The Murder at Castle Deeping

CHAPTER I THE ARGUMENT “You can’t deny that crime is far more rampant in America than it is in this country.” It was Wayne who spoke, one-time officer in the Royal Flying Corps, now Detective-Inspector Wayne, C.I.D., Scotland Yard; and the man to whom he was speaking was Captain Deeley Montford Delaroy, D.S.O., D.F.C., late of No. 60 Squadron, R.F.C., airman adventurer, known to his limited circle of friends as “Steeley.” There were four of us at the table, and it was quite an impromptu party. Steeley was over from America on one of his periodical visits; his wife was still in New Zealand nursing her injured sister, and as she was likely to remain there for some time Steeley’s stay on this occasion promised to be a protracted one. It was a dull November evening, so for the sake of something to do we had rung up our old comrade-c*m-enemy, Wayne, and asked him to join us in a bite of dinner. Apparently Wayne had let word drop to Colonel Raymond, Assistant Commissioner of Police, that Steeley was in England, with the result that he had rung up and asked if he might come along. (I had suspected for a long time that Steeley’s complex character intrigued him.) Anyway, that, briefly, is how we came to be doing the heavy at the Savoy Grill. Brian Ballantyne, Steeley’s protégé who has figured in previous adventures, now a full-blown reporter, was in Spain, covering the civil war for his paper, so, as I have already remarked, there were just the four of us. The conversation, which had turned inevitably to crime, had resolved itself into a verbal duel between Wayne and Steeley on a comparison between British and American police methods. At first Steeley was, I think, only pulling Wayne’s leg, but as the discussion progressed, he warmed up to his subject. Wayne was doing his best in the argument, but, as usual, his bludgeoning tactics, as heavy and solid as the man himself, were no match for the darting, rapier-point of Steeley’s wit, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes accusing, sometimes challenging, but always effective. At Wayne’s assumptive and rather provocative statement he stopped tapping the fresh cigarette he had taken from his case and regarded the policeman from under raised eyebrows. “I most certainly do deny it,” he said quietly. “Just as much crime goes on in England as America; the technique is different, that’s all, due partly to psychological factors and partly to the fact that the law is administered in an entirely different manner.” “I can’t see that psychology has anything to do with it,” disputed Wayne, regarding his antagonist with his usual expression of disfavour. “You’ll never make me believe that as much crime goes on in London as in New York.” Steeley half lifted one shoulder, Parisian fashion; the gesture was not affected, it came to him naturally. “My dear Wayne, whether you believe it or not, you can take it from me that from petty larceny at one end of the scale, to murder at the other, there is nothing to choose between the two cities, although a false impression may have been created by the fact that half the crime that goes on over here is not recognised as such. Look at it this way. In the States, if a man has reason to kill another, he bumps him off just where it happens to be most convenient, using the most deadly weapon he can lay hands on. As you probably know, the sub-machine-gun is in vogue at the moment, and there is no finesse about a burst from a machine-gun at close range. When the police look at the body of the victim they know for certain that murder has been committed. In other words, American crooks scorn to adopt British methods of evasion. Why? I’ll tell you. They know an easier way out. They face the issue brazenly, trusting to an astute lawyer to get them off—possibly with the aid of a corruptible prosecuting attorney. Oh yes, these tales of collusion and corruption that you hear about, and see depicted on the screen, are true enough. But wait a minute, for another point arises here. There is also a question of evidence. Witnesses must be found. Who do you suppose is going to give evidence against a criminal while the accused man’s friends and confederates stand round the corner promising sudden death to the so-called squealer? And they mean it, make no mistake about that, and therein lies the power of their threats. The American gangster is fond of bragging about the code of honour which keeps his lips sealed. Pah! Don’t believe it. He remains dumb for the simple reason that it would be virtual suicide to speak. Over here a man can give evidence, or turn king’s evidence, with impunity. The man in the dock may vow vengeance, but that vengeance is not, in fact, carried out. The police see to that. In short, it all boils down to this. In the States, the law-breaker gambles on the maladministration of justice, with the result that more cases come into the courts; naturally, they get more publicity, and an impression is created of utter lawlessness. Over here the reverse is the case. The law, once its wheels start grinding, is as merciless as death. Criminals—both professional and amateur—know it, and they act accordingly. Once a crime is committed, and is recognised as a crime, nothing can prevent the police machine from operating, and once started it never stops until it has got its man. And thereafter it is as merciless as an octopus. Your crook knows that there will be no loophole in the court for him to slide through; no chance of breaking down the fabric of the law. Very well. What, therefore, do your criminals do? They concentrate absolutely on preventing a crime—particularly murder—from becoming known; they go to untold trouble to prevent it from being recognised as such. Murder is made to look like death from natural causes, or, possibly, an accident.” Wayne guffawed. “Don’t you believe it,” he declared vehemently. “And don’t you deceive yourself,” parried Steeley promptly. “You think there are some clever crimes on record at the Yard, but don’t lose sight of the fact that in each case the criminal made at least one mistake, and that mistake was enough to send him to the gallows. You call those the almost perfect crimes. What about the perfect ones? Those that have no flaw. Can you suppose that there are none? My dear Wayne, only the names of the bunglers go on your records. The real artists are never suspected, because there is nothing to suspect them of. In other words, their crimes pass unobserved. In the case of murder the victim either dies in his bed from a perfectly natural and explainable cause, or succumbs to an obvious accident, either of which at once removes the greatest obstacle to successful homicide, which is the disposal of the body. As you are fully aware, a human body is almost indestructible by methods available to the ordinary citizen. However it may be disposed of—and many ingenious methods have been applied—it has a peculiar habit of coming to light again, whether it be whole, or in several pieces. It was this that gave rise to the old saying ‘murder will out.’ Clearly then, the ideal thing is to get a death certificate, after which the body can be buried in the normal way. It is, of course, impossible to estimate the number of murderers who have got away with this; our attention is only called to one when he makes a blunder, or has an extraordinary piece of bad luck, as was the case with Smith, the Brides in the Bath expert. He had evolved a procedure for murdering unwanted wives which events showed was nearly foolproof. It was, in fact, foolproof, as far as the police and the medical profession were concerned.” “But we got him in the end.” “Who got him?” “We did—the police.” Steeley shook his head. “Rubbish! Don’t flatter yourself, my dear fellow. You may have made the arrest, but you were put on the trail by what was little more than a fluke, the agents being an old newspaper and an observant woman. But for a woman spotting a similarity between two ‘accidental’ deaths, Smith might have gone on murdering women for their pitiful savings, or a few hundred pounds of insurance money, for years and years. Could you swear that there are no Smiths stalking the streets of London, Birmingham or Manchester this very night, looking for their wretched victims? No Mahons, dissecting their miserable dupes in lonely bungalows? My dear Wayne, go and look round your night-clubs, half of which are nothing less than vice-dives; or, for that matter, go and look round the lounges of your smart hotels, and tell me if ever before in the history of the world there have been so many prizes open to exploitation by the unscrupulous—the dope-sellers, the blackmailers, the grafters, and the rest of the pretty craftsmen who fatten on the self-indulgent weaknesses our so-called civilization has produced, and the licence it demands. Look at the old woman over there near the door, dining with the sallow-faced youth. There is twenty thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery on her neck and fingers. What is he after, do you suppose? Her love? Fiddlesticks! And take the elderly couple sitting a few tables to their right—husband and wife by the look of it. That sour-faced vixen has been giving her consort hell ever since they came in. He doesn’t get a chance to speak. Mark the look he gives her every time she cuts him off. See him moisten his lips and set his jaw; notice how his nostrils quiver. Other people are looking at them. She’s making a fool of him in public, and that is something no man will stand for ever. Does he hate her? You bet he does. He’d put a dose of prussic acid in her wine—if he dare. One day the thought will occur to him how pleasant life might be without her. Freedom is what he yearns for, and one day he may make a bid to get it. That man is a potential murderer. Now glance along at the wall table—the heavily-built man with the young girl in blue. There’s a pretty girl for you, if you like. But look at the man. He’s three times her age. What does he want, do you suppose? Guess once, and you’ll be right. His body is as gross as his face, I’ll warrant. Look at his white, flabby jowls, and thick, sensuous lips. Watch the expression in his eyes as they run over her. The fellow is positively obscene. Somebody ought to warn that girl what she’s heading for.” “It is evident that she doesn’t find him revolting or she wouldn’t be here with him,” I protested. “She hasn’t seen through the mask yet,” replied Steeley softly. “She’s flattered that he has brought her here. Look at her clothes; she doesn’t belong to this class; probably it’s the first time she has been here, and she’s getting a kick out of it. Well, if I know anything about men she’s got another kick coming, one that won’t be so pleasant.” “According to your way of thinking, half society is made up of criminals, eh?” suggested Wayne sarcastically. “No, but I think there are far more people ready to commit a crime, if the reward justifies it, than you suppose,” returned Steeley coolly. “That’s when we step in and pick ’em up,” declared Wayne. Steeley shook his head. “Not all of them. I should say you are doing well if you get half of them. I’ll warrant, if the truth were known, never a week goes by without a carefully planned and camouflaged murder sliding past unobserved, perhaps right under your nose.” Colonel Raymond said nothing, but he smiled curiously as he fingered his liqueur glass. Wayne frowned belligerently as he chewed the end of a matchstick. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind being a little more specific,” he sneered. “It’s all very well to sit there criticising me and my department, but what about getting down to some facts? Maybe they won’t be so easy to produce. Can you point to any recent fatal accident and say ‘that person may have been murdered’?” Steeley stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Why make the matter personal?” he protested quietly. “I wasn’t criticising you. I was thinking of the Force in which you are an individual unit.”