paper from his pocket, "I should be grateful if you could favour me
with a South African quadruped in six letters, beginning with Q."
NOTE.--_The solution of the cross-word will be found at the end of
the book._
THE FANTASTIC HORROR OF THE CAT IN THE BAG
The Great North Road wound away like a flat, steel-grey ribbon. Up it,
with the sun and wind behind them, two black specks moved swiftly.
To the yokel in charge of the hay-wagon they were only two of "they
dratted motor-cyclists," as they barked and zoomed past him in rapid
succession. A little farther on, a family man, driving delicately with
a two-seater side-car, grinned as the sharp rattle of the o.h.v. Norton
was succeeded by the feline shriek of an angry Scott Flying-Squirrel.
He, too, in bachelor days, had taken a side in that perennial feud.
He sighed regretfully as he watched the racing machines dwindle away
northwards.
At that abominable and unexpected S-bend across the bridge above
Hatfield, the Norton man, in the pride of his heart, turned to wave a
defiant hand at his pursuer. In that second, the enormous bulk of a
loaded charabanc loomed down upon him from the bridgehead. He wrenched
himself away from it in a fierce wobble, and the Scott, cornering
melodramatically, with left and right foot-rests alternately skimming
the tarmac, gained a few triumphant yards. The Norton leapt forward
with wide-open throttle. A party of children, seized with sudden panic,
rushed helter-skelter across the road. The Scott lurched through them
in drunken swerves. The road was clear, and the chase settled down once
more.
It is not known why motorists, who sing the joys of the open road,
spend so much petrol every week-end grinding their way to Southend and
Brighton and Margate, in the stench of each other's exhausts, one hand
on the horn and one foot on the brake, their eyes starting from their
orbits in the nerve-racking search for cops, corners, blind turnings,
and cross-road suicides. They ride in a baffled fury, hating each
other. They arrive with shattered nerves and fight for parking places.
They return, blinded by the headlights of fresh arrivals, whom they
hate even worse than they hate each other. And all the time the Great
North Road winds away like a long, flat, steel-grey ribbon--a surface
like a race-track, without traps, without hedges, without side-roads,
and without traffic. True, it leads to nowhere in particular; but,
after all, one pub is very much like another.
The tarmac reeled away, mile after mile. The sharp turn to the
right at Baldock, the involute intricacies of Biggleswade, with its
multiplication of sign-posts, gave temporary check, but brought the
pursuer no nearer. Through Tempsford at full speed, with bellowing horn
and exhaust, then, screaming like a hurricane past the R.A.C. post
where the road forks in from Bedford. The Norton rider again glanced
back; the Scott rider again sounded his horn ferociously. Flat as a
chessboard, dyke and field revolved about the horizon.
The constable at Eaton Socon was by no means an anti-motor fiend. In
fact, he had just alighted from his push-bike to pass the time of day
with the A.A. man on point duty at the cross-roads. But he was just
and God-fearing. The sight of two maniacs careering at seventy miles
an hour into his protectorate was more than he could be expected to
countenance--the more, that the local magistrate happened to be passing
at that very moment in a pony-trap. He advanced to the middle of the
road, spreading his arms in a majestic manner. The Norton rider looked,
saw the road beyond complicated by the pony-trap and a traction-engine,
and resigned himself to the inevitable. He flung the throttle-lever
back, stamped on his squealing brakes, and skidded to a standstill.
The Scott, having had notice, came up mincingly, with a voice like a
pleased kitten.
"Now, then," said the constable, in a tone of reproof, "ain't you got
no more sense than to come drivin' into the town at a 'undred mile
an hour. This ain't Brooklands, you know. I never see anything like
it. 'Ave to take your names and numbers, if _you_ please. You'll bear
witness, Mr. Nadgett, as they was doin' over eighty."
The A.A. man, after a swift glance over the two sets of handle-bars to
assure himself that the black sheep were not of his flock, said, with
an air of impartial accuracy, "About sixty-six and a half, I should
say, if you was to ask me in court."
"Look here, you blighter," said the Scott man indignantly to the Norton
man, "why the hell couldn't you stop when you heard me hoot? I've been
chasing you with your beastly bag nearly thirty miles. Why can't you
look after your own rotten luggage?"
He indicated a small, stout bag, tied with string to his own carrier.
"That?" said the Norton man, with scorn. "What do you mean? It's not
mine. Never saw it in my life."
This bare-faced denial threatened to render the Scott rider speechless.
"Of all the----" he gasped. "Why, you crimson idiot, I saw it fall off,
just the other side of Hatfield. I yelled and blew like fury. I suppose
that overhead gear of yours makes so much noise you can't hear anything
else. I take the trouble to pick the thing up, and go after you, and
all you do is to race off like a lunatic and run me into a cop. Fat lot
of thanks one gets for trying to be decent to fools on the road."
"That ain't neither here nor there," said the policeman. "Your licence,
please, sir."
"Here you are," said the Scott man, ferociously flapping out his
pocket-book. "My name's Walters, and it's the last time I'll try to do
anybody a good turn, you can lay your shirt."
"Walters," said the constable, entering the particulars laboriously in
his notebook, "and Simpkins. You'll 'ave your summonses in doo course.
It'll be for about a week 'ence, on Monday or thereabouts, I shouldn't
wonder."
"Another forty bob gone west," growled Mr. Simpkins, toying with his
throttle. "Oh, well, can't be helped, I suppose."
"Forty bob?" snorted the constable. "What do _you_ think? Furious
driving to the common danger, that's wot it is. You'll be lucky to get
off with five quid apiece."
"Oh, blast!" said the other, stamping furiously on the kick-starter.
The engine roared into life, but Mr. Walters dexterously swung his
machine across the Norton's path.
"Oh, no, you don't," he said viciously. "You jolly well take your
bleeding bag, and no nonsense. I tell you, I _saw_ it fall off."
"Now, no language," began the constable, when he suddenly became aware
that the A.A. man was staring in a very odd manner at the bag and
making signs to him.
"'Ullo," he demanded, "wot's the matter with the--bleedin' bag, did you
say? 'Ere, I'd like to 'ave a look at that 'ere bag, sir, if you don't
mind."
"It's nothing to do with me," said Mr. Walters, handing it over. "I
saw it fall off and----" His voice died away in his throat, and his
eyes became fixed upon one corner of the bag, where something damp and
horrible was seeping darkly through.
"Did you notice this 'ere corner when you picked it up?" asked the
constable. He prodded it gingerly and looked at his fingers.
"I don't know--no--not particularly," stammered Walters. "I didn't
notice anything. I--I expect it burst when it hit the road."
The constable probed the split seam in silence, and then turned
hurriedly round to wave away a couple of young women who had stopped
to stare. The A.A. man peered curiously, and then started back with a
sensation of sickness.
"Ow, Gawd!" he gasped. "It's curly--it's a woman's."
"It's not me," screamed Simpkins. "I swear to heaven it's not mine.
This man's trying to put it across me."
"Me?" gasped Walters. "Me? Why, you filthy, murdering brute, I tell you
I saw it fall off your carrier. No wonder you blinded off when you saw
me coming. Arrest him, constable. Take him away to prison----"
"Hullo, officer!" said a voice behind them. "What's all the excitement?
You haven't seen a motor-cyclist go by with a little bag on his
carrier, I suppose?"
A big open car with an unnaturally long bonnet had slipped up to them,
silent as an owl. The whole agitated party with one accord turned upon
the driver.
"Would this be it, sir?"
The motorist pushed off his goggles, disclosing a long, narrow nose and
a pair of rather cynical-looking grey eyes.
"It looks rather----" he began; and then, catching sight of the horrid
relic protruding from one corner, "In God's name," he enquired, "what's
that?"
"That's what we'd like to know, sir," said the constable grimly.
"H'm," said the motorist, "I seem to have chosen an uncommonly suitable
moment for enquirin' after my bag. Tactless. To say now that it is not
my bag is simple, though in no way convincing. As a matter of fact, it
is not mine, and I may say that, if it had been, I should not have been
at any pains to pursue it."
The constable scratched his head.
"Both these gentlemen----" he began.
The two cyclists burst into simultaneous and heated disclaimers. By
this time a small crowd had collected, which the A.A. scout helpfully
tried to shoo away.
"You'll all 'ave to come with me to the station," said the harassed
constable. "Can't stand 'ere 'oldin' up the traffic. No tricks, now.
You wheel them bikes, and I'll come in the car with you, sir."
"But supposing I was to let her rip and kidnap you," said the motorist,
with a grin. "Where'd you be? Here," he added, turning to the A.A. man,
"can you handle this outfit?"
"You bet," said the scout, his eye running lovingly over the long sweep
of the exhaust and the rakish lines of the car.
"Right. Hop in. Now, officer, you can toddle along with the other
suspects and keep an eye on them. Wonderful head I've got for detail.
By the way, that foot-brake's on the fierce side. Don't bully it, or
you'll surprise yourself."
The lock of the bag was forced at the police-station in the midst of
an excitement unparalleled in the calm annals of Eaton Socon, and the
dreadful contents laid reverently upon a table. Beyond a quantity of
cheese-cloth in which they had been wrapped, there was nothing to
supply any clue to the mystery.
"Now," said the superintendent, "what do you gentlemen know about this?"
"Nothing whatever," said Mr. Simpkins, with a ghastly countenance,
"except that this man tried to palm it off on me."
"I saw it fall off this man's carrier just the other side of Hatfield,"
repeated Mr. Walters firmly, "and I rode after him for thirty miles
trying to stop him. That's all I know about it, and I wish to God I'd
never touched the beastly thing."
"Nor do I know anything about it personally," said the car-owner, "but
I fancy I know what it is."
"What's that?" asked the superintendent sharply.
"I rather imagine it's the head of the Finsbury Park murder--though,
mind you, that's only a guess."
"That's just what I've been thinking myself," agreed the
superintendent, glancing at a daily paper which lay on his desk, its
headlines lurid with the details of that very horrid crime, "and,
if so, you are to be congratulated, constable, on a very important
capture."
"Thank you, sir," said the gratified officer, saluting.
"Now I'd better take all your statements," said the superintendent.
"No, no; I'll hear the constable first. Yes, Briggs?"
The constable, the A.A. man, and the two motor-cyclists having given
their versions of the story, the superintendent turned to the motorist.
"And what have you got to say about it?" he enquired. "First of all,
your name and address."
The other produced a card, which the superintendent copied out and
returned to him respectfully.
"A bag of mine, containing some valuable jewellery, was stolen from
my car yesterday, in Piccadilly," began the motorist. "It is very
much like this, but has a cipher lock. I made enquiries through
Scotland Yard, and was informed to-day that a bag of precisely similar
appearance had been cloak-roomed yesterday afternoon at Paddington,
main line. I hurried round there, and was told by the clerk that just
before the police warning came through the bag had been claimed by
a man in motor-cycling kit. A porter said he saw the man leave the
station, and a loiterer observed him riding off on a motor-bicycle.
That was about an hour before. It seemed pretty hopeless, as, of
course, nobody had noticed even the make of the bike, let alone the
number. Fortunately, however, there was a smart little girl. The smart
little girl had been dawdling round outside the station, and had heard
a motor-cyclist ask a taxi-driver the quickest route to Finchley. I
left the police hunting for the taxi-driver, and started off, and in
Finchley I found an intelligent boy-scout. He had seen a motor-cyclist
with a bag on the carrier, and had waved and shouted to him that the
strap was loose. The cyclist had got off and tightened the strap, and
gone straight on up the road towards Chipping Barnet. The boy hadn't
been near enough to identify the machine--the only thing he knew for
certain was that it wasn't a Douglas, his brother having one of that
sort. At Barnet I got an odd little story of a man in a motor-coat who
had staggered into a pub with a ghastly white face and drunk two double
brandies and gone out and ridden off furiously. Number?--of course not.
The barmaid told me. _She_ didn't notice the number. After that it was
a tale of furious driving all along the road. After Hatfield, I got the
story of a road-race. And here we are."
"It seems to me, my lord," said the superintendent, "that the furious
driving can't have been all on one side."
"I admit it," said the other, "though I do plead in extenuation that I
spared the women and children and hit up the miles in the wide, open
spaces. The point at the moment is----"
"Well, my lord," said the superintendent, "I've got your story, and,
if it's all right, it can be verified by enquiry at Paddington and
Finchley and so on. Now, as for these two gentlemen----"
"It's perfectly obvious," broke in Mr. Walters, "the bag dropped off
this man's carrier, and, when he saw me coming after him with it, he
thought it was a good opportunity to saddle me with the cursed thing.
Nothing could be clearer."
"It's a lie," said Mr. Simpkins. "Here's this fellow has got hold of
the bag--I don't say how, but I can guess--and he has the bright idea
of shoving the blame on me. It's easy enough to _say_ a thing's fallen
off a man's carrier. Where's the proof? Where's the strap? If his
story's true, you'd find the broken strap on my 'bus. The bag _was_ on
_his_ machine--tied on, tight."
"Yes, with string," retorted the other. "If I'd gone and murdered
someone and run off with their head, do you think I'd be such an ass as
to tie it on with a bit of twopenny twine? The strap's worked loose and
fallen off on the road somewhere; that's what's happened to that."
"Well, look here," said the man addressed as "my lord," "I've got an
idea for what it's worth. Suppose, superintendent, you turn out as many
of your men as you think adequate to keep an eye on three desperate
criminals, and we all tool down to Hatfield together. I can take two in
my 'bus at a pinch, and no doubt you have a police car. If this thing
_did_ fall off the carrier, somebody beside Mr. Walters may have seen
it fall."
"They didn't," said Mr. Simpkins.
"There wasn't a soul," said Mr. Walters, "but how do _you_ know there
wasn't, eh? I thought you didn't know anything about it."
"I mean, it didn't fall off, so nobody _could_ have seen it," gasped
the other.
"Well, my lord," said the superintendent, "I'm inclined to accept your
suggestion, as it gives us a chance of enquiring into your story at
the same time. Mind you, I'm not saying I doubt it, you being who you
are. I've read about some of your detective work, my lord, and very
smart I considered it. But, still, it wouldn't be my duty not to get
corroborative evidence if possible."
"Good egg! Quite right," said his lordship. "Forward the light brigade.
We can do it easily in--that is to say, at the legal rate of progress
it needn't take us much over an hour and a half."
* * * * *
About three-quarters of an hour later, the racing car and the police
car loped quietly side by side into Hatfield. Henceforward, the
four-seater, in which Walters and Simpkins sat glaring at each other,
took the lead, and presently Walters waved his hand and both cars came
to a stop.
"It was just about here, as near as I can remember, that it fell off,"
he said. "Of course, there's no trace of it now."
"You're quite sure as there wasn't a strap fell off with it?" suggested
the superintendent, "because, you see, there must 'a' been something
holding it on."
"Of course there wasn't a strap," said Simpkins, white with passion.
"You haven't any business to ask him leading questions like that."
"Wait a minute," said Walters slowly. "No, there was no strap. But I've
got a sort of a recollection of seeing something on the road about a
quarter of a mile farther up."
"It's a lie!" screamed Simpkins. "He's inventing it."
"Just about where we passed that man with the side-car a minute or two
ago," said his lordship. "I told you we ought to have stopped and asked
if we could help him, superintendent. Courtesy of the road, you know,
and all that."
"He couldn't have told us anything," said the superintendent. "He'd
probably only just stopped."
"I'm not so sure," said the other. "Didn't you notice what he was
doing? Oh, dear, dear, where were your eyes? Hullo! here he comes."
He sprang out into the road and waved to the rider, who, seeing four
policemen, thought it better to pull up.
"Excuse me," said his lordship. "Thought we'd just like to stop you and
ask if you were all right, and all that sort of thing, you know. Wanted
to stop in passing, throttle jammed open, couldn't shut the confounded
thing. Little trouble, what?"
"Oh, yes, perfectly all right, thanks, except that I would be glad if
you could spare a gallon of petrol. Tank came adrift. Beastly nuisance.
Had a bit of a struggle. Happily, Providence placed a broken strap in
my way and I've fixed it. Split a bit, though, where that bolt came
off. Lucky not to have an explosion, but there's a special cherub for
motor-cyclists."
"Strap, eh?" said the superintendent. "Afraid I'll have to trouble you
to let me have a look at that."
"What?" said the other. "And just as I've got the damned thing fixed?
What the----? All right, dear, all right"--to his passenger. "Is it
something serious, officer?"
"Afraid so, sir. Sorry to trouble you."
"Hi!" yelled one of the policemen, neatly fielding Mr. Simpkins as he
was taking a dive over the back of the car. "No use doin' that. You're
for it, my lad."
"No doubt about it," said the superintendent triumphantly, snatching at
the strap which the side-car rider held out to him. "Here's his name on
it, 'J. SIMPKINS,' written on in ink as large as life. Very
much obliged to _you_, sir, I'm sure. You've helped us effect a very
important capture."
"No! _Who_ is it?" cried the girl in the side-car. "How frightfully
thrilling! Is it a murder?"
"Look in your paper to-morrow, miss," said the superintendent, "and you
may see something. Here, Briggs, better put the handcuffs on him."
"And how about my tank?" said the man mournfully. "It's all right for
you to be excited, Babs, but you'll have to get out and help push."
"Oh, no," said his lordship. "Here's a strap. A _much_ nicer strap. A
really superior strap. And petrol. _And_ a pocket-flask. Everything a
young man ought to know. And, when you're in town, mind you both look
me up. Lord Peter Wimsey, 110A Piccadilly. Delighted to see
you any time. Chin, chin!"
"Cheerio!" said the other, wiping his lips and much mollified. "Only
too charmed to be of use. Remember it in my favour, officer, next time
you catch me speeding."
"Very fortunate we spotted him," said the superintendent complacently,
as they continued their way into Hatfield. "Quite providential, as you
might say."
* * * * *
"I'll come across with it," said the wretched Simpkins, sitting
hand-cuffed in the Hatfield police-station. "I swear to God I know
nothing whatever about it--about the murder, I mean. There's a man
I know who has a jewellery business in Birmingham. I don't know him
very well. In fact, I only met him at Southend last Easter, and we got
pally. His name's Owen--Thomas Owen. He wrote me yesterday and said
he'd accidentally left a bag in the cloakroom at Paddington and asked
if I'd take it out--he enclosed the ticket--and bring it up next time
I came that way. I'm in transport service, you see--you've got my
card--and I'm always up and down the country. As it happened, I was
just going up in that direction with this Norton, so I fetched the
thing out at lunch-time and started off with it. I didn't notice the
date on the cloakroom ticket. I know there wasn't anything to pay on
it, so it can't have been there long. Well, it all went just as you
said up to Finchley, and there that boy told me my strap was loose and
I went to tighten it up. And then I noticed that the corner of the
bag was split, and it was damp--and--well, I saw what you saw. That
sort of turned me over, and I lost my head. The only thing I could
think of was to get rid of it, quick. I remembered there were a lot of
lonely stretches on the Great North Road, so I cut the strap nearly
through--that was when I stopped for that drink at Barnet--and then,
when I thought there wasn't anybody in sight, I just reached back and
gave it a tug, and it went--strap and all; I hadn't put it through the
slots. It fell off, just like a great weight dropping off my mind. I
suppose Walters must just have come round into sight as it fell. I
had to slow down a mile or two farther on for some sheep going into a
field, and then I heard him hooting at me--and--oh, my God!"
He groaned, and buried his head in his hands.
"I see," said the Eaton Socon superintendent. "Well, that's your
statement. Now, about this Thomas Owen----"
"Oh," cried Lord Peter Wimsey, "never mind Thomas Owen. He's not the
man you want. You can't suppose that a bloke who'd committed a murder
would want a fellow tailin' after him to Birmingham with the head. It
stands to reason that was intended to stay in Paddington cloakroom till
the ingenious perpetrator had skipped, or till it was unrecognisable,
or both. Which, by the way, is where we'll find those family heirlooms
of mine, which your engaging friend Mr. Owen lifted out of my car. Now,
Mr. Simpkins, just pull yourself together and tell us who was standing
next to you at the cloakroom when you took out that bag. Try hard to
remember, because this jolly little island is no place for him, and
he'll be taking the next boat while we stand talking."
"I can't remember," moaned Simpkins. "I didn't notice. My head's all in
a whirl."
"Never mind. Go back. Think quietly. Make a picture of yourself getting
off your machine--leaning it up against something----"
"No, I put it on the stand."
"Good! That's the way. Now, think--you're taking the cloakroom ticket
out of your pocket and going up--trying to attract the man's attention."
"I couldn't at first. There was an old lady trying to cloakroom a
canary, and a very bustling man in a hurry with some golf-clubs. He
was quite rude to a quiet little man with a--by Jove! yes, a hand-bag
like that one. Yes, that's it. The timid man had had it on the counter
quite a long time, and the big man pushed him aside. I don't know what
happened, quite, because mine was handed out to me just then. The big
man pushed his luggage in front of both of us and I had to reach over
it--and I suppose--yes, I must have taken the wrong one. Good God! Do
you mean to say that that timid little insignificant-looking man was a
murderer?"
"Lots of 'em like that," put in the Hatfield superintendent. "But what
was he like--come!"
"He was only about five foot five, and he wore a soft hat and
a long, dust-coloured coat. He was very ordinary, with rather
weak, prominent eyes, I think, but I'm not sure I should know him
again. Oh, wait a minute! I do remember one thing. He had an odd
scar--crescent-shaped--under his left eye."