Part 6

The policeman said he believed he’d heard it, and passed on. The game had now definitely begun, and there was only one hour to play it in and no time to be lost. A small car was approaching with a lady driving. Feldane ran into the road, held up his hand, and stopped it.

‘Sorry, madam,’ he said to the lady, ‘but would you mind waiting just for a few seconds? I’m sure you’ll understand. We’ve got an Erichsen’s galvanometrical balance working in that hole, and the least vibration would spoil the reading. We shan’t be a minute.’

‘Certainly,’ said the lady. ‘I know something of these delicate instruments. What are you using it for?’

‘We’re from the Post Office Electrical Survey. There’s trouble with the telegraph wires here that they can’t locate. Of course if iron pyrites has been used in the construction of the road, that would account for it. We’re looking into it. Bill,’ he called to Hesseltine, ‘what do you make it?’

Hesseltine examined the bottom of the hole. ‘Steady at two point five,’ he called back.

‘Good. Let this car past, and then set a foot further in. Thank you very much, madam.’

The unsuspecting lady drove on. Hesseltine sat down in the hole and laughed. Jimmy glanced at his watch. ‘That’s two in under ten minutes,’ he said. ‘If we can keep it up at anything like this rate, we ought to do.’

But for some time after this passers-by proved curious but unenterprising. They stared with the keenest interest at the proceedings, but did not put in any inquiry. Then an elderly tramp paused on his way into the town.

‘Water-main?’ he suggested.

‘Ay,’ said Jimmy.

‘All that work for a little water! Sooner you than me.’

Almost immediately afterwards a rather fussy and important little man demanded to know what it was all about.

‘Gas,’ said Jimmy laconically.

‘There’s no gas-main in this road,’ snapped the little man.

‘No,’ said Jimmy. ‘Nor likely to be until we’ve took the level for the pipes. Pass along, please.’

The little man said that it seemed hopeless to expect a civil answer to a civil question nowadays, but he passed along. Jimmy again consulted his watch.

‘Four in half an hour,’ he observed. ‘We can hardly miss it now.’

But fate was already on its way in the shape of a young, newly-appointed, eager and suspicious policeman. He watched Jimmy and Hesseltine for a minute or so in silence. Jimmy made an entry in a pocket-book.

‘All right, Bill,’ said Jimmy to Hesseltine. ‘You can fill in again now.’

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked the policeman.

‘Rubberite Road Construction,’ said Jimmy. ‘They’re putting down an experimental section here, and this is just the preliminary testing.’

‘Don’t they put no notice-board up with the name of the firm on?’

‘They will, of course, as soon as the actual work begins. I have their card.’ This printed card had been one of Jimmy’s properties. The policeman slipped it into his pocket.

‘I’ve no doubt it’s all right,’ said the policeman, ‘but I’ll just show this card to make sure.’

‘Certainly,’ said Jimmy; ‘that’s the thing to do. You’ll find they know all about it up at the station.’

The game was up. As soon as the policeman was round the corner Jimmy dashed off to fetch the taxi while Hesseltine completed the work of filling in the hole and getting their various properties together. They had at least the satisfaction of getting clear away before the policeman returned.

The chairman, when he had heard the story, said that if everybody had their rights it was probable that two of the younger members of the Problem Club would now be in prison, but he would allow them a score of five all the same. The fifth score might seem a little doubtful, but the young policeman has said that he believed it was all right, and if he had not would probably have taken stronger measures. The chairman also refused to admit Quillian’s objection that the conspirators had been mistaken for imaginary people. People might be real or imaginary, and the subtle editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_ had not indicated that either meaning was excluded. A further protest by Major Byles and Mr Matthews against the scandalous use that had been made of their names for the firm of sanitary engineers was not taken seriously.

But the Major may have been embittered by the completeness of his own failure. With the help of a gray wig and beard and some shabby clothes, he had intended to call at six different back-doors and to represent in succession six different people—a beggar, a fortune-teller, a vendor of cheap jewellery, and so forth. But the first back-door at which he called was his own, and there he was immediately recognised by a house-dog and by his own kitchen-maid. His subsequent explanation that he had merely been doing it for a bet had not been well received. He did not give details, but it was gathered that Mrs Byles had had a good deal to say on the subject.

Lord Herngill had done very little better. He had attempted no disguise at all. His idea had been, in the course of travel on the Bakerloo Tube railway, to get into conversation with six different people and to tell six plausible but erroneous stories about himself. His statement that he personally had driven the first train that had passed under the Thames in that tube, being in fact the consulting engineer of the company, was received by an old lady with great interest and not the slightest suspicion. He then changed into another carriage and found an opportunity to tell a young curate that though he lived within ten miles of London he had never been there in his life before. He was only there then because he had to see property that he had inherited at Swiss Cottage. And could the curate tell him at all where Swiss Cottage was?

That question was his undoing. ‘I can not only tell you,’ said the smiling curate, ‘but, as it happens, I am going there myself, and it will give me much pleasure to have your company.’

And by the time that he had got rid of that curate it was hopeless to attempt his remaining impersonations within the prescribed time. It was generally felt that in a matter of impersonation Lord Herngill, on his previous character, should have done better.

Mr Quillian had bestowed six shillings on six different crossing-sweepers. Five of them had said, ‘Thank you, m’lord,’ and the other had said, ‘Thank you, Captain.’ On this he claimed to have won, as it was obvious that all five crossing-sweepers could not have mistaken him for the same peer. It was pointed out to him by the chairman that there was not the slightest evidence that any one of those crossing-sweepers had made any mistake at all.

For once Pusely-Smythe had failed to compete, and said that he had been too busy. It was suggested that his time had been taken up with spending his winnings from the previous month. Mr Matthews also had taken no part in the competition. The reason he gave was simple cowardice; the ghastly breakdown of his attempt to impersonate an old lady for the purposes of the Kiss Problem had spoiled his nerve for anything of the kind in the future.

The disgraceful adventure of Feldane and Hesseltine seemed likely to be the nearest approach to the problem-setter’s requirements, until Sir Charles Bunford was called on for his experiences. Sir Charles claimed to have won.

‘I came to the conclusion,’ said Sir Charles, ‘that the man who asks for something or tries to sell something is likely to create an atmosphere of suspicion. On the other hand the man who gives something, even to a complete stranger, will have his explanatory story accepted without question. The fact that he stands to lose by the transaction is accepted as evidence of his genuineness.

‘With this conviction, and with such disguise as I thought advisable, I called at various houses all in one row in the Willesden neighbourhood. I was accompanied by a covered handcart, propelled by a boy hired for the purpose. Inside the handcart were the gifts that I had prepared for the occupants of the houses. Taking from the handcart a fruit-cake in a paper bag, I rang at the first house and requested the dirty little girl who opened it to fetch her dear mamma. Mamma appeared, wiping her hands on her apron, and looking displeased with life in general and me in particular.

‘“Good-morning, lady,” I said. “I am instructed by my employers to ask you if you will do them the favour of accepting as a present this fruit-cake of their manufacture. They are shortly opening a branch in this neighbourhood and are taking this method of making ladies acquainted with the quality of their goods. It is, in fact, an advertisement.” After assuring herself again that there was nothing to pay, and that the consumption of the cake would not bind her to deal with my firm—Messrs Butterstone and Co.—in future, she consented to accept the cake, and even to say that it seemed a straight way of doing business. She inquired where the new shop would be, which I told her, and what the price of a similar cake would be if she ever wanted to buy one. I put it at half what I had paid for it, and she said it was a pleasant morning. Never for one moment did she doubt that I was what I had represented myself to be.

‘At the next house with equal success I presented half a pound of butter as a sample of the products of the Farm Creameries Company, and a similar story. The third house got a tablet of scented soap from an enterprising chemist who was just starting in business in the neighbourhood. At the next three houses I distributed as free advertising samples a pound of sausages, a box of cigarettes, and a small bottle of whisky. It took longer than I had expected, because the ladies had such a lot of questions to ask about the new shops that were to be opened, but I finished six minutes under the hour. Of course, I could have carried all the goods round in a basket, but the handcart looked more like a house-to-house distribution on a large scale.’

The decision was not given in his favour until after Quillian had raised an objection. He maintained that in each case Sir Charles had been mistaken for the same thing—to wit, the representative or agent in advance of a business firm. But the chairman’s decision that Sir Charles had been mistaken for six different representatives of six different firms was generally approved. And as no other member had a claim to make the cheque was handed to him.

The chairman then opened the sealed envelope containing the problem on which their ingenuity was next to be expended. It was entitled ‘The Alibi Problem,’ and the terms of it were as follows:—

‘It is impossible for a man to be in two places at once. But it is required so to arrange matters that bona-fide evidence would be procurable that at a certain hour of a certain day or night you were in two places at once, the two places to be not less than one hundred miles from each other.’

‘Not uninteresting,’ said the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe, ‘but it leaves a good deal to the discretion of the chairman. He will have to decide which of us could produce the best evidence that the impossible had been accomplished. By the way, who is the next chairman?’

‘Should have been Harding Pope,’ said Wildersley. ‘But as he’s gone, it will be the member elected in his place—our old friend Leonard, Lord Herngill.’

‘My poor abilities are at your service,’ said Lord Herngill, laughing, ‘at London’s lowest prices always.’

No. IX.

The Alibi Problem

Lord Herngill read out the demand made by the editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_ on the ingenuity of the members of the Problem Club. Members were required to produce evidence, that could be given in good faith, that at a certain hour, day or night, they had been in two places at once, the two places not being less than one hundred miles apart.

Lord Herngill said that he felt anxious and depressed. His manner and appearance, it may be added, hardly bore out the statement. He assigned his depression to two reasons. Firstly, other chairmen had had the simple task of adjudicating on a point of fact. He—a new member, a novice, a mere babe, as you might say—was required to undertake far more delicate and difficult work, and to base his decision on an estimate of evidence. Secondly, the secretary for the evening was Mr Wildersley. On the last occasion that Wildersley had acted as secretary he had adorned the minute-book with drawings of the chairman which were undoubtedly amusing and possessed of artistic merit, but at the same time were calculated to bring that chairman into ridicule and contempt.

‘So you see, gentlemen,’ Lord Herngill continued, ‘that this is nervous work for me. However, I will make the plunge. Towards the end of dinner a telegram was handed to Mr Feldane over which I noticed him to be chuckling. May I inquire if it had any bearing on the problem before us?’

‘Well, it had,’ Jimmy admitted. ‘Brainy work to have guessed it. But I’m not on in this act—I’m resting. The wire really concerns Hesseltine’s claim.’

‘You two generally hunt in couples. Perhaps Mr Hesseltine will let you put his case for him.’

‘Anything that pleases you and saves me trouble,’ said Hesseltine generously. ‘I can always correct Jimmy if he makes an ass of himself.’

‘Well,’ said Jimmy, ‘we can see for ourselves that Hesseltine is here to-night. I don’t want to dwell on his misfortunes, but he looks much as usual. Talks in the same silly way too. But that telegram is his evidence that he is really in Liverpool. It is signed with his name and was handed in at a Liverpool office. I’ll read it. “So sorry to be unable to be with you to-night, but have promised to remain here to act as judge at local baby-show.” Well, it isn’t for me to say anything, though I could.’

‘The evidence that Mr Hesseltine is here,’ said the chairman, ‘is good. The evidence that he is in Liverpool is less good. A telegram is not necessarily despatched by the man whose name is signed to it. Further, it seems to me improbable that a young bachelor would have been selected for the high office which Mr Hesseltine claims to have fulfilled. I think we shall do better than that. I will ask Mr Pusely-Smythe how far he has succeeded in being in two places at once.’

‘It is easier to be in one place at twice,’ said Pusely-Smythe. ‘But I have done what I could, considering how unversed I am in the arts of deception.’ The applause which greeted this statement was possibly of an ironical character. ‘On the morning of Tuesday last,’ Pusely-Smythe continued, ‘I was at the Rectory, Meldon Bois, where I had been spending the week-end. The village of Meldon Bois is one hundred and eight miles from London. It had been my intention to leave Meldon Bois by the 10.5 a.m. for London. I had been pressed to remain for one more night, as there was to be a performance of a pastoral play by distinguished amateurs in the grounds of the Rectory on Tuesday afternoon, and it would be a pity for me to miss it. I will not conceal it from you, sir, that the said pastoral play constituted the principal reason for my departure.

‘You have grasped these facts? Very good. Now, on the morning of Tuesday, by the first post, I received a letter from my one and only aunt, who resides in London, to say that as I was coming up to town that morning she hoped I would lunch with her in Grosvenor Street and accompany her afterwards to hear a lecture to be given by some eminent idiot on “The Future of Eugenics.” My aunt is one of the most strong-minded and wearisome women in existence. I had been reluctant to witness the amateur performance in the Rectory grounds, and I contemplated the idea of listening to a lecture on “The Future of Eugenics” with horror and loathing. That was the situation. I had to miss two birds with one stone.

‘My first step was to telegraph to my one and only aunt as follows: “Regret detained here. Am writing.” On the following morning she received a letter from me which I am able to produce in its envelope. The letter is in my own handwriting on paper stamped with the Rectory address. The letter is dated Tuesday evening, and the post-mark on the envelope shows that it was posted at Meldon Bois on that day. Now that letter not only states that I had remained so as not to miss the pastoral amateurs, but also makes several statements as to their performance, every one of which can be proved to be absolutely accurate. These statements are that Miss Sykes looked charming in some pale lilac-coloured contraption, that the comedian over-acted, that the weather was not entirely favourable, that some of the players seemed to find a difficulty in making themselves audible, that quite a nice sum was realised for the Cottage Hospital, and that the Rector in proposing a vote of thanks to the players said that where all were so good it would be invidious to differentiate. I have no doubt that on the strength of that letter and the details it contains, my aunt would give evidence in good faith that to her knowledge I must have been at Meldon Bois on Tuesday afternoon. Notwithstanding this, I left Meldon Bois on Tuesday morning by the train originally contemplated, and on Tuesday afternoon I was playing bridge at my club in London, as various members of the club who met me there would attest.’

‘On the face of it,’ said the chairman, ‘it looks like rather a good case. I presume that you wrote the letter to your aunt before leaving by train in the morning, and gave it to a servant with instructions to post it after the performance.’

‘Precisely so.’

‘But how did you manage to give an accurate account of the performance at which you were really not present?’

‘Well, Miss Sykes was staying at the Rectory and had told me what dress she would wear. The rest was intelligent anticipation. The glass was low, and, besides, the weather is always unfavourable for pastoral plays, and some of the players always fail to make their voices carry in the open. Given village amateurs, over-acting by the comedian is as certain as death. To put the receipts as a nice sum was quite safe. It was riskier to quote the Rector’s actual words, but he’s a kindly and tactful man with a circumscribed mind, so I thought I might chance it, and it came off.’

The next few members on whom the chairman called produced nothing of interest. Some, like Hesseltine, had thought of the bogus telegram. Some, like Feldane, were resting. Dr Alden had tried an idea of his own, and expressed the hope that the chairman would think better of it than he did himself.

Early one morning he had entered a tobacconist’s shop where he was not known and investigated the man’s stock of cigars. He found it difficult to make up his mind as to which of three different brands would suit him best. He took away with him a specimen of each, and said that he would try them after luncheon and let the tobacconist know. At three that afternoon Dr Alden’s man called at the tobacconist’s with a note from the doctor saying that the trial had been made and naming the brand selected. Five hundred of this brand were ordered, and a cheque for the exact sum was enclosed in payment. The tobacconist was to deliver the goods to the bearer of the note, as the doctor was leaving for the country at four and wished to take some of the cigars with him. This was done, and probably the tobacconist would have been willing to swear in consequence that Dr Alden was in London until four that day. As a matter of fact, the doctor had left for the North by express shortly after ten that morning.

‘Yes,’ said the chairman, ‘you convinced that tobacconist that you were in London when you were not, just as Pusely-Smythe convinced his aunt that he was not in London when he was. In each case it is the evidence of one person only. Have you done any better, Mr Wildersley?’

‘Better?’ said Wildersley cheerfully. ‘I should rather think I have. I should have made out the club cheque for the prize to my own order already but for the fact that I prefer the formal routine. Cast your chairmaniacal eye over this sketch-book. It is filled with pencil drawings made from time to time, if not oftener, by the eminent Wildersley. The last few pages were made at the political meeting at Glasgow last week. They are dated in my own hand. There are notes as to the colour also in my hand. They are in my sketch-book. If they are not proof positive that I was at that meeting, then what are they? All the same I was in London while that meeting was being held, and can produce countless witnesses who saw me and spoke to me.’

The chairman looked carefully at the drawings. ‘Not done from photographs, I suppose?’

‘No, m’lord,’ said Wildersley. ‘All genuine hand-work and done on the spot.’

Lord Herngill compared them with previous drawings in the book. ‘These look to me,’ he said, ‘as if they were done by somebody who was trying to imitate your technique but had not quite got it.’

‘Yes,’ said Wildersley, ‘that finishes us. You have it. The other artist member and I went into collaboration in this enterprise. Austin went to Glasgow, and made the sketches in the book with what he was pleased to call an imitation of the worst of the Wildersleian mannerisms. I remained in London giving my famous impersonation of myself. I added the date and manuscript notes afterwards. Still, if this book fell into the hands of somebody who had not the full use of his eyes—and very few people have—he might use it as evidence in good faith that I was at Glasgow at that date.’

‘Undoubtedly. I shall not forget your claim. Meanwhile, is there any other?’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Charles Bunford placidly, ‘I think my claim to have established an alibi is stronger than any you have heard yet. Birmingham is more than a hundred miles from London. A certain butler in Birmingham would swear that he saw me and spoke to me on a certain afternoon. A photographer in Birmingham would swear that he photographed me on that same afternoon, and would be able to produce the negative. Yet during the whole of that afternoon I was in London, as the evidence of many of my friends would show. And all the evidence would be given in good faith.’

‘And how was this miracle accomplished?’ the chairman asked.

‘I’ll tell you the story as briefly as I can. I went to stay for a fortnight with an old friend of mine, a bachelor named Fraser, who has a house outside Birmingham. He is a keen ornithologist. He employs in the preparation of specimens and so on a curious character called Mitten, who is just as keen on birds as Fraser himself. Fraser only has Mitten’s spare time. Mitten’s regular work is with a Birmingham photographer, for whom he does developing and also has charge of the stock of negatives. Fraser is quite unlike me in the face, except that we both have the same deficiency of colour in the hair, but we are of about the same height and build. There is also a slight similarity in our voices. That was the rough material that I had at my disposal, and no doubt you can guess how I got my results from it.’

‘You’d better continue,’ said the chairman, smiling.

‘On the day before I left I pointed out to Fraser that a similarity in mass often prevented a dissimilarity in detail from being noticed, and that the attitude of expectant attention is a frequent source of error. Fraser asked me, as I had thought he would, what I meant and what I was getting at. I replied that by taking advantage of two facts I had mentioned he could probably get himself mistaken for me. He said that nobody would make the mistake. I said that Hammond’s butler would make it on the following afternoon, if he cared to try the experiment.