Part 4

‘You’re both too clever to live,’ observed the chairman, ‘but you’ve cancelled one another for once. Mr Harding Pope, as a politician, you should be familiar with the paths of dishonesty. How did you get on?’

The Member of Parliament gave a somewhat sickly smile.

‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that I have not competed. I represent a Dissenting constituency, which is careful—almost to the point of being inquisitorial—as to my character and private life. Had I competed, it is easily possible that I might have been arrested. I could have explained, but all explanations come too late. It would have done me great injury. In the circumstances I have decided to resign my membership of this club, and my resignation will be in the chairman’s hands at the next meeting. I have enjoyed these meetings immensely, but I have been—and am likely to be—too often debarred from taking an active part in the competition as a member should. The delightful but unscrupulous Leonard asks too much of me. Should I ever find myself in a position of greater freedom and less responsibility, I shall certainly crave the honour of re-election.’

‘Sorry,’ said the chairman. ‘I’m sure we all are. But the rules of the club do require that members shall be workers and not merely onlookers. If ever the political cat jumps the other way, and you’re thrown out of Westminster into the cold, cold night, I make no doubt that at the first vacancy we shall welcome the lost sheep back to the nest. I will now call upon Major Byles.’

The Major lived in the country. There were unusually good golf links in the neighbourhood, and he was both a good player and a good host. He had used his opportunities as he explained.

‘I worked on a system. I waited till my man was absolutely wrapped up in the game, meanwhile locating his handkerchief carefully. Then, at the moment when he was following the ball with the eye, I put in some swift finger-work. It was not always successful. The Doctor, for instance, bowled me out twice—he’s got eyes in the back of his head. But I got six handkerchiefs that way, and a seventh from a rain-coat that had been left in my hall. I’ve good reason to know that I’m not a winner, but it’s not bad—eh?’

‘A good sporting game,’ said the chairman. ‘These thefts from the person ought really to count more than easy overcoat-shots. They want more dexterity. The others only require brain-work. Still, I have to administer the law as Leonard lays it down. So far Hesseltine wins.’

‘But he won’t win,’ said the Major mysteriously. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve got good reason to know it.’ And he proceeded to compound for himself a due measure of whisky and seltzer-water.

Dr Alden, who was next called upon, could claim a score of only two. But so far as it went, it was brilliant and audacious work. One of the handkerchiefs had been taken from Sir Charles Bunford and one from Mr Matthews, and in both cases the theft had been committed in Piccadilly in broad daylight and under the eyes of the police.

‘It’s clear where your real talent lies,’ said Jimmy. ‘You’re wasted in Harley Street. However, time’s getting on, and a few bad men would like a rubber of bridge before we part. Will any member who claims to have beaten Hesseltine’s score kindly hold up a hand?’

The Rev. Septimus Cunliffe and Mr Wildersley, A.R.A., both held up hands.

‘What?’ said the chairman. ‘Our padre in the sneak-thief business? Has he no respect for his cloth? Leonard has a lot to answer for. However, we will hear you, Mr Cunliffe.’

‘Leonard,’ said that broad-minded cleric in his sonorous voice, ‘has once more revealed himself as a great moralist. He has shown us that the thief, a bad man, must none the less have good qualities, and has taught us to differentiate the good from the bad. The spirit of adventure, the clever planning, the manual dexterity displayed by the thief, are all worthy of praise. It is solely to his felonious intentions that we should take exception. Leonard has expressly provided that for the purposes of this competition the felonious intentions are to be purely imaginary; they are to be supposed. Consequently, I could approach the problem with a clear conscience. And I admit that in compiling a score of fourteen my cloth has been of assistance. Suspicion does not attach readily to a man in clerical attire.

‘To proceed to my story, one Saturday, early in the month, I had been down to play golf with our friend, the Major. (By the way, you’ll send me back my handkerchief, Major. Already in the post? Thanks.) On leaving his house I noticed at the back entrance a laundry van, in charge of a sleepy-looking rustic. The name and address of the laundry were proclaimed on the van in large letters. My knowledge of the country showed me that in approaching the Major’s house that van would pass an inn called the Royal George, at a distance of two miles from the house, and a turning to the railway-station at a distance of one mile. That made everything easy. On the following Saturday I was on that road three miles from the house. My boots were dusty and I looked as tired as I could. I waited till the van came along, hailed it, and asked the driver to give me a lift as far as the station turning. He was not averse to making an extra shilling, and I climbed up. For the first mile I was talking to the man and making friends with him. When we reached The Royal George I suggested that a pint at my expense would not come amiss to him, and that I would look after the horse while he was inside. He was good enough to say that I was a parson after his own heart, and handed me the reins. The horse did not need any looking after; it was not that kind of horse. In the interior of the van I explored a laundry basket, and annexed fourteen of the Major’s handkerchiefs. (I have left them in the cloak-room for you, Major.) When the driver came out I was holding the reins and looking pensive. I stepped off at the station turning. What is your decision, Mr Chairman?’

‘Brainy piece of work, and a fair score of fourteen. My idea was that nobody would get beyond fifteen. Did you beat that, Wildersley?’

That large but child-like artist smiled. ‘I claim a score of one hundred and forty-four.’

‘Gee-whizz! I didn’t know there were so many handkerchiefs in the world. Which members did you get them from?’

‘I got the whole lot from you, in spite of the steel chain and the locked safe.’

‘But I’ve not got as many. It’s an impossibility. However, let’s have the yarn.’

‘You’ll find it’s all right, Mr Chairman. You young men are so careless that you don’t know what you’ve got. Some time ago I had to execute a Deed of Gift—making over a rotten-cotton picture of mine to a provincial gallery. Up to that time I didn’t know the difference between a Deed of Gift and a hole in a wall, but you learn things as you go on living. When this problem was set, I saw that by a Deed of Gift and a small investment I could do myself good. My first step was to buy twelve dozen handkerchiefs—top quality and deucedly expensive. I had a monogram of the chairman’s initials excellently designed by myself and embroidered by the shop on all those handkerchiefs. This having been done, I collected my parcel of lingerie and went off to my solicitor, who is of the old-established, eighteen-carat type. I told him what I wanted, and the shock nearly killed him. When he got better I explained that it was a joke, but that it was essential in order to get the laugh that the Deed of Gift making over the handkerchiefs should be all correct, water-tight, and copper-bottomed. He does not understand jokes and will believe anything about them. So he engineered me a lovely Deed. I then addressed the parcel to the Hon. James Feldane, and went off with it in a taxi to Jimmy’s place. I deposited the parcel, with the address downwards, on a chair in the hall, and put my overcoat and hat on the top of it. I then went in and had a few words with Jimmy about a bridge-problem. I had now made the handkerchiefs Jimmy’s property by Deed of Gift. I had delivered them at his residence. It only remained to steal them, and that was easy. It’s always easier to steal a thing if the owner doesn’t know he’s got it. Besides, as it was half-past eleven in the morning, Jimmy’s costume consisted of a bath-gown, a Turkish cigarette, and a bad headache, which excused him from coming out into the hall with me when I left. I picked up my hat and coat, and a parcel containing one hundred and forty-four handkerchiefs, the property of the chairman, and went off. He will find the parcel returned to him when he gets home to-night. And I should like his decision.’

‘Much obliged to you, Wildersley. It’s ironical that I can make a bit, as long as I’m not competing. All the same, the decision must be held up a moment. The fact that you’ve provided me with more handkerchiefs than I shall ever use this side of the silent tomb might influence my judicial mind. I must have a second opinion—counsel’s. Will Mr Quillian kindly give us his views on this claim.’

‘I don’t usually give opinions in this off-hand way,’ said Mr Quillian, ‘but on this occasion I have really no doubt. The Deed, sir, was duly executed, so we are informed. The goods in question were bona-fide intended to become your property, and have in fact become so. They were delivered at your residence. In the absence of felonious intent I should say that they had not been stolen, but the terms of the problem state that felonious intent is to be presumed. Your ignorance of the whole transaction does not seem to me to affect it. In your place, sir, I should have no hesitation in finding the claim good—and I only wish I had thought of the idea myself—I ought to have done.’

‘Thank you, Mr Quillian. Then I decide that Wildersley is the winner. Mr Matthews, will you please draw the usual cheque to Mr Wildersley’s order?’

This having been done, and the chairman for the next meeting appointed, Jimmy opened the sealed envelope containing the problem that Leonard, the astute head-waiter, had set for the ensuing month.

Jimmy read it to himself first. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is a new line of country. This is somewhat of a sensation. It’s called the Identity Problem, and runs as follows: “It is required to discover the identity of Leonard. The use of professional detectives, and any communication with Leonard himself on the subject of this problem, are forbidden.”’

‘I always knew,’ said Hesseltine, with conviction, ‘that chap was no ordinary head-waiter.’

And it appeared that several other members, who also had forgotten to mention it before, had always been of the same opinion.

No. VI.

The Identity Problem

The Rev. Septimus Cunliffe took the chair at the forty-eighth meeting of the Problem Club. The problem which Leonard, the astute head-waiter, had set the members to solve during the preceding month was simply the discovery of his own identity; and competitors were debarred from communicating with Leonard himself or from employing detectives in its solution.

Mr Cunliffe, with a pardonable enjoyment of his own excellent elocution, read out the terms of the problem in tones that almost made it a drama. And the few introductory remarks that usually fell from the chairman became in his case almost an address. True, the occasion furnished him with some excuse.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘with this meeting the Problem Club brings to a close the fourth year of its existence. The idea of the club, as I dare say most of you are aware, originated in the imaginative brain of Lord Herngill, and of the original members there are still three left us—Sir Charles Bunford, Major Byles, and Mr Matthews. The eccentric nobleman who was our founder did not himself long remain a member. Broken in health and, as I understand, suffering from private disappointments, he relinquished his clubs and retired altogether from society. He spent the remainder of his days on his Yorkshire estate, shut out from the world and even denying himself the companionship of old friends. It was only a few months ago that his death was announced in the newspapers. A somewhat gloomy subject, gentlemen, but it seemed to me fitting that on this occasion we should recall with gratitude the name of our founder.

‘Now for the first two years of the club’s existence the monthly problem was always provided by the member whose duty it would be to adjudicate on it. But during the second year it was found that this did not work well. Some of the members had not sufficient readiness of invention. Others did not show sufficient discretion. Our minutes of that period show some problems, I grieve to say, that can only be described as scandalous. Under these circumstances a member, Mr Barstairs, since dead, was deputed to find for us some able and trustworthy person who, for a small honorarium, would act as our setter of problems. At the next meeting he announced that he had selected Leonard, who had then just become head-waiter here.

‘The selection of a head-waiter for the purpose seemed to some of us—certainly to myself—fantastic, more especially as Barstairs offered no explanation at all. But, we must admit, fantasy plays some part in the spirit of the club, and no formal objection was raised. Time has shown that Barstairs had reason in his fantasy. Leonard has given us every satisfaction. Whoever he may be, I think that we are agreed on one point—that he possesses qualities unusual in a head-waiter.

‘In fact, gentlemen, the news that I am about to give you will, I am sure, be received with regret. I have a letter from Leonard in which he tells me that after eleven to-night he will cease to be in the service of the hotel, and will no longer be available as our problem-setter. He offers, if it would be any convenience to us, to name a successor whose ability and discretion he can guarantee absolutely. I may add that it is a very properly-expressed and respectful letter.

‘The appointment of a successor may, I think, be considered later. Let us now proceed to the adjudication of the current competition. I confess that if I personally had to find out who Leonard is, I should not, under the conditions imposed, know how to begin. However, I have great confidence in the ingenuity of the ten members before me—there would have been eleven but for Harding Pope’s resignation.’

The chairman’s confidence was misplaced. Every member had made an attempt to solve the problem, but every one had failed. Several of them had hit on the expedient of following Leonard when he left the hotel. The Hon. James Feldane, for example, had hit on it, and recounted his failure.

‘I lay up in a taxi a few yards from the door of this place, where I could get a good view. Presently out came Leonard, and I might very easily have missed him, for I was expecting him to bob up from the basement, and he came out of the main entrance. He was well turned out, and looked rather less like a head-waiter than I do myself. He called up a taxi and got in. Off he went, and off I went after him, my driver having been instructed. We drove, as near as I can guess, for about umpty-ump hours. I know I began to wonder if my cigarettes would last out the trip. Then my cab slowed down to a crawl, and I looked cautiously from the window. Leonard’s cab had stopped in front of a mouldy-looking place with big gilt letters on it. He overpaid his cabman—I heard the words, “Thank you,” distinctly—ran up the steps, rang a bell, and entered. I got out.

‘“Cabby,” I said, “where are we? Is this the hereafter?”

‘“No, sir,” he said. “Looks like it, but it’s really Brixton.”

‘The big gilt letters informed me that Leonard had entered the Beaulieu Temperance Hotel. I pushed the push, and the door was half opened to me by an Italian waiter with the darkest eyes and hands I ever saw. I could catch a glimpse of a small hall furnished with a good deal of dust and a stand for hats and coats. I spotted Leonard’s excellent hat and overcoat thereon. The waiter looked at me suspiciously. I got right on to the point at once.

‘“I want,” I said, “the name and address of the gentleman who came in here just now, and I’ll pay a sovereign for it.”

‘He seemed to understand the argument. In a minute he was back with the name and address and the information that the gentleman was stopping there for only one night. He got his sovereign. The name he gave was Leonard, and the address was the address of this hotel. I may have been more annoyed in the course of my life, but I doubt it. So I made the weary journey back again, had a light supper of one whisky and soda, and went to bed.’

Mr Matthews had followed Leonard on foot to the Ritz. Mr Quillian had tracked him to a desperate hostelry in the far north of London. Major Byles had pursued him to an hotel in Wimbledon. They ascertained that he spent a night at each one of these three places, but they added nothing else to their knowledge of him.

Sir Charles Bunford had been no more successful, but he had a curious story to tell. He had met Leonard by chance in St James’s Street one night at half-past eleven. There was nothing in Leonard’s dress or bearing that suggested anything less than complete independence. Sir Charles felt certain that he himself had not been recognised, turned, and followed him.

‘He led me,’ Sir Charles recounted, ‘up through the squares to Oxford Street, where he turned west. Just then there came shuffling along in the gutter towards us a street-vendor with a tray of little toys slung from his shoulders. He gave me the impression of an old man. Leonard and he both stopped. I also stopped, making a pretence of lighting a cigarette. They were both in the full light of a street lamp, and I had a close view of them. Leonard picked up from the tray a little monkey of blue plush mounted on a pin. Deliberately and without a smile he stuck the monkey in the gutter-merchant’s battered bowler. Then he took out his notecase, produced a fiver, and spread it on the tray, and walked on. During this curious incident neither of the men spoke. As you may imagine, I tackled the street-vendor at once.

‘“You’re in luck,” I said. “Did you know that customer?”

‘He folded his fiver and slipped it into an inner pocket. He looked at me shrewdly, and I noticed that his eyes were young. His voice when he spoke was quite young. And it was the voice of an educated man too.

‘“Which of us,” he said, “can say that he knows the other—or even that he knows himself?”

‘“Come,” I said. “I think you can tell me what I want to know. And two fivers are better than one.”

‘“That is so—to some people at some times—but not to Mr William Bunting, the editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_, at this time. I will wish you good-night, Sir Charles.”

‘And he walked off briskly without a trace of the old slouch. How he knew my name I can’t tell you, for certainly Leonard, even if he knew I was following, never said a word to him. The man left me staggered. I rushed off again after Leonard, but I had lost him. That is all I have to tell, and I have given you the facts accurately as they happened. I was both sane and sober at the time—but if you doubt that, upon my word I can’t be surprised.’

The failure was general. Dr Alden had interviewed the proprietor of the hotel, who was most courteous, but, in the doctor’s opinion, lied in his profession of ignorance. Mr Pusely-Smythe got hold of one of the other waiters who appeared perfectly willing to betray anybody on the most moderate terms, but, unfortunately, had no information to impart.

‘Well,’ said the chairman, ‘I must decide that the problem has not been solved. The prize for it not being awarded, the prize for the next competition is doubled. We have now to obtain the solution of the problem from the wily Leonard himself, and at the same time he is required to show us that the problem was possible of solution by us. It is now twenty to eleven and presumably Leonard leaves this hotel at eleven; so we have not much time to spare. If you, Mr Quillian, will unlock the doors and ring the bell, I will tell the waiter that we should be glad to see Leonard for a few minutes.’

But it was Leonard himself who answered the bell. He was a tall young man of good figure. He had not the stereotyped version of good looks, but his face was pleasing and full of humour and intelligence. He carried himself well. His dress was unsuited to the occasion, for he wore a well-cut lounge-suit of dark-blue cloth, and his brown, laced boots suggested a product of Bond Street intended for use in the country. There was no trace of a waiter about him. His manner was easy, confident without being assuming, and marked just by that touch of restraint that a man might show on first introduction to a number of his equals.

‘Well, Leonard,’ said the chairman, ‘we were on the point of sending for you. Your problem has beaten us. Can you show us how we might have solved it, and provide us with the solution?’

‘Certainly,’ said Leonard. ‘I’d rather expected that I should be wanted.’

‘Good. Now sit down, won’t you? We’re all quite informal here.’

‘Thanks,’ said Leonard. It seemed to be tacitly and generally accepted that he had become a guest of the club. Dr Alden proffered his cigar-case; Jimmy brought him a whisky-and-soda.

‘I think I ought to begin,’ said Leonard, ‘by apologising to you for having given you all such a lot of trouble—more especially as it was quite intentional on my part.’

‘Part of the game,’ said Major Byles. ‘That’s all right. No apologies needed.’

‘Thanks very much. At any rate I can apologise for these clothes. The fact is that I’m going North by the midnight train from Euston, and so I changed. And now let me show one or two ways in which the problem could have been solved. Some of you followed me when I took a taxi to an outlying hotel, and subsequently made applications at the hotel. If, instead of doing this, you had hailed the taxi that I had just left, you would in each case have found inside it an addressed envelope giving you the information you required. When Mr Feldane went for that very long drive to Brixton, I intentionally left my hat and coat in the hall of the alleged hotel for a few minutes. He examined the waiter; if he had examined the inside of my hat he would have found a certain clue. Sir Charles very nearly caught me. That night I left the hotel much earlier than usual, and had satisfied myself that nobody was waiting for me outside. I was on my way to a house in Audley Street where I was not known as the head-waiter at this hotel, and my identity would probably have been discovered; and it was necessary I should go to that house. At the top of St James’s Street I found that Sir Charles was after me. But I had taken a precaution. A friend of mine was stationed in Oxford Street, masquerading as a vender of penny plush monkeys; I found him and we went through a little eccentric pantomime together that had been prearranged. As had been expected, Sir Charles stopped to make inquiries from him. And while that was happening I made my escape.’

‘One moment,’ said Sir Charles. ‘How on earth did he know who I was? You never spoke to him?’