Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 256
The other side bedroom was occupied by Willie Smith, aged respectively twelve. Willie also attended school, though on the fifth of March he had not gone to school. The reason alleged for this was that he had been slightly indisposed on the fourth of March. All of the children were in every way ordinary children, none of them having ever shown the least tendency towards somnambulism, or hysteria, or locomotor ataxia. Willie, however, could imitate a dog barking.
The room at the back, the one immediately over the kitchen, was occupied by the maid, Frieda Helsenfish, a Finn, who had newly arrived from Finland. There seems, however, to have been no reason to connect her with the Finnish revolution.
It is important to note that this room was connected by a back stairway with the kitchen, and also connected through a door with the landing on which were the other bedrooms. It was thus possible, indeed it was easy, to pass from this room downstairs by either of two ways. It was not possible, however, to go both ways at once.
At midnight, or shortly after, the entire family were asleep. This may be stated as a fact as a passer-by noticed that no lights were burning in the Smith residence and looking at his watch observed that it was 12.02 a.m. The watch had been newly repaired and was running evenly and smoothly, and was running still on the following day with equal smoothness.
An hour later the situation in the household seems to have been something as follows: the family were still asleep, Mr. and Mrs. Smith in twin beds in the front bedroom; the little girls in the top side room; Willie in the other side room; and the servant in the back. There is no evidence to show that any one in the house was awake or moving as between 1.00 a.m. and 2.00 a.m.
At 2.00 a.m. Mr. Smith, who was never a heavy sleeper, seems to have rolled over in bed. There is no reason to suppose, however, that he rolled far, or that he was not able to roll back again. Mrs. Smith appears to have waked up for a moment and said, “What’s the matter?” Smith answered, “Nothing, I just rolled over in bed.” Mrs. Smith said, “Oh,” perhaps “Ah.” She noticed that the luminous clock indicated the time as 2.10 a.m. Allowing that the clock was about ten minutes fast, this would fix the time approximately at 2.00 a.m.
At 3.00 a.m. the family were still asleep. There is no ground for supposing that they had done anything but sleep from 2.00 to 3.00 a.m. A milkman starting on his round at three saw no lights in the house. The front door was closed, and to all appearances had not been in any way tampered with. The milkman did not notice any broken panes of glass. The man, however, was short-sighted, was new to his route, and came from Bobcaygeon, Ontario.
At four all the Smiths were asleep.
At five the Smiths were all sleeping. The hour this time can be definitely fixed because a town clock within no great distance from John Street struck five.
At seven o’clock, however, things took an entirely different turn. Smith, always a light sleeper and an early riser, rose and dressed himself. He seems to have put on all his clothes in their customary order. For the next half hour Smith’s movements can be traced with something like accuracy. He seems to have gone into the bathroom (7.00 a.m.), taken a bath (7.01 to 7.03 a.m.), shaved himself with a safety razor, leaving distinct fingerprints both on the handle of the razor and on the bureau in the bathroom. At 7.24 he seems to have gone down to the front door and taken in the newspaper. This, however, was a regular and customary matter. A furnace man of the neighborhood passing by said, “Good morning” to Smith, and immediately verified the time at 7.24. Smith appears to have answered either “Good morning,” or “Good Day,” or something of the sort.
At 7.30 Frieda, the Finn, came down (apparently fully dressed) into the kitchen and began to prepare breakfast. To do this she put water (cold water) into the kettle and set it on the gas range. After which she set about preparing the meal, which appears to have consisted of oatmeal porridge, bacon and eggs. There was no indication of poison, or any poisonous ingredient in any of the food.
At 7.35 Mrs. Smith rose and proceeded to call and dress the children. All three got up.
At eight the family breakfasted, and at 8.30, or perhaps 8.31 — certainly not later than 8.32 — Smith left to go downtown to his office and the three children accompanied him, starting on their way to school.
Smith seems to have got to his office all right. The children got to school. The Finn washed up the breakfast things, and Mrs. Smith settled down in the parlor to read a mystery story.
The Newer Truthfulness
HOW THE UP-TO-DATE Biographer Slates His Hero
“Biography must first of all be truthful.” So declared not long ago one of the best known of our contemporary critics. I suppose it is in accordance with this idea that a new fashion has grown up in the art of writing biographies. In old days, the whole point of a biography was to show what a wonderful fellow the man was who was being biographed.
If he was a soldier, he had to win every battle. If he was a statesman, he had to be wiser than all the others put together. If he was an orator, he was supposed to leave the legislature gasping with admiration and coiled up in heaps on the floor.
Nowadays this is all changed. Under the influence of what is called historical research, the task of the new biographer is to prove what a pitiful simp his subject really is. Take, as an example, the following extract from “The Real Washington,” 1928, 700 pp., $25.
life of george washington
(As written according to the new style of searchlight biography.)
“This poor sap was born in Virginia in 1732. The twenty-second of February, generally held to be his birthday and celebrated as such, is probably an erroneous date. Professor Searchit, in an admirable paper on Washington As We Don’t Know Him presented to the Historical Grouch Society of America, expresses the opinion that Washington was born in August or perhaps in November.
“Recent researches into the history of the Washington family show them to have been people of little account — in fact, a poor lot. A William Henry Washington was expelled from Princeton College in 1720, and a John Washington from Harvard in 1690. Either of these could have been Washington’s father or grandfather, or both.
“Legend has grown up around the first president’s boyhood. It is now definitely established that he never cut down a cherry tree, never had an ax, and probably lied as often and as successfully as any wholesome and clean-minded American youth.
“Washington’s earlier career, especially on the military side, has been the subject of gross misrepresentation. We know now that he did not serve under Braddock, as it has been proved that at the time of Braddock’s defeat Washington was carrying on a saloon and livery business at Acquia Creek.
“The part played by Washington in the revolutionary struggle has been greatly exaggerated. National pride in the foundation of our republic has led to a false view of his exploits. The saner military criticism of to-day shows us that, as a general, Washington was a wash-out. It seems established that he let the entire British forces, both naval and military, slip out of his hand and get back to England, while the escape of 50,000 so-called loyalists out of the country must be laid to his account.
“As president Washington showed in office the same fatal ineptitude as on the field. He selected his cabinet at random without reference to parties. His speeches are said to have been drivel, while his social appearance was rendered ridiculous by his extreme shortness of stature and by his excessive stoutness, which increased from year to year. His conversation — beginning always with the words, ‘When I licked Cornwallis,’ — is said to have been dull.
“On the other hand, it should be remembered that Washington was an excellent card player, sitting down after breakfast to a game of poker from which he seldom rose till after midnight. In religion he belonged to the Salvation Army.”
did columbus discover america?
When it is not possible for the new biographer to calumniate a man’s whole life, because it is not widely known anyway, he fastens upon his main historical achievement and denies that it ever happened. Here, for instance, is the kind of thing the biographer does to the immortal Christopher:
“It was long widely believed that Christopher Columbus discovered America. The painstaking researches of modern scholars have gone far to disprove this. Columbus may have discovered something, but it was certainly not America. All that we know for sure is that Columbus sailed from the harbor of Palos with three ships in 1492, and that he came back six months later and said that he had lost two of his ships and that he had been to Japan. He was given more ships and made by the Spanish King and Queen Grand Admiral of Japan. After two more voyages to Japan, he retired.
“Columbus, in stature and appearance, seems to have been an awful little runt. He was apparently quite ignorant of navigation, had no idea where he was sailing to, and on his return from Japan in his old age easily fell into a garrulous way of talking of his supposed discovery of America. Columbus was long supposed to be buried in Havana, but modern research has proved that this was his cousin.”
did bruce spy the spider?
And even when the modern research student has got quite finished with the biography business, he still has another mission to fulfill. One by one he takes up the pretty legends of history and rewrites them so as to show that there is nothing in them.
Everybody who read in his childhood the story of Bruce and the spider thrilled with the noble example of unbeaten courage in adversity. The gallant Scottish king in a mood of despair sits watching the heroic efforts of the spider as it tries — but everybody knows the story.
Here is what is left of it after the modern research biographer has got in his work upon it:
“The legendary story in regard to the spider has been shown by the diligent efforts of modern students to be without foundation. In the first place, it is quite erroneous to say that ‘King Bruce of Scotland laid himself down, in a weary mood, to think’; there is abundant evidence to show that at this time Bruce’s enemies were chasing him around so fast that it was out of the question for him to sit down, let alone to lay himself down.
“Moreover, Professor J. A. Thompson of Aberdeen has proved that the spider was unknown at that time in Scotland, having been brought in by the English after the Union. It has also been established that spiders do not climb and reclimb a ‘silken cobweb clew’ from any sense of heroism or determination, a feeling which is quite unknown to them. They probably merely wish to get to the top.
“And, in conclusion, it was not Robert Bruce, but Angus Bruce, who saw, not a spider climbing, but some other animal doing something else.”
and so with all the rest
And so it is with all the other beautiful legends, lives, and stories. Modern research is washing them all out. King Alfred didn’t burn the cakes: Oh, dear no! Research shows that Alfred had worked as a French chef at the court of Charlemagne.
Cæsar didn’t say, “Et tu, Brute”; he merely said, “Who hit me that time?”
And to think that we are paying good money, public and private, to keep those research students at work!
A Midsummer Detective Mystery
SHOWING THE EFFECT of Hot Weather on Cold Criminality
Note: “The best stories for the summer,” so writes the editor of one of our best-known literary weekly supplements, “are those that are suited for reading under a tree, or in a hammock or in a boat — stories of a gentler, a softer, one might almost say a drowsier type than the more exciting and exacting fiction of ordinary times.”
All right, Mr. Editor. Here is an attempt to write one for you. Get into your boat and rig a hammock in it on two sticks with a bough of a tree over it and then read this.
During the drowsiest moments of a warm afternoon, a well-dressed gentleman of middle age and quiet appearance pulled the bell at Scotland Yard. At the third summons the janitor, rubbing his eyes as if awakened from slumber, opened the door.
“You must excuse me, sir,” he said, “I was just having a bit of a nap.”
“It is indeed a warm afternoon,” said the visitor, yawning. “I feel sleepy myself.”
“Well, sir,” replied the janitor, “I must say that in this hot weather there’s nothing so refreshing as to just drop off for two or three hours after dinner, sir.”
“Indeed so,” said the visitor, and he yawned again. “I regard sleep as perhaps one of the most agreeable ways of passing the time that I know. But, by the way, are any of the police about? Any inspectors or detectives?”
“It’s hardly likely,” said the janitor. “Our gentlemen are mostly on the river on an afternoon like this; either that or in the country. Was you wanting any one particularly?”
“No, no special one. Just anybody who could aid in the solution” — here he yawned— “of a very daring crime.”
“Inspector Higgins, I think, is upstairs. If he is awake, sir, he will be very glad to see you.”
The unknown visitor was shown into the presence of Inspector Higgins, a heavy-looking man, seated at a table looking dreamily at a sheet of paper spread out in front of him.
“Sit down,” he said. “I was just working out a problem in noughts and crosses. But it’s too strenuous for this hot weather.”
“It is, indeed,” said the visitor. “I always feel that active thought and exertion should be reserved for the more rigorous months of the year.”
“I like the summer,” murmured the inspector. “I like the flowers and the fresh leaves. I often wish I knew the names of more birds than I do.”
“So do I,” said the visitor. “I came,” the visitor continued, “to say that I have every reason to fear that a murder has been committed.”
“An atrocious one?” asked the inspector with a yawn.
“I believe so.”
“Then I suppose you had better tell me about it.”
“I will, and if you will allow me I will begin at the beginning. My name is Charles Everett and I am a solicitor in good practice at 91 Chelsea Court.”
“I don’t think you need tell me all that,” said Higgins drowsily. “I couldn’t remember it.”
“Very good. I live about thirty miles outside London in Surrey at a few miles from Little Hampstead — —”
“I don’t think it matters where you live,” said the inspector.
“All right. I continue. It is my custom every morning to walk two miles across country to catch the 9.15 local for Waterloo at Finchley Junction.”
The inspector yawned.
“That’s too intricate. Just get to the murder itself.”
“This morning,” continued the solicitor, “according to my wont — —”
“According to your what?” asked Higgins.
“My wont. I was walking through a little wood when I was surprised, I might say horrified — —”
“No, don’t say that,” murmured the inspector.
“ —— to see the body of a man lying beside a tree close to the bank of a little stream. The body was that of a middle-aged or elderly man respectably dressed. It was attired in a light gray suit, with white spats below the trousers, and a gray Homburg hat lay on the grass near it. Even in the cursory glance I gave to it, I noticed a heavy gold watch chain showing beside the waistcoat pocket, which led me to infer that robbery had not been the object of the murder. Leaving everything undisturbed —— But you’re not listening.”
“Yes, yes,” said the inspector, “I heard it all. I merely dozed off for a moment. You found a body in a little wood, quite so. You often find them like that. Go on.”
“Leaving everything undisturbed, I made my way to the junction and so to London and to my office. I meant to report the matter at once, but owing to the extreme heat of the weather — —”
“Do you know,” said Inspector Higgins, “I think that this is about as hot a spell as I remember. I say, how would you like a cool drink? There’s a new American bar just round the corner this side of Westminster Bridge where we might get something.”
A few minutes later the inspector and the solicitor were standing in front of the long counter of an American bar while two tall glasses in which an iced drink clinked with delicious invitation, stood before them.
“By the way,” said Higgins, “I interrupted you. You were talking in the office about a murder.”
“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten.”
“That’s all right,” said Higgins. “But I’ll tell you what we can do, if you like. We’ll take a car and drive down into Surrey and have a look at it. I know a road to Finchley that’s a little bit roundabout, but makes a really pleasant drive.”
“The country certainly seems inviting in this weather,” answered Everett.
“And I tell you,” continued the inspector, “we might as well take lunch with us. I suppose, miss,” he added, turning to the barmaid, “that you could put us up a snack in a lunch basket, couldn’t you?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” answered the girl readily. “What would you like, sir? We could give you a cold chicken, a made-up salad, sir, with a cold meat pie, if you care for it.”
“Excellent. And you might put in half a dozen of bottled ale and a couple of pints of claret. — And now I’ll tell you another idea. I don’t know whether you care for fishing — —”
“My dear fellow!” exclaimed the solicitor, “I’m passionately fond of it.”
“Well, do you know, in so many of these little streams even within thirty miles of London, though you’ll hardly believe it, one can often pick up some excellent brook trout.”
“Delightful!” said Everett.
“I’ll fetch a couple of rods and then we’ll be off.”
Three or four hours later the Police Inspector and the solicitor might have been seen seated beside a murmuring stream in the pleasant shade of a leafy wood. A delightful thirty-mile run through country lanes had brought them to the wood and the brook mentioned by Mr. Everett. The napkins that were spread upon the grass, the remains of an ample lunch, a claret bottle resting against a tree and some beer bottles cooling in the stream bore witness to the success of their outing.
