Situation Tragedy

The second chapter assembled a house party of suspects at Wainscott Hall, in the time-honoured style of its genre. One of them, a foreign gentleman called Mr Akbar, did not endear himself to the rest of the guests. .

The presence of this last personage was an unaccountable mystery. Neither his appearance nor his manners qualified him as a likely social acquaintance of Lord Wainscott, and yet the peer seemed ready, nay, eager, to welcome the foreigner into that proverbial castle of the Englishman, his home. Mr Akbar did not commend himself to the Ratcliffes by appearing at dinner in a silken cummerbund of the hue favoured by Romish cardinals and diamond studs of such ostentatious size that they might have looked less out of place amongst the regalia of a Babylonian Coronation! And Maltravers Ratcliffe, in front of whom the newcomer pushed as they proceeded to dinner, was not a little shocked to feel his nostrils assailed by a distinct whiff of perfume!

All that the book needed now, apart from a plan of the ground floor of Wainscott Hall (which soon appeared duly printed in the text), was a crime. After dinner Maltravers and Eithne Ratcliffe repaired to the billiard room. .

‘You know, my love, there’s something deuced rummy going on here,’ mused Maltravers as he chalked his cue. ‘Deuced rummy. Something that makes my flesh creep. Do you feel it too?’

His wife answered in the affirmative.

‘It’s something to do with that gigolo, Akbar. I’ve a feeling he’s out to spoke somebody’s wheel. And what’s more. . I’ve a feeling I’ve seen the bounder somewhere before.’

At that moment Maltravers Ratcliffe froze, his face suffused by a ghastly pallor, his eyes transfixed by some object on the floor.

‘Oh no, ‘he breathed. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no!’

He moved forward and picked up a monocle, whose silver setting was curiously wrought in the shape of a coiled snake. ‘See, he has left his visiting card.’

‘Are you sure?’ murmured Eithne, unwilling to accept the sheer ugliness of the truth.

‘Sure, ‘her husband confirmed with unearthly calmness. ‘Yes, it’s von Strutter!’

Eithne Ratcliffe gasped. Their arch-enemy! Here, at Wainscott Hall!

‘What’s behind there?’ Maltravers demanded, pointing to a door in front of which the monocle had lain.

‘That’s where Lord Wainscott keeps his collection.’

‘Quick!’

He tried the door. It was locked, and there was no sign of a key. Fortunately he always carried a set of pick-locks, fashioned for him by the versatile Podd, and to open the door was a matter of moments.

One look inside sufficed to tell him all!

‘Don’t look, my love, don’t look!’ he commanded Eithne as he entered the room.

The walls were hung with many splendours of the Orient, but he had eyes for none of these. All he saw was the ghastly spectacle staining the fine Turkey carpet in the middle of the room.

It was the offensive Mr Akbar, destined never more to give offence! He lay face down on the floor. Upright from the back of his coat rose the bloody blade of a Japanese samurai sword!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The effects of four pints of Guinness vanished. Charles’s mind was working very clearly. And fast.

It was incongruous, and yet it might be true. Could the pattern to this apparently meaningless sequence of deaths lie in a series of forgotten detective stories?

There were too many coincidences for him to dismiss the idea with his customary cynicism. The old still from the never-completed film of Death Takes A Short Cut told him that Barton Rivers and Aurelia Howarth had once been cast as Maltravers and Eithne Ratcliffe, and the old man’s bizarre dress and style of speech suggested that in some mad way he was still playing the part. It made sense of the white flannels and all the inconsequential cricketing jargon, as well as Barton’s permanent air of demented gallantry.

But the greatest coincidence was in the name, von Strutter. There had to be some connection there. If somewhere in the fogs of Barton Rivers mind, he was convinced he had an arch-enemy called von Strutter, he might well seek revenge on a television series which was called The Strutters. It was lunatic logic, but it was the only form of logic Charles had so far been able to impose on the random accidents.

The most chilling thing he had read, though, was R. Q. Wilberforce’s choice of murder weapon. The coincidence of a samurai sword in the book and in the script of the next day’s Strutters episode seemed to offer too much temptation to Barton Rivers’ insane motivation. The accident with the sword must be averted.

But Charles needed more information. All he had so far was an idea, a new theory into which some of the known facts fitted. Many more would have to fall into place before he could dignify the theory with the title of a solution.

That meant finding out a lot more about the books of R. Q. Wilberforce. He went to the payphone on the landing.

‘Hello. Gregory Watts.’

‘This is Charles Paris.’

‘Oh, good afternoon. Did you get the book all right?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘What else can I do for you?’

‘I seem to remember when we spoke, you said Wilberforce was still alive.’

‘Was last year, certainly.’

‘Look, I need to contact him very urgently. Have you got a phone number for him?’

‘No, I’ve got an address. Incidentally, when I wrote to him, I wrote to R. Q. Wilberforce, but his reply was very firmly signed in his real name, so perhaps you should use that.’

‘You mean R. Q. Wilberforce is a pseudonym?’

‘Certainly.’ Watts laughed. ‘I can’t imagine too many people are actually called R. Q. Wilberforce.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Oh yes. Mind you, his real name is pretty odd, too.’

‘Oh. What is it?’

‘Barton Rivers.’ There was a long silence. ‘Are you still there, Mr Paris?’

‘Yes, I. . yes. Good God.’

‘Shall I give you his address?’

‘Yes. . no. I mean, no, I don’t need it now.’

‘Oh, but I thought. .’

‘No, what I do need are copies of his books. All of them. And fast.’

‘I told you, that’s the only one I’ve got — or rather had. They’re pretty rare.’

‘But they must exist somewhere. Don’t you know of any libraries or. . ’

‘I suppose they might be around in a library, but you could spend weeks looking.’

‘I’ve got to find them. It’s really important.’

‘Hmm. . Well, the only thing I can suggest — I don’t know if any of them would have any — but there are one or two collectors who specialise in detective fiction. You could ask.’

‘Anything’s worth trying.’

Gregory Watts gave him three names and phone numbers.

Stanley Harvey’s cottage in Hampstead was, like his speech, precise to the point of being precious. On the telephone he had admitted with pride to being the possessor of an almost complete set of R. Q. Wilberforce, but he had been unwilling to have them inspected that evening. Charles had to use all his powers of persuasion and even