John Carr - The Plague Court Murders

"Hullo!" grumbled Major Featherton, rapping on the inside of the door. "I say, Henry! Look here-"

H.M. opened one eye.

"Go 'way!" he rumbled, and made a gesture. Some papers spilled out of his lap to the floor, and he went on querulously: "Go 'way, will you? Can't you see I'm busy? ... Go 'way!"

"You were asleep," said Featherton.

"I wasn't asleep, damn you," -said H.M. "I was cogitatin'. That's the way I cogitate. Ain't there ever goin' to be any peace around here, so a man can fix his mind on the coruscation of the infinite? I ask you!" Laboriously he rolled up his big, wrinkled, impassive face, which rarely changed its expression no matter what his mood was. The corners of his broad, mouth were turned down; he looked as though he were smelling a bad breakfast-egg. He peered at us through the spectacles, a great, stolid lump with his hands folded over his stomach, and went on testily: "Well, well, who is it? Who's there? ... Oh, it's you, Masters? Yes, I've been readin' your reports. Humph. If you'd only let a man alone for a while, I might'a been able to tell you something. Humph. Well, since you're here, I s'pose you might as well come in." He peered, suspiciously. "Who's that with you? I'm busy! BUSY! Get out! If it's that Goncharev business again, tell him to go jump in the Volga. I got all I want now."

Featherton and I both started to explain at once. H.M. grunted, but looked a little less severe.

"Oh, it's you two. Yes, it would be. Come in, then, and find a chair.... I s'pose you ought to have a drink. You know where the stuff is, Ken. Same place. Go get it."

I did know. A few more pictures and trophies were added to the walls, but everything was in its old place. Over the white marble fireplace, where a dull heap of embers glowed was the tall Mephistophelian portrait of Fouche. Incongruously, on either side of it was a smaller picture of the only two writers H.M. would ever admit had ever possessed the least ability: Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. The walls on either side the fireplace were disorderly with crammed bookshelves. Over against one of those stood a large iron safe, on the door of which (H.M. has a very primitive sense of humor) was painted in the same sprawling white letters, "IMPORTANT STATE DOCUMENTS! DO NOT TOUCH! ! !" The same legend was added beneath in German, French, Italian and - I think - Russian. H.M. has a habit of ticketing, according to his fancy, most of the exhibits in this room; Johnny Ireton used to say it was like going through Alice in Wonderland.

The safe door was open, and I took out the whisky-bottle, the siphon, and five rather dusty glasses. While I was doing the proper offices, H.M.'s voice kept on in its same rumbling strain: never raising or lowering, always talking.... But he sounded even more querulous.

"I ain't got any cigars, you know. My nephew Horace - you know, Featherton, Letty's kid; the fourteen-year-old 'un with the feet gave me a box of Henry Clays for my birthday. (Sit down, dammit, can't you? And mind that hole in the 'rug; everybody who comes in here kicks it and makes it bigger). But I haven't smoked 'em. I haven't even tried 'em. Because why?" inquired H.M. He lifted one hand and pointed it at Masters with a sinister expression. "Eh? I'l1 tell you. Because I've got a dark suspicion that they explode, that's why. Anyway, you have to make sure. Fancy: any right kind of nephew givin' his uncle explodin' cigars!-I tell you, they won't take me seriously, they won't... So, d'ye see, I gave the box to the Home Secretary. If I don't hear anything about it by tonight, I'll ask for 'em back. I got some good pipe-tobacco, though ... over there.... "Look here, Henry," interposed the major, who had been wheezing and glaring for some time, "we've come to you about a dashed serious matter,"

"No!" said H.M., holding up his hand. "Not yet! Not for a minute! Drink first."

This was a rite. I brought the glasses, and we went through it, though Featherton was fuming with impatience. Masters remained stolid, holding his glass steadily as though he were afraid it might fall; but there was some new development on his mind. H.M. said, "Honk-honk!" with the utmost solemnity, and drained his glass at a gulp. - He relaxed. He adjusted his feet on the desk, wheezing. He picked up a black pipe. When he settled back in the chair, it was with an air of gentle benevolence wrapping him round. His expression did not change, but at least he looked like a Chinese image after a good dinner.

"Humph. I'm feelin' better.... Yes, I know what you came for. And it's a confounded nuisance. Still-" His small eyes blinked, and moved slowly from one to the other of us. "If you've got the assistant commissioner's permission.... "Here it is, sir," said Masters. "In writing."

"Eh? Oh, yes. Put it down,put. it

down. He'd always got pretty good sense, Follett had," H.M. admitted grudgingly. He grunted. "More than most of your people, anyhow." The small eyes fixed on Masters with that disconcerting stare which the old boy knew best how to employ. "That was why you got me, eh? Because Follett backed you up. Because Follett thought you'd tossed 'em a loose pack of dynamite, and at last you'd got a real upand-at-em Sizzler of a case?"

"I don't mind admitting that," said Masters, "or, as you say, that Sir George thought-"

"Well, he was quite right, son," said H.M., and nodded somberly. "You have."

During a long silence the rain splashed on the windows. I looked at the spot of yellow light made on the desk by H.M.'s goose-neck lamp. Among a litter of typewritten reports, spattered over with tobacco-ash, lay a sheet of foolscap sprawled over with notes in thick blue penciling. H.M. had headed it, "Plague Court." I was fairly certain that, if Masters had furnished him with all the reports, he knew as much as we did.

"Any ideas?" I inquired.

With painful effort H.M. moved his heel on the desk and struck the foolscap sheet. "Plenty of ideas. Only, d'ye see, they don't altogether make sense - just yet. I shall want to hear a lot of talkin' from you three. Humph, yes. What's more, and it's a blasted nuisance, I'm afraid I've got to go and have a look at the house...."

"Well, sir," Masters said briskly, "I can have a car at the door in three minutes, if you'll let me use your phone. We'll be at Plague Court within fifteen minutes...."

"Don't interrupt me, dammit," said H.M. with dignity. "Plague Court? Nonsense! Who said anything about Plague Court? I mean Darworth's house. Think I mean to get out of a comfortable chair to mess about in the other place? Bah. But I'm glad they appreciate me." He spread his spatulate fingers and examined them with the same sour expression. The voice grew querulous again. "Trouble with the English people is, they won't take serious things seriously. And I'm gettin' tired of it, I am. One of these days I'm goin' over to France, where they'll give me the Legion of Honor or something, and shout about me with bated breath. But what do my own flesh-and-blood countrymen do, I ask you?" he demanded. "The minute they learn what department I'm in, they think it's funny. They sneak up to me, and look round mysterious-like, and ask whether I have discovered the identity of the sinister stranger in the pink velours hat, and if I have sent K-14 into Beloochistan disguised as a Veiled Touareg to find out what 2XY is doing about PR2.

"Grr-rr!" said H.M., waving his flippers and glaring. "And what's more, their idea of sending me messages, and bribing Chinamen to call, and the cards that're sent up here... Why, only last week they phoned up from the downstairs office and said an Asiatic gent wanted to see me, and gave his name. I was so bloomin' mad I chewed the phone, and I yelled down and told Carstairs to chuck the feller down all four flights of stairs. And he did. And then it turned, out that the poor feller's name really was Dr. Fu-Manchu after all, and he come from the Chinese Legation. Well, sir, the Chink Ambassador was wild, and we hadda cable an apology to Pekin. And what's more "