John Carr - The Plague Court Murders

"So I asked myself, `Here! First, how was he goin' to do it; and, second, was he goin' to do it alone?'

"I read your report. It said how you were outside yourself, and how you'd come round the side of the house a few minutes before you heard the bell. And you heard funny noises from the house. You said you heard his voice,

`as though he were beggin' or implorin' somebody, and as though he'd started to moan or cry.' Man, that don't sound like a violent attack. No sounds of a fight, mind you, though he was cut up with rather tolerable thoroughness. No yells or blows or curses, such as any ordinary person would make. It was pain, Masters. Pain! And he was simply standing there takin' it. . “

Masters ran his hand savagely through his hair. But he spoke in a low voice. "Do you mean, sir, that he deliberately allowed himself to be mutilated----“

"We'll come to the mutilation in a minute. Now, that. might or might not argue the, presence of a confederate. But it looked a good deal like it. Because what good were mere wounds in his locked-room scheme unless they were in a place where he couldn't have inflicted 'em himself?"

"Go on."

"Then I read all about that room, and I kept askin' questions. First, why was there so infernally much blood about? There was too much blood, Masters. Darworth might have been, one of your Messianic neurotics; might 'a' been willing to undergo more than usual jabs to make this piece of trickery ring in the world - to snare the Latimer girl - to feed his ego-I dunno what. Mind you, he was wealthy himself; it was partly the incense-drunk prophet, not able to resist the sound of his own voice, who let himself. . . . But I repeat, son, there was too much blood."

H.M. lifted his head. He spoke for the first time with a curious smile on his ponderous face; his little eyes fixed Masters. You felt the power of the man, growing steadily...

"And then I remembered two things," he said softly. 'I remembered that in the fire, where they had no business to be, were the smashed fragments of a big glass bottle. And in the big house, under the stairs, lay the body of a cat with its throat cut."

Masters whistled. The major, who had started to get up, sat down again.

"Humph," said H.M. "Humph, yes. I phoned through to your analyst, Masters.. I shall be a good deal surprised if most of that blood didn't come from a cat. It was part of the spectacular element. And you'll see now why there was so infernally much blood - without any marks or imprints in it, as there'd bound to be if the murderer had really chased round after Darworth cutting at him.

"And I also kept askin' myself, `Was that why there was such a very hot fire?' Darworth could have carried the blood under his coat in a flattish bottle, and it wouldn't be long till he could splash it round artistically on himself and on the floor: making a very effective picture. But it had to be kept warm in the meantime, so it wouldn't coagulate. Maybe it was the reason for the very hot fire, or maybe not.

"Anyway, thinkin' about that mess, I said to myself, 'Look here,' I said, `the man's clothes were torn scandalous, he was saturated with blood, and he'd accidentally smashed his glasses in his eyes when he tumbled over on the floor. But disregard the splendor and vividness of the stage-setting,' I said-"

"Hold on a bit, H.M.!" I interrupted. "You say Darworth killed the cat?"

"Uh," snorted H.M., glowering round near-sightedly to see who had made the interruption. "Oh, it's you, is it? Yes, that's what I said."

"When did he do it?"

"Why, when he'd sent young Latimer and poor old Featherton here out to set his house in order; they took enough time about it. He was only resting, d'ye see. Now shut up and –“

"But wouldn't he get blood on him?"

"Sure he would, Ken. A bloomin' good thing, too. He intended to splash himself later on, d'ye see, and the more evidence the better. Simply put on his overcoat and gloves to conceal it then (you'll notice he didn't go back in the front room where anybody could see him in a decent light, or examine him; oh, no. He rushed out and had 'em lock him in that house awful abrupt. Remember? That blood hadda be kept fresh). What was I saying ?"

H.M. paused, his little eyes fixed. He said, slowly, "Oh my-God," and put his fists down on the desk.

"I say, you chaps stimulate me, you do. I just thought of somethin'. Oh, this is bad. Very bad. Never mind. Let me go on. Where was I?"

"Keep to the point," rasped the major, knocking his stick on the floor. "This is all damned nonsense, but go on. You were talking about Darworth's wounds-?"

"So I was. Yes. Humph. 'Well,' I said to myself, 'disregard the stage-setting.' Everybody talked a lot about how terribly slashed up he was, after a good look at all the blood and slit clothes. But, leavin' out the good straight stab that killed him, just how serious were his injuries? Eh?

"Y'see, the point about that dagger is that it ain't a slashing weapon in the least. You can't cut with a straight-bladed awl, no matter how sharp it is. Old Darworth had to use it, to keep up the Louis Playge illusion. But what happened to him, actually? ... I sent over for the full post-mortem report, I did.

"There were three very superficial wounds in his left arm, thigh, and leg: the sort of thing a nervous person might do to himself, and get scared and not dig more than half an inch in. I think maybe Darworth screwed up his courage and did that himself; then got frightened and wanted to back out of his confederate sticking him from behind. That might account for some of his moanings. The exaltation must 'a' been wearing a bit thin by that time.

"Nervous strain. It couldn't have hurt him much. But the confederate had to give him wounds he couldn't have made himself. Thus: one cut high in the flesh over the shoulder blade. One that stabbed sideways, straight across his back and very shallow. And that was all the confederate WAS supposed to do to him..:."

H.M.'s desk-telephone rang stridently, and I think we all started. He cursed and shook his fist at it, talking to it for some time before he took down the receiver. Then he immediately said he was busy, protesting querulously about the fate of the British empire depending on it, and was interrupted by a strident voice. The voice went on speaking. A dour expression of satisfaction overspread H.M.'s face. Once he said, "Ehocaine Hydrochloride!" as though he were gloating over a delicacy.

"That settles it, lads," he said, replacing the receiver. His eye twinkled. "Doc Blaine on the wire. I might have guessed it. A section of Darworth's back was shot full of ehocaine hydrochloride; you know it as novacaine, if you've ever had a dentist sittin' on your chest.... Poor old Darworth! Couldn't stick the pain even in a good cause. Damn fool. He might 'a' stopped his heart. Somebody did stop it though. It's interesting to think of that suave, unctuous blighter knowing what he had to do to win everything he wanted, but scared green when the time came for the operation. Ha. Ha-ha-ha. Give me a match."

"The confederate," said Masters, who had been writing busily, "was supposed to give him those light stabs.... '

"Yes. And didn't. He cut loose suddenly with two deep ones, before Darworth knew what was happening. He stabbed through the back close to the spine, and then under the shoulder-blade-"

H.M. brought down a big flipper out of the air. There was something ghoulish, rather inhuman, about the expression of his face. His eyes seemed to know exactly what you were thinking, and I looked away from them.

"This is all very well, sir," Masters began doggedly, "but it doesn't get us anywhere! You've still got to explain the locked-room. If it was a confederate, I can understand how Darworth might have drawn the bolt and raised the bar and let him in, but "