At the forty-seventh meeting of the Problem Club, the chair was taken
by the youngest member, the Hon. James Feldane. That weary young
gentleman having provided himself with a double portion of green
Chartreuse, for the purpose, as he said, of supporting the dignity of
the position, opened his adjudication a little informally.
‘Let’s get started,’ he said. ‘The first job is to read out the
particular teaser with which the wily Leonard has been worrying you
poor old things during the past month. Here goes.’
The terms of the Handkerchief Problem were then read out. They were as
follows: ‘It is required to steal as many handkerchiefs as possible
from a member or members of the Problem Club. Violence may not be used
and thefts detected in the act will not score. Restitution will be
made of the stolen handkerchiefs within twenty-four hours of the
adjudication, but felonious intent is to be presumed in every case.’
‘I wish I could have been a competitor this time,’ the chairman
continued, ‘instead of being stuck up here to give the momentous
decision. I should have had some sport, and handkerchief-sneaking
falls nicely within my line of intellect; I might have scooped the
prize. But as I’m debarred from scoring off you, I’ve taken jolly good
care that none of you should score off me. For the past month every
handkerchief I’ve used has been attached to the interior of the pocket
by a steel chain and swivel, and those not in use have been locked
away in a safe. My valet thinks I’ve gone off my head, of course, but
then he’d have been bound to have thought that sooner or later,
anyhow. The great point is that not one of you low pickpockets has
been able to get a handkerchief out of me. We’ll now pursue the
inquiry. Hesseltine, are you guilty or not guilty?’
‘Guilty, m’lord,’ said young Hesseltine cheerfully. ‘I may not be
winner, but I think it would be safe to back me for a place. I struck
early. At our last meeting, as soon as this problem was announced, I
slipped stealthily and unobserved from the room. I had rightly
concluded that there would be no attendant in the cloak-room at that
hour. If there had been I should have sent him away to get me a box of
matches. From the overcoats of members I secured a nice little haul of
nine handkerchiefs. One of them, a silk bandanna, the property of
Major Byles, was big enough for two, and ought to count as two.’
‘Might count two on a division, as they say at the elections,’ said
the chairman. ‘But in the undivided state it counts one. Anything
further to say?’
‘That was my only _coup_. The only thing to add is that one of the
nine belonged to a gentleman who did not start keeping them in the
safe quite soon enough.’
‘All right,’ said Jimmy. ‘Speaking entirely _sotto voce_ and _ex
officio_, I’ll be even with you for that one of these days. Meanwhile,
Mr Matthews, it will be your painful duty as secretary to give that
thief a score of nine.’
The chairman then called upon Mr Quillian, K.C., whose story was
connected with the story of Mr Pusely-Smythe. In both cases it was a
story of failure. Both men had hit on precisely the same idea.
Quillian called on Pusely-Smythe at a time when he knew he would be
out, but would be expected back shortly. He, as he anticipated, was
recognised by the servant and asked if he would wait. During the
period of waiting Quillian made a swift and silent excursion to
Pusely-Smythe’s bedroom with a view to abstracting his available store
of handkerchiefs. But the chairman was not the only member who had
taken the precaution of keeping his handkerchiefs in an unlikely
place. Not one solitary handkerchief could Quillian find. And while he
was thus engaged Pusely-Smythe had been calling on Quillian with
similar intentions, similar practice, and a similar result.
‘You’re both too clever to live,’ observed the chairman, ‘but you’ve
cancelled one another for once. Mr Harding Pope, as a politician, you
should be familiar with the paths of dishonesty. How did you get on?’
The Member of Parliament gave a somewhat sickly smile.
‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that I have not competed. I represent a Dissenting
constituency, which is careful—almost to the point of being
inquisitorial—as to my character and private life. Had I competed, it
is easily possible that I might have been arrested. I could have
explained, but all explanations come too late. It would have done me
great injury. In the circumstances I have decided to resign my
membership of this club, and my resignation will be in the chairman’s
hands at the next meeting. I have enjoyed these meetings immensely,
but I have been—and am likely to be—too often debarred from taking an
active part in the competition as a member should. The delightful but
unscrupulous Leonard asks too much of me. Should I ever find myself in
a position of greater freedom and less responsibility, I shall
certainly crave the honour of re-election.’
‘Sorry,’ said the chairman. ‘I’m sure we all are. But the rules of the
club do require that members shall be workers and not merely
onlookers. If ever the political cat jumps the other way, and you’re
thrown out of Westminster into the cold, cold night, I make no doubt
that at the first vacancy we shall welcome the lost sheep back to the
nest. I will now call upon Major Byles.’
The Major lived in the country. There were unusually good golf links
in the neighbourhood, and he was both a good player and a good host.
He had used his opportunities as he explained.
‘I worked on a system. I waited till my man was absolutely wrapped up
in the game, meanwhile locating his handkerchief carefully. Then, at
the moment when he was following the ball with the eye, I put in some
swift finger-work. It was not always successful. The Doctor, for
instance, bowled me out twice—he’s got eyes in the back of his head.
But I got six handkerchiefs that way, and a seventh from a rain-coat
that had been left in my hall. I’ve good reason to know that I’m not a
winner, but it’s not bad—eh?’
‘A good sporting game,’ said the chairman. ‘These thefts from the
person ought really to count more than easy overcoat-shots. They want
more dexterity. The others only require brain-work. Still, I have to
administer the law as Leonard lays it down. So far Hesseltine wins.’
‘But he won’t win,’ said the Major mysteriously. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve got
good reason to know it.’ And he proceeded to compound for himself a
due measure of whisky and seltzer-water.
Dr Alden, who was next called upon, could claim a score of only two.
But so far as it went, it was brilliant and audacious work. One of the
handkerchiefs had been taken from Sir Charles Bunford and one from Mr
Matthews, and in both cases the theft had been committed in Piccadilly
in broad daylight and under the eyes of the police.
‘It’s clear where your real talent lies,’ said Jimmy. ‘You’re wasted
in Harley Street. However, time’s getting on, and a few bad men would
like a rubber of bridge before we part. Will any member who claims to
have beaten Hesseltine’s score kindly hold up a hand?’
The Rev. Septimus Cunliffe and Mr Wildersley, A.R.A., both held up
hands.
‘What?’ said the chairman. ‘Our padre in the sneak-thief business? Has
he no respect for his cloth? Leonard has a lot to answer for. However,
we will hear you, Mr Cunliffe.’
[Illustration: Three gentlemen in a smoking-room, smoking and
drinking. One man is wearing a clerical vest and collar; the other two
are dressed in tuxedo dinner suits and have monocles. One man is
speaking, addressing the room at large. He leans casually against a
table upon which can be seen a cigar box, a whisky bottle, and
drinking glasses. Caption: ‘“Has he no respect for his cloth?”’]
‘Leonard,’ said that broad-minded cleric in his sonorous voice, ‘has
once more revealed himself as a great moralist. He has shown us that
the thief, a bad man, must none the less have good qualities, and has
taught us to differentiate the good from the bad. The spirit of
adventure, the clever planning, the manual dexterity displayed by the
thief, are all worthy of praise. It is solely to his felonious
intentions that we should take exception. Leonard has expressly
provided that for the purposes of this competition the felonious
intentions are to be purely imaginary; they are to be supposed.
Consequently, I could approach the problem with a clear conscience.
And I admit that in compiling a score of fourteen my cloth has been of
assistance. Suspicion does not attach readily to a man in clerical
attire.
‘To proceed to my story, one Saturday, early in the month, I had been
down to play golf with our friend, the Major. (By the way, you’ll send
me back my handkerchief, Major. Already in the post? Thanks.) On
leaving his house I noticed at the back entrance a laundry van, in
charge of a sleepy-looking rustic. The name and address of the laundry
were proclaimed on the van in large letters. My knowledge of the
country showed me that in approaching the Major’s house that van would
pass an inn called the Royal George, at a distance of two miles from
the house, and a turning to the railway-station at a distance of one
mile. That made everything easy. On the following Saturday I was on
that road three miles from the house. My boots were dusty and I looked
as tired as I could. I waited till the van came along, hailed it, and
asked the driver to give me a lift as far as the station turning. He
was not averse to making an extra shilling, and I climbed up. For the
first mile I was talking to the man and making friends with him. When
we reached The Royal George I suggested that a pint at my expense
would not come amiss to him, and that I would look after the horse
while he was inside. He was good enough to say that I was a parson
after his own heart, and handed me the reins. The horse did not need
any looking after; it was not that kind of horse. In the interior of
the van I explored a laundry basket, and annexed fourteen of the
Major’s handkerchiefs. (I have left them in the cloak-room for you,
Major.) When the driver came out I was holding the reins and looking
pensive. I stepped off at the station turning. What is your decision,
Mr Chairman?’
‘Brainy piece of work, and a fair score of fourteen. My idea was that
nobody would get beyond fifteen. Did you beat that, Wildersley?’
That large but child-like artist smiled. ‘I claim a score of one
hundred and forty-four.’
‘Gee-whizz! I didn’t know there were so many handkerchiefs in the
world. Which members did you get them from?’
‘I got the whole lot from you, in spite of the steel chain and the
locked safe.’
‘But I’ve not got as many. It’s an impossibility. However, let’s have
the yarn.’
‘You’ll find it’s all right, Mr Chairman. You young men are so
careless that you don’t know what you’ve got. Some time ago I had to
execute a Deed of Gift—making over a rotten-cotton picture of mine to
a provincial gallery. Up to that time I didn’t know the difference
between a Deed of Gift and a hole in a wall, but you learn things as
you go on living. When this problem was set, I saw that by a Deed of
Gift and a small investment I could do myself good. My first step was
to buy twelve dozen handkerchiefs—top quality and deucedly expensive.
I had a monogram of the chairman’s initials excellently designed by
myself and embroidered by the shop on all those handkerchiefs. This
having been done, I collected my parcel of lingerie and went off to my
solicitor, who is of the old-established, eighteen-carat type. I told
him what I wanted, and the shock nearly killed him. When he got better
I explained that it was a joke, but that it was essential in order to
get the laugh that the Deed of Gift making over the handkerchiefs
should be all correct, water-tight, and copper-bottomed. He does not
understand jokes and will believe anything about them. So he
engineered me a lovely Deed. I then addressed the parcel to the Hon.
James Feldane, and went off with it in a taxi to Jimmy’s place. I
deposited the parcel, with the address downwards, on a chair in the
hall, and put my overcoat and hat on the top of it. I then went in and
had a few words with Jimmy about a bridge-problem. I had now made the
handkerchiefs Jimmy’s property by Deed of Gift. I had delivered them
at his residence. It only remained to steal them, and that was easy.
It’s always easier to steal a thing if the owner doesn’t know he’s got
it. Besides, as it was half-past eleven in the morning, Jimmy’s
costume consisted of a bath-gown, a Turkish cigarette, and a bad
headache, which excused him from coming out into the hall with me when
I left. I picked up my hat and coat, and a parcel containing one
hundred and forty-four handkerchiefs, the property of the chairman,
and went off. He will find the parcel returned to him when he gets
home to-night. And I should like his decision.’
‘Much obliged to you, Wildersley. It’s ironical that I can make a bit,
as long as I’m not competing. All the same, the decision must be held
up a moment. The fact that you’ve provided me with more handkerchiefs
than I shall ever use this side of the silent tomb might influence my
judicial mind. I must have a second opinion—counsel’s. Will Mr
Quillian kindly give us his views on this claim.’
‘I don’t usually give opinions in this off-hand way,’ said Mr
Quillian, ‘but on this occasion I have really no doubt. The Deed, sir,
was duly executed, so we are informed. The goods in question were
bona-fide intended to become your property, and have in fact become
so. They were delivered at your residence. In the absence of felonious
intent I should say that they had not been stolen, but the terms of
the problem state that felonious intent is to be presumed. Your
ignorance of the whole transaction does not seem to me to affect it.
In your place, sir, I should have no hesitation in finding the claim
good—and I only wish I had thought of the idea myself—I ought to have
done.’
‘Thank you, Mr Quillian. Then I decide that Wildersley is the winner.
Mr Matthews, will you please draw the usual cheque to Mr Wildersley’s
order?’
This having been done, and the chairman for the next meeting
appointed, Jimmy opened the sealed envelope containing the problem
that Leonard, the astute head-waiter, had set for the ensuing month.
Jimmy read it to himself first. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is a new line
of country. This is somewhat of a sensation. It’s called the Identity
Problem, and runs as follows: “It is required to discover the identity
of Leonard. The use of professional detectives, and any communication
with Leonard himself on the subject of this problem, are forbidden.”’
‘I always knew,’ said Hesseltine, with conviction, ‘that chap was no
ordinary head-waiter.’
And it appeared that several other members, who also had forgotten to
mention it before, had always been of the same opinion.
No. VI.