Murder by the Book, page 7
“Well, well, it is not for me to b-boast, Mr. Holmes, but I certainly have one or two volumes of unique association value on my shelves. I am a poor man and do not aspire to first folios, but the p-pride of my collection is that it could not have been assembled through the ordinary channels of trade… But to return to our problem, is there anything else in the Club which you would like to investigate?”
“I think not,” said Holmes, “but I must confess that the description of your collection has whetted my own bibliographical appetite.”
The Professor flushed with pride.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, if you and your friend would really care to see my few t-treasures, I should be honoured. My rooms are not f-far from here.”
“Then let us go,” said Holmes, with decision.
I confess that I was somewhat puzzled by my friend’s behaviour. He seemed to have forgotten the misfortunes of the Megatherium and to be taking a wholly disproportionate interest in the eccentricities of the Wiskerton collection.
When we reached the Professor’s rooms I had a further surprise. I had expected not luxury, of course, but at least some measure of elegance and comfort. Instead, the chairs and tables, the carpets and curtains, everything, in fact, seemed to be of the cheapest quality; even the bookshelves were of plain deal and roughly put together. The books themselves were another matter. They were classified like no other library I had ever seen. In one section were presentation copies from authors; in another were proof-copies bound in what is known as “binder’s cloth;” in another were review copies; in another were pamphlets, monographs, and off-prints of all kinds.
“There you are, Mr. Holmes,” said the Professor, with all the pride of ownership. “You may think it is a c-collection of oddities, but for me every one of those volumes has a p-personal and s-separate association—including the item which came into my hands yesterday afternoon.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, “and yet they all have a common characteristic.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“No? But I am waiting to see the remainder of your collection, Professor. When I have seen the whole of your library, I shall perhaps be able to explain myself more clearly.”
The Professor flushed with annoyance.
“Really, Mr. Holmes, I had been warned of some of your p-peculiarities of manner; but I am entirely at a loss to know what you are d-driving at.”
“In that case, Professor, I will thank you for your hospitality and will beg leave to return to the Megatherium for consultation with the Secretary.”
“To tell him that you can’t f-find the missing books?”
Sherlock Holmes said nothing for a moment. Then he looked straight into the Professor’s face and said, very slowly:
“On the contrary, Professor Wiskerton, I shall tell the Secretary that I can direct him to the precise address at which the books may be found.”
There was silence. Then an extraordinary thing happened.
The Professor turned away and literally crumpled into a chair; then he looked up at Holmes with the expression of a terrified child:
“Don’t do it, Mr. Holmes. Don’t do it, I b-b-beseech you. I’ll t-tell you everything.”
“Where are the books?” asked Holmes, sternly.
“Come with me and I’ll show you.”
The Professor shuffled out and led us into a dismal bedroom. With a trembling hand he felt in his pocket for his keys and opened a cupboard alongside the wall. Several rows of books were revealed and I quickly recognised one or two titles that I had seen on the Megatherium list.
“Oh, what m-must you think of me, Mr. Holmes?” the Professor began, whimpering.
“My opinion is irrelevant,” said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. “Have you any packing-cases?”
“No, but I d-daresay my landlord might be able to find some.”
“Send for him.”
In a few minutes the landlord appeared. Yes, he thought he could find a sufficient number of cases to take the books in the cupboard.
“Professor Wiskerton,” said Holmes “is anxious to have all these books packed at once and sent to the Megatherium, Pall Mall. The matter is urgent.”
“Very good, sir. Any letter or message to go with them?”
“No,” said Holmes, curtly, “but yes—stop a minute.”
He took a pencil and a visiting-card from his pocket and wrote “With the compliments of” above the name.
“See that this card is firmly attached to the first of the packing-cases. Is that clear?”
“Quite correct, sir, if that’s what the Professor wants.”
“That is what the Professor most particularly wants. Is it not, Professor?” said Holmes, with great emphasis.
“Yes, yes, I suppose so. But c-come back with me into the other room and l-let me explain.”
We returned to the sitting-room and the Professor began:
“Doubtless I seem to you either ridiculous or despicable or both. I have had two p-passions in my life—a passion for s-saving money and a passion for acquiring b-books. As a result of an unfortunate dispute with the Dean of my faculty at the University, I retired at a c-comparatively early age and on a very small p-pension. I was determined to amass a collection of books; I was equally determined not to s-spend my precious savings on them. The idea came to me that my library should be unique, in that all the books in it should be acquired by some means other than p-purchase. I had friends amongst authors, printers, and publishers, and I did pretty well, but there were many recently published books that I wanted and saw no m-means of getting until—well, until I absent-mindedly brought home one of the circulating library books from the Megatherium. I meant to return it, of course. But I didn’t. Instead, I b-brought home another one…”
“Facilis descensus…” murmured Holmes.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. Then, when the Committee began to notice that books were disappearing, I was in a quandary. But I remembered hearing someone say in another connection that the b-best defence was attack and I thought that if I were the first to go to you, I should be the last to be s-suspected.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “Thank you, Professor Wiskerton.”
“And now what are you going to do?”
“First,” replied Holmes, “I am going to make certain that your landlord has those cases ready for despatch. After that, Dr. Watson and I have an engagement at St. James’s Hall.”
“A trivial little case, Watson, but not wholly without interest,” said Holmes, when we returned from the concert hall to Baker Street.
“A most contemptible case, in my opinion. Did you guess from the first that Wiskerton himself was the thief?”
“Not quite, Watson. I never guess. I endeavour to observe. And the first thing I observed about Professor Wiskerton was that he was a miser—the altercation with the cabman, the shabby clothes, the unwillingness to invite us to lunch. That he was an enthusiastic bibliophile was, of course, obvious. At first I was not quite certain how to fit these two characteristics properly together, but after yesterday’s interview I remembered that the head porter of the Megatherium had been a useful ally of mine in his earlier days as a Commissionaire and I thought a private talk with him might be useful. His brief characterization put me on the right track at once—“Always here reading,” he said, “but never takes a square meal in the Club.” After that, and after a little hasty research this morning into the Professor’s academic career, I had little doubt.”
“But don’t you still think it extraordinary, in spite of what he said, that he should have taken the risk of coming to consult you?”
“Of course it’s extraordinary, Watson. Wiskerton’s an extraordinary man. If, as I hope, he has the decency to resign from the Megatherium, I shall suggest to Mycroft that he puts him up for the Diogenes.”
Malice Domestic
Philip MacDonald
Philip MacDonald (1900–1980) was a leading exponent of British Golden Age detective fiction who immigrated to California and became a highly accomplished screenwriter, with the Hitchcock classic Rebecca among his credits. He introduced his Great Detective Colonel Anthony Gethryn in The Rasp in 1924. Gethryn became a popular character who appeared in an enjoyable series of novels culminating in The Nursemaid Who Disappeared aka Warrant for X (1938); after a long break, he returned for a final hurrah in The List of Adrian Messenger (1958), one of several MacDonald novels to be filmed. His non-series mysteries include The Rynox Mystery (1930) and Murder Gone Mad (1931), while his pseudonymous work includes Forbidden Planet (1956) as W.J. Stuart, a novelisation of a famous science fiction film.
Most of MacDonald’s postwar crime fiction was in the short form, and three collections of his mysteries were published. “Malice Domestic” concerns a writer “of some merit, mediocre sales, and—at least among the wordier critics—considerable reputation.” The story first appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine in October 1946, and was included in Something to Hide aka Fingers of Fear (1952). In 1957, a TV adaptation of the story was screened as part of the second series of Alfred Hitchcock Presents.
***
Carl Borden came out of Seaman’s bookstore into the sundrenched, twisting little main street of El Morro Beach. He looked around to see if his wife were in view, and then, as she wasn’t, walked to the bar entrance of Eagles’ and went in. He was a big, loosely built, rambling sort of a man, with untidy blond hair and a small, somehow featureless face which was redeemed from indistinction by his eyes, which were unexpectedly large, vividly blue, and always remarkably alive. He was a writer of some merit, mediocre sales and—at least among the wordier critics—considerable reputation.
He sat on the first stool at the bar and nodded to the real estate man, Dockweiler, who had once been a Hollywood actor; to Dariev, the Russian who did the murals; then—vaguely—to some people in booths. He didn’t smile at all, not even at the barman when he ordered his beer—and Dockweiler said to old Parry beside him, “Catch that Borden, will you! Wonder whatsa matter…”
The barman, who was always called Hiho for some reason everyone had forgotten, brought Carl’s drink and set it down before him and glanced at him and said, “Well, Mr. Borden—and how’ve you been keeping?”
Carl said, “Thanks, Hiho—oh, all right, I guess…” He took a long swallow from the cold glass.
Hiho said, “And how’s Mrs. Borden? Okay?”
“Fine!” Carl said. And then again, “Fine!” He put a dollar bill on the bar and Hiho picked it up and went to the cash register.
Carl put his elbows on the bar and dropped his face into his hands; then sat quickly upright as Hiho returned with his change. He pocketed it and swallowed the rest of his beer and stood up. He nodded to Hiho without speaking and walked out into the street again.
His wife was standing by the car with her arms full of packages. He said, “Hey, Annette—hold it!” and quickened his pace to a lumbering trot.
She smiled at him. A brief, wide smile which was just a little on the toothy side. She looked slim and straight and cool and soignée, as she always did. She was a blonde Norman woman of thirty-odd, and she had been married to Carl for nine years. They were regarded, by everyone who did not know them well, as an “ideal couple.” But their few intimates, of late, had been vaguely unsure of this.
Carl opened the door of the car and took the parcels from Annette’s arms, and stowed them away in the back. She said, “Thank you, Carlo,” and got into the seat beside him as he settled himself at the wheel. She said, “Please—go around by Beaton’s. I have a big package there.”
He drove down to Las Ondas Road and parked, on the wrong side of the street, outside a white-fenced little building over which a sign announced, “Beaton and Son—Nurseries.”
He went into the shop, and the girl gave him a giant paper sack, stuffed overfull with a gallimaufry of purchases. He picked it up—and the bottom tore open and a shower of the miscellany sprayed to the floor.
Carl swore beneath his breath, and the girl said, “Oh, drat!” And whipped around to help him. He put the things he had saved on the counter, then, stooping, retrieved a thick pamphlet called The Rose-Grower’s Handbook and a carton labelled “Killweed” in white lettering above a red skull-and-crossbones design.
The girl had everything else. Apologizing profusely, she put the whole order into two fresh sacks. Carl put one under each arm and went out into the sunny street again, and saw Doctor Wingate walking along it, approaching the car. Carl called out, “Hi, Tom!” And smiled his first smile of the morning as the other turned and saw him.
“Hi, yourself!” Wingate said. He was a man in the middle forties, a little dandiacal as to dress, and he wore—unusual in a medico—a small, neatly trimmed imperial which some people thought distinguished, others merely caprine. He turned to the car and raised his hat to Annette, wishing her good morning a trifle formally. He opened the rear door for Carl and helped him put the two packages in with the others. He looked at Carl, and for a moment his gaze became sharply professional. He said, “How’s the book going?” And Carl hesitated before he answered, “Fine! Tough sledding, of course—but it’ll be all right, I think.”
“Well,” said Wingate, “don’t go cold on it. It’s too good.” Carl shrugged. Annette said, impatiently, “We must get back, Carlo,” and he got into the car and started the engine and waved to his friend.
He drove back through the town and then branched inland up into the hills and came in five minutes to the narrow, precipitous road which led up to his house, standing alone on its little bluff. It was a sprawling, grey-shingled building, with tall trees behind it and, in front, a lawn which surrounded a rose bed. Beside the lawn a gravel driveway, with traces of devil grass and other weeds showing through its surface, ran down to the garage.
As he stopped the car, an enormous dog appeared around the corner of the house and bounded toward them. Annette got out first, and looked at the animal and said, “Hallo,” and put out her hand as if to fondle it.
The dog backed away. It stood with its head up and stared at her. It was a giant schnauser, as big as a Great Dane, and it was called G.B. because something about its bearded face and sardonic eye had always made Carl think of Shaw.
Annette looked at it; then, with a quick little movement of her head, at her husband. She said sharply, “The dog! Why does he look at me like that?”
Carl was getting out of the car. “Like what?” he said—and then it was upon him, its tail stump wagging madly, its vast mouth open in a wet, white-and-scarlet smile.
“Hi there, G.B.!” Carl said—and the creature rose up on its hind legs and put its forepaws on his shoulders and tried to lick his face. Its head was almost on a level with Carl’s.
Annette said, “It is—peculiar. He does not like me lately.” She was frowning.
Carl said, “Oh, that’s your imagination,” and the dog dropped upon all fours again and stood away while the packages were taken out of the car.
Carl carried most of them, Annette the rest. They stood in the kitchen, and Annette began to put her purchases away. Carl stood and watched her. His blue eyes were dark and troubled, and he looked like a Brobdingnagian and bewildered little boy who has found himself in trouble for some reason he cannot understand.
Annette wanted to get to the icebox, and he was in her way. She pushed at his arm, and said sharply, “Move! You are too big for this kitchen!”
But he put his long arms around her and pulled her close to him. He said, “Annette! What’s the matter, darling? What is it? What have I done?”
She strained back against his arms—but he tightened their pressure and drew her closer still and buried his face in the cool firm flesh of her throat.
“Carl!” she said. She sounded amazed.
He went on talking, against her neck. His voice sounded almost as if there were tears in it. He said, “Don’t tell me there isn’t something wrong! Just tell me what it is? Tell me what I’ve done! It’s been going on for weeks now—maybe months. Ever since you came back from that trip. You’ve been—different…”
His wife stood motionless. She said, slowly, “But, Carlo—that is what I have been feeling about you.”
He raised his head and looked at her. He said, “It’s almost as if you were—suspicious of me. And I don’t know what it’s about!”
She frowned. “I—” she said. “I—” and then stopped for a long moment.
She said, “Do you know what I think? I think we are two very stupid people.” The lines were leaving her face, the colour coming back to it.
“Two stupid people!” she said again. “People who are not so young as they were. People who do not see enough other people—and begin to imagine things…”
She broke off as there drifted through the open window the sound of a car, old and labouring, coming up the hill. She said, “Ah!” and put her hands on Carl’s shoulders and kissed him at the corner of his mouth. She said, “The mail—I will get it,” and went quickly out of the side door.
He made no attempt to follow her, no suggestion that he should do the errand. Annette had always been very jealous about her letters, and seemed to be growing even more so.
He stood where he was, his big shoulders sagging, the smile with which he had met her smile slowly fading from his face. He shook his head. He drew in a deep breath. He shambled away, through the big living room and through that again into his study. He sat down in front of his typewriter and stared at it for a long time.
He began to work—at first slowly, but finally with a true and page-devouring frenzy…
It was dusk, and he had already switched on his desk light, when there came a gentle sound behind him. He dragged himself back to the world which he did not control and turned in his chair and saw his wife just inside the door. She was very slim, almost boyish, in her gardening overalls. She said, “I do not want to interrupt, Carlo—just to know about dinner.” Her face was in shadow, and she might have been smiling.
