Lord Herngill read out the demand made by the editor of _The
Pig-Keepers’ Friend_ on the ingenuity of the members of the Problem
Club. Members were required to produce evidence, that could be given
in good faith, that at a certain hour, day or night, they had been in
two places at once, the two places not being less than one hundred
miles apart.
Lord Herngill said that he felt anxious and depressed. His manner and
appearance, it may be added, hardly bore out the statement. He
assigned his depression to two reasons. Firstly, other chairmen had
had the simple task of adjudicating on a point of fact. He—a new
member, a novice, a mere babe, as you might say—was required to
undertake far more delicate and difficult work, and to base his
decision on an estimate of evidence. Secondly, the secretary for the
evening was Mr Wildersley. On the last occasion that Wildersley had
acted as secretary he had adorned the minute-book with drawings of the
chairman which were undoubtedly amusing and possessed of artistic
merit, but at the same time were calculated to bring that chairman
into ridicule and contempt.
‘So you see, gentlemen,’ Lord Herngill continued, ‘that this is
nervous work for me. However, I will make the plunge. Towards the end
of dinner a telegram was handed to Mr Feldane over which I noticed him
to be chuckling. May I inquire if it had any bearing on the problem
before us?’
‘Well, it had,’ Jimmy admitted. ‘Brainy work to have guessed it. But
I’m not on in this act—I’m resting. The wire really concerns
Hesseltine’s claim.’
‘You two generally hunt in couples. Perhaps Mr Hesseltine will let you
put his case for him.’
‘Anything that pleases you and saves me trouble,’ said Hesseltine
generously. ‘I can always correct Jimmy if he makes an ass of
himself.’
‘Well,’ said Jimmy, ‘we can see for ourselves that Hesseltine is here
to-night. I don’t want to dwell on his misfortunes, but he looks much
as usual. Talks in the same silly way too. But that telegram is his
evidence that he is really in Liverpool. It is signed with his name
and was handed in at a Liverpool office. I’ll read it. “So sorry to be
unable to be with you to-night, but have promised to remain here to
act as judge at local baby-show.” Well, it isn’t for me to say
anything, though I could.’
‘The evidence that Mr Hesseltine is here,’ said the chairman, ‘is
good. The evidence that he is in Liverpool is less good. A telegram is
not necessarily despatched by the man whose name is signed to it.
Further, it seems to me improbable that a young bachelor would have
been selected for the high office which Mr Hesseltine claims to have
fulfilled. I think we shall do better than that. I will ask Mr
Pusely-Smythe how far he has succeeded in being in two places at
once.’
‘It is easier to be in one place at twice,’ said Pusely-Smythe. ‘But I
have done what I could, considering how unversed I am in the arts of
deception.’ The applause which greeted this statement was possibly of
an ironical character. ‘On the morning of Tuesday last,’ Pusely-Smythe
continued, ‘I was at the Rectory, Meldon Bois, where I had been
spending the week-end. The village of Meldon Bois is one hundred and
eight miles from London. It had been my intention to leave Meldon Bois
by the 10.5 a.m. for London. I had been pressed to remain for one more
night, as there was to be a performance of a pastoral play by
distinguished amateurs in the grounds of the Rectory on Tuesday
afternoon, and it would be a pity for me to miss it. I will not
conceal it from you, sir, that the said pastoral play constituted the
principal reason for my departure.
‘You have grasped these facts? Very good. Now, on the morning of
Tuesday, by the first post, I received a letter from my one and only
aunt, who resides in London, to say that as I was coming up to town
that morning she hoped I would lunch with her in Grosvenor Street and
accompany her afterwards to hear a lecture to be given by some eminent
idiot on “The Future of Eugenics.” My aunt is one of the most
strong-minded and wearisome women in existence. I had been reluctant
to witness the amateur performance in the Rectory grounds, and I
contemplated the idea of listening to a lecture on “The Future of
Eugenics” with horror and loathing. That was the situation. I had to
miss two birds with one stone.
‘My first step was to telegraph to my one and only aunt as follows:
“Regret detained here. Am writing.” On the following morning she
received a letter from me which I am able to produce in its envelope.
The letter is in my own handwriting on paper stamped with the Rectory
address. The letter is dated Tuesday evening, and the post-mark on the
envelope shows that it was posted at Meldon Bois on that day. Now that
letter not only states that I had remained so as not to miss the
pastoral amateurs, but also makes several statements as to their
performance, every one of which can be proved to be absolutely
accurate. These statements are that Miss Sykes looked charming in some
pale lilac-coloured contraption, that the comedian over-acted, that
the weather was not entirely favourable, that some of the players
seemed to find a difficulty in making themselves audible, that quite a
nice sum was realised for the Cottage Hospital, and that the Rector in
proposing a vote of thanks to the players said that where all were so
good it would be invidious to differentiate. I have no doubt that on
the strength of that letter and the details it contains, my aunt would
give evidence in good faith that to her knowledge I must have been at
Meldon Bois on Tuesday afternoon. Notwithstanding this, I left Meldon
Bois on Tuesday morning by the train originally contemplated, and on
Tuesday afternoon I was playing bridge at my club in London, as
various members of the club who met me there would attest.’
‘On the face of it,’ said the chairman, ‘it looks like rather a good
case. I presume that you wrote the letter to your aunt before leaving
by train in the morning, and gave it to a servant with instructions to
post it after the performance.’
‘Precisely so.’
‘But how did you manage to give an accurate account of the performance
at which you were really not present?’
‘Well, Miss Sykes was staying at the Rectory and had told me what
dress she would wear. The rest was intelligent anticipation. The glass
was low, and, besides, the weather is always unfavourable for pastoral
plays, and some of the players always fail to make their voices carry
in the open. Given village amateurs, over-acting by the comedian is as
certain as death. To put the receipts as a nice sum was quite safe. It
was riskier to quote the Rector’s actual words, but he’s a kindly and
tactful man with a circumscribed mind, so I thought I might chance it,
and it came off.’
The next few members on whom the chairman called produced nothing of
interest. Some, like Hesseltine, had thought of the bogus telegram.
Some, like Feldane, were resting. Dr Alden had tried an idea of his
own, and expressed the hope that the chairman would think better of it
than he did himself.
Early one morning he had entered a tobacconist’s shop where he was not
known and investigated the man’s stock of cigars. He found it
difficult to make up his mind as to which of three different brands
would suit him best. He took away with him a specimen of each, and
said that he would try them after luncheon and let the tobacconist
know. At three that afternoon Dr Alden’s man called at the
tobacconist’s with a note from the doctor saying that the trial had
been made and naming the brand selected. Five hundred of this brand
were ordered, and a cheque for the exact sum was enclosed in payment.
The tobacconist was to deliver the goods to the bearer of the note, as
the doctor was leaving for the country at four and wished to take some
of the cigars with him. This was done, and probably the tobacconist
would have been willing to swear in consequence that Dr Alden was in
London until four that day. As a matter of fact, the doctor had left
for the North by express shortly after ten that morning.
‘Yes,’ said the chairman, ‘you convinced that tobacconist that you
were in London when you were not, just as Pusely-Smythe convinced his
aunt that he was not in London when he was. In each case it is the
evidence of one person only. Have you done any better, Mr Wildersley?’
‘Better?’ said Wildersley cheerfully. ‘I should rather think I have. I
should have made out the club cheque for the prize to my own order
already but for the fact that I prefer the formal routine. Cast your
chairmaniacal eye over this sketch-book. It is filled with pencil
drawings made from time to time, if not oftener, by the eminent
Wildersley. The last few pages were made at the political meeting at
Glasgow last week. They are dated in my own hand. There are notes as
to the colour also in my hand. They are in my sketch-book. If they are
not proof positive that I was at that meeting, then what are they? All
the same I was in London while that meeting was being held, and can
produce countless witnesses who saw me and spoke to me.’
The chairman looked carefully at the drawings. ‘Not done from
photographs, I suppose?’
‘No, m’lord,’ said Wildersley. ‘All genuine hand-work and done on the
spot.’
Lord Herngill compared them with previous drawings in the book. ‘These
look to me,’ he said, ‘as if they were done by somebody who was trying
to imitate your technique but had not quite got it.’
‘Yes,’ said Wildersley, ‘that finishes us. You have it. The other
artist member and I went into collaboration in this enterprise. Austin
went to Glasgow, and made the sketches in the book with what he was
pleased to call an imitation of the worst of the Wildersleian
mannerisms. I remained in London giving my famous impersonation of
myself. I added the date and manuscript notes afterwards. Still, if
this book fell into the hands of somebody who had not the full use of
his eyes—and very few people have—he might use it as evidence in good
faith that I was at Glasgow at that date.’
‘Undoubtedly. I shall not forget your claim. Meanwhile, is there any
other?’
‘Yes,’ said Sir Charles Bunford placidly, ‘I think my claim to have
established an alibi is stronger than any you have heard yet.
Birmingham is more than a hundred miles from London. A certain butler
in Birmingham would swear that he saw me and spoke to me on a certain
afternoon. A photographer in Birmingham would swear that he
photographed me on that same afternoon, and would be able to produce
the negative. Yet during the whole of that afternoon I was in London,
as the evidence of many of my friends would show. And all the evidence
would be given in good faith.’
‘And how was this miracle accomplished?’ the chairman asked.
‘I’ll tell you the story as briefly as I can. I went to stay for a
fortnight with an old friend of mine, a bachelor named Fraser, who has
a house outside Birmingham. He is a keen ornithologist. He employs in
the preparation of specimens and so on a curious character called
Mitten, who is just as keen on birds as Fraser himself. Fraser only
has Mitten’s spare time. Mitten’s regular work is with a Birmingham
photographer, for whom he does developing and also has charge of the
stock of negatives. Fraser is quite unlike me in the face, except that
we both have the same deficiency of colour in the hair, but we are of
about the same height and build. There is also a slight similarity in
our voices. That was the rough material that I had at my disposal, and
no doubt you can guess how I got my results from it.’
‘You’d better continue,’ said the chairman, smiling.
‘On the day before I left I pointed out to Fraser that a similarity in
mass often prevented a dissimilarity in detail from being noticed, and
that the attitude of expectant attention is a frequent source of
error. Fraser asked me, as I had thought he would, what I meant and
what I was getting at. I replied that by taking advantage of two facts
I had mentioned he could probably get himself mistaken for me. He said
that nobody would make the mistake. I said that Hammond’s butler would
make it on the following afternoon, if he cared to try the experiment.
‘“I’d like to try it, but it’s impossible. That butler has known me
for the last two years, and he has only seen you four or five times in
the afternoon. How could he be taken in?”
‘“He has always seen you in dark and chastened clothing, such as it is
your custom to wear. He has always seen me with a gray bowler, a light
suit, white spats, and a distinctive necktie. He expects to see me
to-morrow afternoon, because I borrowed an umbrella there to-day, and
said I would bring it back then. All you have to do is to wear my
clothes, and hand in that umbrella. He will expect to see me. He will
actually see my clothes on a man of about my figure. The hall at the
Hammonds’ house is rather dark, and you will have the sun behind you.
It’s quite certain the man will be mistaken.”
‘It was tried and happened as I had foretold. The butler addressed
Fraser as Sir Charles.’
‘But how did you manage about the photograph?’
‘That was done by means of a bet. Old Mitten is a great believer in
system, and has his own infallible method for cataloguing photographic
negatives so that a mistake is impossible. I chaffed him about it and
told him that I would cause him to enter two lots of negatives
wrongly. I offered to bet a sovereign on it and he accepted with
avidity. I then settled with Fraser what we would do. Fraser booked an
appointment with the photographer for the morning that I left for
London, and I booked another for myself in the afternoon, the
appointments being made by post. I kept Fraser’s appointment just
before I left for the station, and Fraser kept mine in the afternoon
after he had finished with Hammond’s butler. Mitten found out what had
been done, of course, catalogued the negatives correctly, and has
collected his sovereign. But I understand that he has not informed his
employer, on the ground that the employer dislikes larks. The entries
in the appointment book remain as they were. So that it is on record
that I was photographed in the afternoon, though the photographic
negatives entered under my name are really those taken from me in the
morning.’
‘This,’ said the chairman, ‘is the most elaborate attempt we have had.
Nobody else claims to have been seen in two places at the same time. I
do not say that the evidence is perfect, but then the evidence of an
alibi must always have a hole in it somewhere. Does anybody claim to
have beaten it? Nobody? Then I have no hesitation in deciding in Sir
Charles’s favour, and I congratulate him on the distinction—which, so
far, has been held by Mr Pusely-Smythe alone—of winning the prize on
two successive occasions.’
The next problem was now read out. It was entitled ‘The Threepenny
Problem,’ and ran as follows: ‘It is required to offer a half-crown
for a threepenny bus-fare, and to receive the change wholly in
threepenny bits. No gift or promise of a gift may be made to the
conductor to induce him to give the change in this form.’
‘That’s the easiest we’ve ever had,’ grumbled Major Byles. ‘So, of
course, it’s my turn to be in the chair, and I can’t compete.’
No. X.