The Polo Ground Mystery (31 page)

“The wedding takes place a month before Angela and Stanley's, to which I can tell you you are to be asked.”

“‘Hell-for-leather's a lucky man!” exclaimed Vereker. “I wouldn't mind swapping places with him this very moment. Angela's a beautiful woman, and her English temperament's a secret ideal of mine. I could worship her. I'm born for disappointments!”

“You impressionable ass, Vereker! In any case, don't let's have any more duels. One's enough for a lifetime. There's a decanter and glasses on that table over there. You need a comforter in this discouraging hour, and my shoulder's a bit painful. Perhaps a little stimulant—”

THE END

Robin Forsythe was born Robert Forsythe in 1879. His place of birth was Sialkot, in modern day Pakistan. His mother died when a younger brother was born two years later, and ‘Robin' was brought up by an ayah until he was six, when he returned to the United Kingdom, and went to school in Glasgow and Northern Ireland. In his teens he had short stories and poetry published and went to London wanting to be a writer.

He married in 1909 and had a son the following year, later working as a clerk at Somerset House in London when he was arrested for theft and fraud in 1928. Sentenced to fifteen months, he began to write his first detective novel in prison.

On his release in 1929 Robin Forsythe published his debut,
Missing or Murdered
. It introduced Anthony ‘Algernon' Vereker, an eccentric artist with an extraordinary flair for detective work. It was followed by four more detective novels in the Vereker series, ending with
The Spirit Murder Mystery
in 1936. All the novels are characterized by the sharp plotting and witty dialogue which epitomize the more effervescent side of golden age crime fiction.

Robin Forsythe died in 1937.

Missing or Murdered

The Pleasure Cruise Mystery

The Ginger Cat Mystery

The Spirit Murder Mystery

“What's the matter?” Vereker asked breathlessly, and at the same moment realised that the mass lying at Ricardo's feet was the body of a woman. “Has she fainted?”

“It's Mrs. Mesado, Algernon,” replied Ricardo, “and if I'm not mistaken, she's dead.”

Algernon Vereker's best friend Manuel Ricardo is looking forward to a cruise on the luxury liner
Mars
, and persuades an overwrought Vereker to join him. Once on board, Ricky's mind is on romance while the amiable and eccentric Vereker is keener to relax with a cigar and a good book – until murder at sea means an abrupt detour into spine-chilling mystery. Vereker starts to investigate Mrs Mesado's demise, which presents many baffling features – beneath borrowed gloves, the lady's hands were cut and bruised; and where was the diamond necklace she had been wearing earlier that evening? These and other conundrums must be solved before Vereker can bring the culprit (or culprits) to justice, but as Ricky sagely observes: “half the fun of eating a nut is cracking the shell”.

The Pleasure Cruise Mystery
(1933), a light-hearted but lethal maritime whodunit, is the third Algernon Vereker detective novel. It is republished here for the first time in over 70 years, and includes a new introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

‘Before all is cleared up the reader has raced excitedly through a thoroughly sound and quite unusual yarn.'
Aberdeen Press

Anthony Vereker, known to his friends as Algernon unabbreviated, sat, the picture of dejection, in an easy chair in the studio of his flat in Fenton Street, W. His long legs were thrust out straight in front of him; his thin nervous hands fiddled uneasily with the keys and money in his trousers pockets; his chin was sunk on his breast and his eyes were fixed gloomily on the toe-cap of one of his brown shoes. At a table in the centre of the room sat his friend Manuel Ricardo, glancing eagerly at a highly coloured and illustrated folder setting forth in the magniloquence of the publicity expert the delights of pleasure cruises on the Green Star Company's luxury liner “Mars.” Every now and then his features expanded in a grin of amusement as some particular phrase tickled his malicious sense of humour.

“Algernon, my old wimple, listen to this blurb; it's inimitable; a second-rate publisher couldn't do better: ‘Each state room on the “Mars,” the
dernier mot
in sumptuous luxury, is fitted with every modern convenience that can appeal to the man or woman of culture and refinement, from electric fans and radiators'—er, well, you wouldn't need the last.”

“Need what last?” asked Vereker drearily.

“Electric curling irons,” replied Ricardo, glancing at his friend's thin fair hair and laughing boisterously.

“Ricky, I really can't descend to your depths of humour at the moment. You're becoming more infantile every day.”

“I'm sorry you're not
en rapport
. As I've warned you before, you'll have to give up this itch for painting. Painting's a degrading vice. Once you become an addict you're no longer fit for human company. You neglect your fellow men to hobnob with landscapes, you make bosom pals with still life and other inanimate objects, you have unblushing intimacy, only visual to be precise, with repulsive nudes! There's only one thing more debasing than Art, and that's Art criticism.”

“Even Art criticism couldn't be worse than your last serial, Ricky.
The Cost of Loving
I think you called it.”

“It went a long way to meet the cost of living, Algernon. It served its purpose. Painting—I mean your painting—serves no purpose at all. It's merely an exasperating excrescence on your mental life. Since the critics slated your last atrocity you've been unfit to live with. If I could afford it I'd leave your hospitable flat at some distant future date and seek sanctuary in a common lodging-house. You'll end in acute melancholia.”

“And you suggest a pleasure cruise, Ricky. The very epithet ‘pleasure' makes me recoil!”

“What better antidote to the poison of paint, Algernon?” asked Ricardo and, opening out the folder, continued: “Listen to this. ‘A holiday cruise in luxurious comfort. You visit lands of sunshine, mystery and romance. Dances, carnivals, fancy-dress balls, bathing pool, gymnasium, deck sports…' You see, Algernon, there's everything for geniuses like you and me who seek relaxation from the rigour of the Ideal!”

“Um!” grunted Vereker.

“Wait; the best is still to come. ‘A carefully selected supply of wines, spirits, tobacco and cigars at moderate prices. Bar open from 7 a.m. till 12 p.m.' Try to realise that. It meets the best of thirsts with a British sense of fair play. A barber's shop too! ‘Scalp massage one and sixpence. Chiropody from three shillings and sixpence.' Inexpensive peace for tortured tootsies! ‘Cheques cannot be accepted.' That's the only snag so far, and sounds like a pub on shore. ‘Deck chairs free; rugs five bob. Further details from the purser or…'”

“I don't want any further details, Ricky.”

“I'm glad you've decided to come.”

“I don't know, I don't know,” said Vereker reflectively and after a pause; “it might be an escape from life, though carnivals, dances, fancy-dress balls, deck sports sound rather painful.”

“Listen once more, Algernon,” said Ricardo, turning to the illustrated folder. “This I think's the sublime, the irresistible appeal: ‘You meet people of culture and refinement, people with good taste and
savoir vivre
. You make new friends, you enter at once into a charming social life…'”

“Good Lord deliver us!” exclaimed Vereker.

“Don't fall back on the Lord in your present state of mind, Algernon; it's cowardly. For a man like yourself, disgustingly bourgeois, what you need is a few delightful weeks with the right kind of people, people with
savoir vivre
and all that. No use sticking your nose into a palette of colours and thinking you're kissing the skirts of the shy goddess of Beauty. It's high time you learned that she's always just out of mortal reach. Now on board the ‘Mars' you'll be having a high old time in a new low way. Not a moment to think—thinking's a disease, anyway. As you walk briskly round the promenade deck imagining yourself a sea rover—Vereker the Viking—you'll regain physical health. You'll be a healthy animal in a week. Didn't my old friend Epicurus say that animals were the mirrors of Nature. Algernon, you'll go about looking like a cheval glass. Then there are beds instead of bunks, enchanting diddler machines, the ship's Lido or bathing pool, with alluring women unabashedly undressed, bridge parties, violent flirtations with a fortunate time limit to avoid the distress of love, dancing and dining and wining and a two bob deposit on a book to prevent you reading rubbish…”

“Ricky, you almost persuade me to be a Christian.”

“Thanks for the interruption; I was out of breath. Now I've got my second wind I'll be serious. Your concentration and bad luck in the Armadale murder took it out of you. Inspector Heather won in a common canter while you were nibbling grass somewhere near the starting post. Your one-man-show of pictures that followed demoralised you. You must get back to mere living. It's terribly difficult but not impossible. I'm suggesting to you the easiest and quickest way back—a cruise on the ‘Mars' with me as your inseparable companion. You'll be immersed in the joyous inanities of a charming social life, while around you, just to remind you of reality, will be the terrible beauty of the sea, vast, restless, indifferent, but profoundly disturbing at times. Every now and then you'll experience an inexpressible thrill when her cruel grandeur pokes a mischievous finger into the cosy mental tent of your self-satisfaction. Momentarily she will take you by the collar of your dress shirt and haul you roughly into the presence of the Unintelligible Infinite—nearly as disrupting as being hauled before your C.O. for appearing dirty on parade. I've done my rhetorical damnedest—are you coming on this bally cruise or not?”

“You're going, of course?”

“Indubitably. I'm writing up a little brochure for the Green Star Company to cover the cost of my fare. You can lend me the rest. It's a bit of a literary descent from the
Cost of Loving
, but I must stoop to conquer the present adverse state of my financial world. Like my namesake I'm an economist!”

“I've half a mind to accompany you, Ricky.”

“You never had more than half a mind in any case, so the matter's settled, Algernon. Now what about a
soupçon
of lunch? Your sherry's a great appetiser. You'll have to order some more shortly.”

“Your presence in my flat's a constant reminder, Ricky. Shall we go round to our old friend Jacques?”

“Anywhere for lunch, my dear Apelles, except a modern drapery store. Being persons of refinement and culture about to enter the charming social life of the ‘Mars' on a footing of equality, we must adhere strictly to our social code. No civilised being could sip a choice wine with
brassières
at four eleven three in the offing. It simply isn't done.”

“When does this pleasure cruise start, Ricky?”

“The ‘Mars' leaves the Thames on Monday, March the 26th, a week hence. Lean on me. I know young Wheble up at the Green Star's offices. His guv'nor is one of the directors. He'll wangle us the nicest berths and get us a seat at the captain's table. I've met the latter—I mean the captain, not his table—before. Bluff old mariner who keeps up the proud traditions of the British Mercantile Marine and all that sort of bravura, so we'll have our knobs well in as they used to say in the Army when I was a corporal in the H.A.C. without ‘a marshal's baton in my kit-bag!”

“But, Ricky, what's this going to cost us?”

“Cost us? Cost you, you mean. We can compute that better on our return, Algernon. When you, I mean we, were busy unravelling the Bygrave case, you promised to take me afterwards to Provence. Fond of romaunts, I was eager to join you as a troubadour, but you dashed off in the scented wake of that provoking jade, Ida Wister, and left me in the lurch, alone in London. I always thought you were a man of principle...”

“The man who acts on principle instead of being guided by intelligence is a fool, Ricky.”

“Then I was right, Algernon. On principle you're going to redeem your debt to me. After lunch I'll run up to the Green Star's offices and put the matter on an irrevocable footing. Before lunch what about another spot of your old golden Sherry?”

“Not for me, thanks, Ricky.”

“Being guided by intelligence, I'll wait till we reach Jacques'; your bottle's empty. Shake yourself and we'll beat it, Algernon. I'm famished. There's no time to lose. Some time this afternoon I must root out Aubrey Winter. He'll be able to lend me deck shoes, a tropical kit and a decent dinner jacket—in fact he'll think it almost an honour.”

“Aubrey's a charming fool,” replied Vereker quietly.