The terms of the Impersonation Problem, which came up for adjudication
at the fiftieth meeting of the club, were as follows:—
‘It is required to be mistaken for six different people in the course
of one hour.’
Mr Wildersley, A.R.A.—large, cheerful, and childlike—took the chair,
and observed that it was just as well for other members that the
dignified position of adjudicator prevented him from competing, as
otherwise he would have been a certain winner. It was a claim that the
chairman for the evening very frequently made, but Wildersley was not
very serious about it.
‘My profession,’ he said, ‘would have given me a start of about eighty
yards in the hundred. I’m skilled in the rapid use of oil-paints.
Within the prescribed limit of one hour I could have painted myself to
look like a rabbit, or a tomato, or a man, or a hole in the ground, or
any other object of the seashore, so as absolutely to defy detection.
Not one of you duffers would have had a chance.’
‘Pardon the interruption,’ said Mr Quillian, K.C., ‘but the terms of
the problem require us to be mistaken for six different people. May I
ask the chairman if he would consider a rabbit and a tomato as being
people for the purposes of this problem?’
‘The time of the chairman,’ said Wildersley, severely, ‘is not to be
wasted on purely hypothetical cases. If, when his turn comes, Mr
Quillian claims to have been mistaken for a rabbit, I shall be ready
both to believe it and to adjudicate upon it. And now, gentlemen, we
will have the story of your dismal failures. Hesseltine here is acting
as secretary to-night, and he may as well get his talking done first,
so that he can give his undivided attention to his duties.’
‘Well,’ said Hesseltine, ‘Feldane and I went into partnership this
time, as the rules permit. We don’t claim to have scored the full six,
but we had a lovely time while it lasted. Jimmy had better tell you
about it, as he played the lead.’
‘Yes,’ said Jimmy, with a weary smile, ‘it was quite on the amusing
side. Involved a lot of work though—thinking it all out and getting
together the properties for the drama. If we scooped fifty-five pounds
each over it we shouldn’t be overpaid, but just as we were doing
nicely the bottom fell out of it. However, I’ll tell you.’
The incidents which Jimmy related were as follows: Early on a fine
morning he and Hesseltine were conveyed by a taxi-cab to a point,
previously selected, on a road on the outskirts of a south-western
suburb. Here they unloaded their miscellaneous collection of
properties and got to work. The driver took the cab off to a
public-house in the vicinity, and there awaited further orders.
Hesseltine was disguised as a labourer. Jimmy, who was to act as his
boss, was got up as, to use his own description, ‘a sort of
semi-scientific clerky person, clad in a seedy suit, a pince-nez, and
an air of educated wisdom.’ They began by enclosing a portion of the
roadway with stakes and ropes, fixing red flags at the corners of the
square. Then Hesseltine entered the enclosure and began vigorously to
dig a hole in the road with pick and spade. It was still early, and
there were few people about. So Hesseltine’s boss condescended to lend
a hand with the digging. Afterwards Feldane contented himself with
strolling round the hole with a voltmeter, borrowed from the taxi-cab,
in one hand, a two-foot rule sticking out of his breast-pocket, and a
general air of importance.
When the hole was about three feet deep a sleepy policeman paused on
his way past.
‘Something wrong with the drains?’ he asked.
‘Hope not,’ said Feldane cheerfully. ‘But that’s what we’re going to
find out. We’re just putting in the smoke-test on this section.’
‘I see,’ said the policeman. ‘You ain’t from Mackworth’s, are you?’
‘Mackworth’s? Oh, no. We’re from Matthews and Byles, the sanitary
engineers at Vauxhall. Dare say you know the name.’
The policeman said he believed he’d heard it, and passed on. The game
had now definitely begun, and there was only one hour to play it in
and no time to be lost. A small car was approaching with a lady
driving. Feldane ran into the road, held up his hand, and stopped it.
‘Sorry, madam,’ he said to the lady, ‘but would you mind waiting just
for a few seconds? I’m sure you’ll understand. We’ve got an Erichsen’s
galvanometrical balance working in that hole, and the least vibration
would spoil the reading. We shan’t be a minute.’
‘Certainly,’ said the lady. ‘I know something of these delicate
instruments. What are you using it for?’
‘We’re from the Post Office Electrical Survey. There’s trouble with
the telegraph wires here that they can’t locate. Of course if iron
pyrites has been used in the construction of the road, that would
account for it. We’re looking into it. Bill,’ he called to Hesseltine,
‘what do you make it?’
Hesseltine examined the bottom of the hole. ‘Steady at two point
five,’ he called back.
‘Good. Let this car past, and then set a foot further in. Thank you
very much, madam.’
The unsuspecting lady drove on. Hesseltine sat down in the hole and
laughed. Jimmy glanced at his watch. ‘That’s two in under ten
minutes,’ he said. ‘If we can keep it up at anything like this rate,
we ought to do.’
But for some time after this passers-by proved curious but
unenterprising. They stared with the keenest interest at the
proceedings, but did not put in any inquiry. Then an elderly tramp
paused on his way into the town.
‘Water-main?’ he suggested.
‘Ay,’ said Jimmy.
‘All that work for a little water! Sooner you than me.’
Almost immediately afterwards a rather fussy and important little man
demanded to know what it was all about.
‘Gas,’ said Jimmy laconically.
‘There’s no gas-main in this road,’ snapped the little man.
‘No,’ said Jimmy. ‘Nor likely to be until we’ve took the level for the
pipes. Pass along, please.’
The little man said that it seemed hopeless to expect a civil answer
to a civil question nowadays, but he passed along. Jimmy again
consulted his watch.
‘Four in half an hour,’ he observed. ‘We can hardly miss it now.’
But fate was already on its way in the shape of a young,
newly-appointed, eager and suspicious policeman. He watched Jimmy and
Hesseltine for a minute or so in silence. Jimmy made an entry in a
pocket-book.
‘All right, Bill,’ said Jimmy to Hesseltine. ‘You can fill in again
now.’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked the policeman.
‘Rubberite Road Construction,’ said Jimmy. ‘They’re putting down an
experimental section here, and this is just the preliminary testing.’
‘Don’t they put no notice-board up with the name of the firm on?’
‘They will, of course, as soon as the actual work begins. I have their
card.’ This printed card had been one of Jimmy’s properties. The
policeman slipped it into his pocket.
‘I’ve no doubt it’s all right,’ said the policeman, ‘but I’ll just
show this card to make sure.’
‘Certainly,’ said Jimmy; ‘that’s the thing to do. You’ll find they
know all about it up at the station.’
The game was up. As soon as the policeman was round the corner Jimmy
dashed off to fetch the taxi while Hesseltine completed the work of
filling in the hole and getting their various properties together.
They had at least the satisfaction of getting clear away before the
policeman returned.
The chairman, when he had heard the story, said that if everybody had
their rights it was probable that two of the younger members of the
Problem Club would now be in prison, but he would allow them a score
of five all the same. The fifth score might seem a little doubtful,
but the young policeman has said that he believed it was all right,
and if he had not would probably have taken stronger measures. The
chairman also refused to admit Quillian’s objection that the
conspirators had been mistaken for imaginary people. People might be
real or imaginary, and the subtle editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_
had not indicated that either meaning was excluded. A further protest
by Major Byles and Mr Matthews against the scandalous use that had
been made of their names for the firm of sanitary engineers was not
taken seriously.
But the Major may have been embittered by the completeness of his own
failure. With the help of a gray wig and beard and some shabby
clothes, he had intended to call at six different back-doors and to
represent in succession six different people—a beggar, a
fortune-teller, a vendor of cheap jewellery, and so forth. But the
first back-door at which he called was his own, and there he was
immediately recognised by a house-dog and by his own kitchen-maid. His
subsequent explanation that he had merely been doing it for a bet had
not been well received. He did not give details, but it was gathered
that Mrs Byles had had a good deal to say on the subject.
Lord Herngill had done very little better. He had attempted no
disguise at all. His idea had been, in the course of travel on the
Bakerloo Tube railway, to get into conversation with six different
people and to tell six plausible but erroneous stories about himself.
His statement that he personally had driven the first train that had
passed under the Thames in that tube, being in fact the consulting
engineer of the company, was received by an old lady with great
interest and not the slightest suspicion. He then changed into another
carriage and found an opportunity to tell a young curate that though
he lived within ten miles of London he had never been there in his
life before. He was only there then because he had to see property
that he had inherited at Swiss Cottage. And could the curate tell him
at all where Swiss Cottage was?
That question was his undoing. ‘I can not only tell you,’ said the
smiling curate, ‘but, as it happens, I am going there myself, and it
will give me much pleasure to have your company.’
And by the time that he had got rid of that curate it was hopeless to
attempt his remaining impersonations within the prescribed time. It
was generally felt that in a matter of impersonation Lord Herngill, on
his previous character, should have done better.
Mr Quillian had bestowed six shillings on six different
crossing-sweepers. Five of them had said, ‘Thank you, m’lord,’ and the
other had said, ‘Thank you, Captain.’ On this he claimed to have won,
as it was obvious that all five crossing-sweepers could not have
mistaken him for the same peer. It was pointed out to him by the
chairman that there was not the slightest evidence that any one of
those crossing-sweepers had made any mistake at all.
For once Pusely-Smythe had failed to compete, and said that he had
been too busy. It was suggested that his time had been taken up with
spending his winnings from the previous month. Mr Matthews also had
taken no part in the competition. The reason he gave was simple
cowardice; the ghastly breakdown of his attempt to impersonate an old
lady for the purposes of the Kiss Problem had spoiled his nerve for
anything of the kind in the future.
The disgraceful adventure of Feldane and Hesseltine seemed likely to
be the nearest approach to the problem-setter’s requirements, until
Sir Charles Bunford was called on for his experiences. Sir Charles
claimed to have won.
‘I came to the conclusion,’ said Sir Charles, ‘that the man who asks
for something or tries to sell something is likely to create an
atmosphere of suspicion. On the other hand the man who gives
something, even to a complete stranger, will have his explanatory
story accepted without question. The fact that he stands to lose by
the transaction is accepted as evidence of his genuineness.
‘With this conviction, and with such disguise as I thought advisable,
I called at various houses all in one row in the Willesden
neighbourhood. I was accompanied by a covered handcart, propelled by a
boy hired for the purpose. Inside the handcart were the gifts that I
had prepared for the occupants of the houses. Taking from the handcart
a fruit-cake in a paper bag, I rang at the first house and requested
the dirty little girl who opened it to fetch her dear mamma. Mamma
appeared, wiping her hands on her apron, and looking displeased with
life in general and me in particular.
‘“Good-morning, lady,” I said. “I am instructed by my employers to ask
you if you will do them the favour of accepting as a present this
fruit-cake of their manufacture. They are shortly opening a branch in
this neighbourhood and are taking this method of making ladies
acquainted with the quality of their goods. It is, in fact, an
advertisement.” After assuring herself again that there was nothing to
pay, and that the consumption of the cake would not bind her to deal
with my firm—Messrs Butterstone and Co.—in future, she consented to
accept the cake, and even to say that it seemed a straight way of
doing business. She inquired where the new shop would be, which I told
her, and what the price of a similar cake would be if she ever wanted
to buy one. I put it at half what I had paid for it, and she said it
was a pleasant morning. Never for one moment did she doubt that I was
what I had represented myself to be.
[Illustration: A smiling gentleman, smartly dressed in a white summer
suit with a hat and holding a loaf-sized package wrapped in paper,
talks to a taciturn housewife as she wipes her hands on her apron. A
young girl stands nearby and watches them both. Caption:
‘“Good-morning, lady,” I said. “I am instructed by my employers.”’]
‘At the next house with equal success I presented half a pound of
butter as a sample of the products of the Farm Creameries Company, and
a similar story. The third house got a tablet of scented soap from an
enterprising chemist who was just starting in business in the
neighbourhood. At the next three houses I distributed as free
advertising samples a pound of sausages, a box of cigarettes, and a
small bottle of whisky. It took longer than I had expected, because
the ladies had such a lot of questions to ask about the new shops that
were to be opened, but I finished six minutes under the hour. Of
course, I could have carried all the goods round in a basket, but the
handcart looked more like a house-to-house distribution on a large
scale.’
The decision was not given in his favour until after Quillian had
raised an objection. He maintained that in each case Sir Charles had
been mistaken for the same thing—to wit, the representative or agent
in advance of a business firm. But the chairman’s decision that Sir
Charles had been mistaken for six different representatives of six
different firms was generally approved. And as no other member had a
claim to make the cheque was handed to him.
The chairman then opened the sealed envelope containing the problem on
which their ingenuity was next to be expended. It was entitled ‘The
Alibi Problem,’ and the terms of it were as follows:—
‘It is impossible for a man to be in two places at once. But it is
required so to arrange matters that bona-fide evidence would be
procurable that at a certain hour of a certain day or night you were
in two places at once, the two places to be not less than one hundred
miles from each other.’
‘Not uninteresting,’ said the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe, ‘but it leaves a
good deal to the discretion of the chairman. He will have to decide
which of us could produce the best evidence that the impossible had
been accomplished. By the way, who is the next chairman?’
‘Should have been Harding Pope,’ said Wildersley. ‘But as he’s gone,
it will be the member elected in his place—our old friend Leonard,
Lord Herngill.’
‘My poor abilities are at your service,’ said Lord Herngill, laughing,
‘at London’s lowest prices always.’
No. IX.