The Mammoth Book of Vintage Whodunnits Read online

  MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI is a London-based novelist and editor. He was born in the UK and educated in France. Following a career in book publishing, he opened the world-famous Murder One bookshop in 1988 and has since combined running it with writing and editing. He is a winner of the Anthony and Karel Awards, a frequent TV and radio broadcaster, crime columnist for the Guardian newspaper and Literary Director of London’s Crime Scene Festival.

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  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2006

  Collection and editorial material copyright © Maxim Jakubowski 2006

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 1-84529-252-9

  eISBN 978-1-780-33270-3

  Printed and bound in the EU

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  Murder! by Arnold Bennett

  The Queen of Spades by Alexander Pushkin

  A Personal Magnet by O. Henry

  The House and the Brain by Bulwer Lytton

  The Crimson Curtain by Barbey d’Aurevilly

  The Purloined Letter by Edgar Allan Poe

  A Trap to Catch a Cracksman by E.W. Hornung

  Hunted Down by Charles Dickens

  Edith Swan-Neck by Maurice Leblanc

  The Red Herring by William Hope Hodgson

  The Stolen White Elephant by Mark Twain

  Nick Carter, Detective by Nick Carter

  Solange by Alexandre Dumas

  The Limitations of Pambé Serang by Rudyard Kipling

  Markheim by Robert Louis Stevenson

  The Disappearance of Marie Severe by Ernest Bramah

  The Lenton Croft Robberies by Arthur Morrison

  The Adventure of the Three Students by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  The Stone of the Edmundsbury Monks by M.P. Shiel

  Popeau Intervenes by Mrs Belloc Lowndes

  Locked In by E. Charles Vivian

  The Millionth Chance by J.S. Clouston

  The Case of Mr and Mrs Stetson by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  The Episode of Torment IV by C. Daly King

  The Three Strangers by Thomas Hardy

  The Dublin Mystery by Baroness Orczy

  The Biter Bit by Wilkie Collins

  Acknowledgments

  Arnold Bennett, “Murder!” (1926), reprinted from The Night Visitor and Other Stories (1931).

  Alexander Pushkin, “The Queen of Spades” (1834), reprinted from An Omnibus of Continental Mysteries, Part Two.

  O. Henry, “A Personal Magnet” (1905), reprinted from Con Men and Hoboes.

  Bulwer Lytton, “The House and the Brain” (1859), reprinted from An Omnibus of Continental Mysteries, Part Two. Thanks to the vigilance of Hugh Lamb, specialist extraordinaire, we understand our version of this story was slightly abridged by American editors in the 1930s to make it less old-fashioned.

  Barbey d’Aurevilly, “The Crimson Curtain” (1874), reprinted from An Omnibus of Continental Mysteries, Part One.

  Edgar Allan Poe, “The Purloined Letter” (1841), reprinted from The Gift.

  E.W. Hornung, “A Trap to Catch a Cracksman” (1905), reprinted from Pall Mall Magazine, July 1905.

  Charles Dickens, “Hunted Down” (1859), reprinted from The New York Ledger.

  Maurice Leblanc, “Edith Swan-Neck” (1913), reprinted from The Confessions of Arsène Lupin.

  William Hope Hodgson, “The Red Herring” (1917), reprinted from Captain Gault.

  Mark Twain, “The Stolen White Elephant” (1882), reprinted from Tom Sawyer Abroad.

  Nick Carter, “Nick Carter, Detective” (1891), reprinted from Street and Smith’s Weekly.

  Alexandre Dumas, “Solange” (1849), reprinted from An Omnibus of Continental Mysteries, Part One.

  Rudyard Kipling, “The Limitations of Pambé Serang” (1891), reprinted from Life’s Handicap.

  Robert Louis Stevenson, “Markheim” (1886), reprinted from Selected Writings of Robert Louis Stevenson.

  Ernest Bramah, “The Disappearance of Marie Severe” (1923), reprinted from The Eyes of Max Carrados.

  Arthur Morrison, “The Lenton Croft R
obberies” (1894), reprinted from Martin Hewitt, Investigator.

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “The Adventures of the Three Students” (1903), reprinted from The Return of Sherlock Holmes.

  M.P. Shiel, “The Stone of the Edmundsbury Monks” (1895), reprinted from Prince Zaleski.

  Mrs Belloc Lowndes, “Popeau Investigates” (1926), reprinted from The World’s Best 100 Detective Stories, Volume One.

  E. Charles Vivian, “Locked In” (1926), reprinted from Fifty Famous Detectives of Fiction.

  J.S. Clouston, “The Millionth Chance” (1920), reprinted from Carrington’s Cases.

  E. Phillips Oppenheim, “The Case of Mr and Mrs Stetson” (1913), reprinted from Mr Laxworthy’s Adventures.

  C. Daly King, “The Episode of Torment IV” (1935), reprinted from The Curious Mr Tarrant.

  Thomas Hardy, “The Three Strangers” (1883), reprinted from Longman’s Magazine.

  Baroness Orczy, “The Dublin Mystery” (1902), reprinted from The Man in the Corner.

  Wilkie Collins, “The Biter Bit” (1858), reprinted from Atlantic Monthly.

  Introduction

  Welcome to an invigorating walk through the highways and bye-ways of past crime and mystery fiction.

  It will no doubt come as a surprise to many casual readers to not only see such eminent names here as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Edgar Allan Poe and Wilkie Collins, but also such cornerstones of the literary tradition as Charles Dickens, Arnold Bennett, Mark Twain, Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling and Robert Louis Stevenson, as well as foreign luminaries like Alexandre Dumas and Alexander Pushkin. Mystery writers? Well, yes. The wonderful thing about popular writing mostly at the turn of the twentieth century is that its practitioners saw it as their duty to principally tell stories, whether they were pure derring-do tales of adventures, depiction of life at various levels of society, morality stories about the foibles of human nature or humorous accounts of incidents, class struggle and relationships. And, as a matter of habit, crime and mystery fitted perfectly into these categories (and still does to this day).

  In those blessed days, crime writing was therefore not parked into some critically frowned upon ghetto, but was an integral part of people’s reading and writers who essayed the field were allowed to practise their craft all over the wide world of writing, whether it be popular or literary. There were no distinctions between genres – would that we had such a healthy situation in today’s early twenty-first century.

  Of course, many of these famous authors were so successful in their particular areas of expertise that time has now forgotten their occasional forays into the world of mystery, whodunnits and puzzles. Which doesn’t make them any less interesting or, for that matter, out of date. There are fiendishly knitted plots and intrigues here to rival any modern writer from Colin Dexter’s Morse to Ian Rankin’s Inspector Rebus and the classical imagination proves as provocative as today’s; there is also a wonderful sense of place and occasion in many of these fascinating stories that brings to life a world and worlds past with uncanny accuracy. You can smell the dark, rainy streets, the smog in the air, the sense of menace in a world where electricity was still uncommon and the electronic grid and the cloak of science that surround us now didn’t exist so that amateur sleuths and everyone caught in webs of intrigue truly had to utilize their grey cells and intelligence in their search for the truth. No forensic investigators, no crime scene laboratories, no policemen assisted by cell phones, fast cars and instant forms of communication. This is the ground zero of the whodunnit. And one could easily wax very nostalgic about it in its purity of means and purpose.

  In addition, we have a sizzling assortment of sleuths, both dedicated and involuntary, including two of mystery fiction’s earliest icons like Sherlock Holmes and the Chevalier Dupin, but also the Old Man in the Corner, created by Baroness Orczy, best remembered today for her Scarlet Pimpernel, Hornung’s Raffles, Ernest Bramah’s Max Carrados, Prince Zaleski, Nick Carter and Maurice Leblanc’s raffish Arsène Lupin. An abundance of elementary investigating and charm indeed.

  So, a handful of amazing rediscoveries about the way we were, the way they killed, swindled or stole, the way it was from some of the greatest writers there were.

  What more could you ask for? Savour.

  Maxim Jakubowski

  Murder!

  Arnold Bennett

  Two men, named respectively Lomax Harder and John Franting, were walking side by side one autumn afternoon, on the Marine Parade of the seaside resort and port of Quangate (English Channel). Both were well dressed and had the air of moderate wealth, and both were about thirty-five years of age. At this point the resemblances between them ceased. Lomax Harder had refined features, an enormous forehead, fair hair, and a delicate, almost apologetic manner. John Franting was low-browed, heavy-chinned, scowling, defiant, indeed what is called a tough customer. Lomax Harder corresponded in appearance with the popular notion of a poet – save that he was carefully barbered. He was in fact a poet, and not unknown in the tiny, trifling, mad world where poetry is a matter of first-rate interest. John Franting corresponded in appearance with the popular notion of a gambler, an amateur boxer, and, in spare time, a deluder of women. Popular notions sometimes fit the truth.

  Lomax Harder, somewhat nervously buttoning his overcoat, said in a quiet but firm and insistent tone:

  “Haven’t you got anything to say?”

  John Franting stopped suddenly in front of a shop whose façade bore the sign: GONTLE. GUNSMITH.

  “Not in words,” answered Franting. “I’m going in here.”

  And he brusquely entered the small, shabby shop.

  Lomax Harder hesitated half a second, and then followed his companion.

  The shopman was a middle-aged gentleman wearing a black velvet coat.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted Franting, with an expression and in a tone of urbane condescension which seemed to indicate that Franting was a wise as well as fortunate man in that he knew of the excellence of Gontle’s and had the wit to come into Gontle’s.

  For the name of Gontle was favourably and respectfully known wherever triggers are pressed. Not only along the whole length of the Channel Coast, but throughout England, was Gontle’s renowned. Sportsmen would travel to Quangate from the far North, and even from London, to buy guns. To say: “I bought it at Gontle’s” or “Old Gontle recommended it” was sufficient to silence any dispute concerning the merits of a firearm. Experts bowed the head before the unique reputation of Gontle. As for old Gontle, he was extremely and pardonably conceited. His conviction that no other gunsmith in the wide world could compare with him was absolute. He sold guns and rifles with the gesture of a monarch conferring an honour. He never argued, he stated, and the customer who contradicted him was as likely as not to be courteously and icily informed by Gontle of the geographical situation of the shop door. Such shops exist in the English provinces, and nobody knows how they have achieved their renown. They could exist nowhere else.

  “ ’d afternoon,” said Franting gruffly, and paused.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Mr. Gontle, as if saying: “Now don’t be afraid. This shop is tremendous, and I am tremendous; but I shall not eat you.”

  “I want a revolver,” Franting snapped.

  “Ah! A revolver!” commented Mr. Gontle, as if saying: “A gun or a rifle, yes! But a revolver – an arm without individuality, manufactured wholesale! . . . However, I suppose I must deign to accommodate you.”

  “I presume you know something about revolvers?” asked Mr. Gontle, as he began to produce the weapons.

  “A little.”

  “Do you know the Webley Mark III?”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “Ah! It is the best for all common purposes.” And Mr. Gontle’s glance said: “Have the goodness not to tell me it isn’t.”

  Franting examined the Webley Mark III.

  “You see,” said Mr. Gontle, “the point about it is that until the breech is properly
closed it cannot be fired. So that it can’t blow open and maim or kill the would-be murderer.” Mr. Gontle smiled archly at one of his oldest jokes.

  “What about suicides?” Franting grimly demanded.

  “Ah!”

  “You might show me just how to load it,” said Franting.

  Mr. Gontle, having found ammunition, complied with this reasonable request.

  “The barrel’s a bit scratched,” said Franting.

  Mr. Gontle inspected the scratch with pain. He would have denied the scratch, but could not.

  “Here’s another one,” said he, “since you’re so particular.” He simply had to put customers in their place.

  “You might load it,” said Franting.

  Mr. Gontle loaded the second revolver.

  “I’d like to try it,” said Franting.

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Gontle, and led Franting out of the shop by the back, and down to a cellar where revolvers could be experimented with.

  Lomax Harder was now alone in the shop. He hesitated a long time and then picked up the revolver rejected by Franting, fingered it, put it down, and picked it up again. The back-door of the shop opened suddenly, and, startled, Harder dropped the revolver into his overcoat pocket: a thoughtless, quite unpremeditated act. He dared not remove the revolver. The revolver was as fast in his pocket as though the pocket had been sewn up.

  “And cartridges?” asked Mr. Gontle of Franting.

  “Oh,” said Franting, “I’ve only had one shot. Five’ll be more than enough for the present. What does it weigh?”

  “Let me see. Four-inch barrel? Yes. One pound four ounces.”

  Franting paid for the revolver, receiving thirteen shillings in change from a five-pound note, and strode out of the shop, weapon in hand. He was gone before Lomax Harder decided upon a course of action.

  “And for you, sir?” said Mr. Gontle, addressing the poet.

  Harder suddenly comprehended that Mr. Gontle had mistaken him for a separate customer, who had happened to enter the shop a moment after the first one. Harder and Franting had said not a word to one another during the purchase, and Harder well knew that in the most exclusive shops it is the custom utterly to ignore a second customer until the first one has been dealt with.