in his seat at Coventry and Rugby, and went straight through to Euston—as he did. I can’t say I noticed any difference between the two Schleichers, except in the matter of the cigar. But they were very hairy and muffled up.”

The Chief Inspector turned this over in his mind.

“Which of them was Schleicher when they got out at Euston?”

“Grant, surely. The secretary would remove his disguise at the last moment and emerge as himself, taking the thousand-to-one chance of somebody recognising him.”

Peacock swore softly. “If that’s what he did,” he exclaimed, “we’ve got him on toast. Wait a moment, though. I
knew
there was a snag. If that’s what they did, there ought to have been an extra third-class ticket at Euston. They can’t both have travelled on one ticket.”

“Why not?” said Mr. Egg. “I have often—at least, I don’t exactly mean that, but I have from time to time laid a wager with an acquaintance that I would travel on his ticket, and got away with it.”

“Perhaps,” said Chief Inspector Peacock, “you would oblige me, sir, by outlining your method.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Egg. “‘Speak the truth with cheerful ease if you would both convince and please’—Monty’s favourite motto. If I had been Mr. Grant’s secretary, I’d have taken a return ticket from Birmingham to London, and when the outward half had been inspected for the last time at Rugby, I’d pretend to put it in my pocket. But I wouldn’t really. I’d shove it down at the edge of my seat and go for my stroll along the corridor. Then when Grant took my place—recognising the right seat by an attaché-case, or something of that sort left on it—he’d retrieve the ticket and retain it. At the end of the journey, I’d slip off my beard and spectacles and so on, stick them in my overcoat pocket and fold the conspicuous overcoat inside-out and carry it on my arm. Then I’d wait to see Grant get out, and follow him up to the barrier, keeping a little way behind. He’d go through, giving up his ticket, and I’d follow along with a bunch of other people, making a little bustle and confusion in the gateway. The ticket-collector would stop me and say: ‘I haven’t got your ticket, sir.’ I’d be indignant, and say: ‘Oh, yes, you have.’ He’d say: ‘I don’t think so, sir.’ Then I’d protest, and he’d probably ask me to stand aside a minute while he dealt with the other passengers. Then I’d say: ‘See here, my man, I’m quite sure I gave up my ticket. Look! Here’s the return half, number so-and-so. Just look through your bunch and see if you haven’t got the companion half.’ He looks and he finds it, and says: ‘I beg your pardon, sir; you’re quite right. Here it is.’ I say: ‘Don’t mention it,’ and go through. And even if he suspects me, he can’t prove anything, and the other fellow is well out of the way by that time.”

“I see,” said the Chief Inspector. “How often did you say you had indulged in this little game?”

“Well, never twice at the same station. It doesn’t do to repeat one’s effects too often.”

“I think I’d better interview Schleicher and his secretary again,” said Peacock pensively. “And the ticket-collector. I suppose we were meant to think that Grant had skipped to the Irish Mail. I admit we should have thought so but for the accident that the Mail left before the London train came in. However, it takes a clever criminal to beat our organisation. By the way, Mr. Egg, I hope you will not make a habit—”

“Talking of bad habits,” said Monty happily, “what about another spot?”

“B
UZZ OFF, FLATHERS,” SAID
the young man in flannels. “We’re thrilled by your news, but we don’t want your religious opinions. And, for the Lord’s sake, stop talking about ‘undergrads,’ like a ruddy commercial traveller. Hop it!”

The person addressed, a pimply youth in a commoner’s gown, bleated a little, but withdrew from the table, intimidated.

“Appalling little tick,” commented the young man in flannels to his companion. “He’s on my staircase, too. Thank Heaven, I move out next term. I suppose it’s true about the Master? Poor old blighter—I’m quite sorry I cut his lecture. Have some more coffee?”

“No, thanks, Radcott. I must be pushing off in a minute. It’s getting too near lunch-time.”

Mr. Montague Egg, seated at the next small table, had pricked up his ears. He now turned, with an apologetic cough, to the young man called Radcott.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, with some diffidence. “I didn’t intend to overhear what you gentlemen were saying, but might I ask a question?” Emboldened by Radcott’s expression, which, though surprised, was frank and friendly, he went on: “I happen to be a commercial traveller—Egg is my name, Montague Egg, representing Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits, Piccadilly. Might I ask what is wrong with saying ‘undergrads’? Is the expression offensive in any way?”

Mr. Radcott blushed a fiery red to the roots of his flaxen hair.

“I’m frightfully sorry,” he said ingenuously, and suddenly looking extremely young. “Damn stupid thing of me to say. Beastly brick.”

“Don’t mention it, I’m sure,” said Monty.

“Didn’t mean anything personal. Only, that chap Flathers gets my goat. He ought to know that nobody says ‘undergrads’ except townees and journalists and people outside the university.”

“What ought we to say? ‘Undergraduates’?”

“‘Undergraduates’ is correct.”

“I’m very much obliged,” said Monty. “Always willing to learn. It’s easy to make a mistake in a thing like that, and, of course, it prejudices the customer against one. The
Salesman’s Handbook
doesn’t give any guidance about it; I shall have to make a memo for myself. Let me see. How would this do? ‘To call an Oxford gent an—’”

“I think I should say ‘Oxford man’—it’s the more technical form of expression.”

“Oh, yes. ‘To call an Oxford man an undergrad proclaims you an outsider and a cad.’ That’s very easy to remember.”

“You seem to have a turn for this kind of thing,” said Radcott, amused.

“Well, I think perhaps I have,” admitted Monty, with a touch of pride. “Would the same thing apply at Cambridge?”

“Certainly,” replied Radcott’s companion. “And you might add that ‘To call the university the ’varsity is out of date, if not precisely narsity.’ I apologise for the rhyme. ’Varsity has somehow a flavour of the ’nineties.”

“So has the port I’m recommending,” said Mr. Egg brightly. “Still, one’s sales-talk must be up to date, naturally; and smart, though not vulgar. In the wine and spirit trade we make refinement our aim. I am really much obliged to you, gentlemen, for your help. This is my first visit to Oxford. Could you tell me where to find Pentecost College? I have a letter of introduction to a gentleman there.”

“Pentecost?” said Radcott. “I don’t think I’d start there, if I were you.”

“No?” said Mr. Egg, suspecting some obscure point of university etiquette. “Why not?”

“Because,” replied Radcott surprisingly, “I understand from the regrettable Flathers that some public benefactor has just murdered the Master, and in the circumstances I doubt whether the Bursar will be able to give proper attention to the merits of rival vintages.”

“Murdered the Master?” echoed Mr. Egg.

“Socked him one—literally, I am told, with a brickbat enclosed in a Woolworth sock—as he was returning to his house from delivering his too-well-known lecture on Plato’s use of the Enclitics. The whole school of
Literœ Humaniores
will naturally be under suspicion, but, personally, I believe Flathers did it himself. You may have heard him informing us that judgment overtakes the evil-doer, and inviting us to a meeting for prayer and repentance in the South Lecture-Room. Such men are dangerous.”

“Was the Master of Pentecost an evil-doer?”

“He has written several learned works disproving the existence of Providence, and I must say that I, in common with the whole Pentecostal community, have always looked on him as one of Nature’s worst mistakes. Still, to slay him more or less on his own doorstep seems to me to be in poor taste. It will upset the examination candidates, who face their ordeal next week. And it will mean cancelling the Commem. Ball. Besides, the police have been called in, and are certain to annoy the Senior Common Room by walking on the grass in the quad. However, what’s done can’t be undone. Let us pass to a pleasanter subject. I understand that you have some port to dispose of. I, on the other hand, have recently suffered bereavement at the hands of a bunch of rowing hearties, who invaded my rooms the other night and poured my last dozen of Cockburn ’04 down their leathery and undiscriminating throttles. If you care to stroll round with me to Pentecost, Mr. Egg, bringing your literature with you, we might be able to do business.”