What point did Corporal Sod Harris miss?
And to whom did this clue point?
The point that Corporal Harris missed was simply the significance of the time of the murder. According to the evidence, Eleanor Vogel came straight home after learning she had lost her job and thereafter had no contact with anyone except the murderer. Therefore, the only one of the numerous suspects who would expect the girl to be home at 10 in the morning on a working day was her boss, Warren Phillips.
You will recall that the reason the upstairs neighbor did not investigate the Vogel apartment, even though the neighbor thought the shots came from there, was that she thought no one was at home in the Vogel apartment — the neighbor had seen Eleanor’s parents leave and had every reason to assume that the girl was at work. All of Eleanor Vogel’s lovers — except Warren Phillips — would also have assumed she was at work. None of them — except Warren Phillips — would have picked that particular time to visit the girl or have instructed a professional killer to call at that time.
Yes, the very time of the murder points to the victim’s boss, Warren Phillips, as the possible culprit.
Frank Swinnerton
Soho Night’s Entertainment
The famous British novelist, author of nocturne and friend of Arnold Bennett and H. G. Wells to whose interest and praise he attributes his first literary success, goes sleuthing (not slumming) in Soho. Meet Inspector Calloway, the solid and stolid manhunter, and Rouben, the purveyor of forgetfulness, and the enchanting “princess” — in a New Arabian Nights melodrama...
Rouben’s, I found, was a dark little restaurant. Its rich red walls were obscured by dingy paintings, and only one small crimson-shaded lamp lighted each of the tables. At first glance it seemed the ideal trysting place for secret lovers rather than for such steely-hearted fellows as Calloway and myself. Yet for some reason Calloway had asked me to meet him here.
After passing through the doorway I would have been as blind as a man entering a cave from sunshine if Calloway, standing just within the door, had not touched my arm.
“Hullo,” said I. “Are you a ghost?”
“Your dead conscience,” replied Calloway. “I’ve got a table.” He guided me through the gloom.
An old bent waiter hovered near us, a despairing character who must have been sick of the smell of food and hated the very thought of customers. I pictured him as feeling sure they would demand impossible dishes and ignore all his aged recommendations. Nevertheless, carrying a soiled and battered wine list, he plodded after us toward the back of the restaurant, where everything but the tables seemed even gloomier.
“You drink cocktail?” the antique waiter disgustedly supposed.
“Two Pernods, please.” Calloway’s tone, polite but authoritative, sent the old chap hastening off, flat-footed, at dangerous speed. Dim-witted though he might be, the waiter knew a man of character by his voice.
Calloway must have been in the place before, as he knew its ways; but the waiter had given no sign of recognition. That is because Calloway’s face is just like the face of every third man one does not notice in the street. Since Calloway is an extremely quickwitted Detective-Inspector, this unremarked face has immense advantages. Many a criminal has cursed “the invisible man” who brought him to justice.
I did not ask why we were at Rouben’s. Nor, if I had done so, would Calloway have told me. He is secretive — it is a mark of his calling. All the same, he has a nose for good food, and when off duty he likes to take his ease in Soho; and it might be that we were merely dining well to celebrate a little triumph of his. But is Calloway ever off duty? I have often wondered.
“A discreet place,” I remarked under my breath. “A place for great Civil Servants to bring their mistresses.”
“You must use it again,” answered Calloway, carelessly passing the menu. He smiled.
The menu looked good; but I played safe by choosing smoked trout and a tournedos, which I like. I then hoped to drink a cosy Pichon-Longueville with the tournedos. Calloway, knowing my relish for this grand wine, favored me by suggesting it.
“They have some twenty-six,” he observed, “in excellent condition.”
“Nothing could be better. But do you come here so often,” I asked, “that you know the cellar? If I used the place, should I embarrass you?”
“I can rely on your—” Calloway changed the tenor of his speech, while continuing to use the same smiling tone. I became aware of somebody standing beside us — somebody in black with small white cuffs and a delicately-flowered white apron. She had come to the table soundlessly, and I looked up into the young, serious, very dark face of one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen.
She listened gravely while Calloway ordered our food; and then, with a regal inclination of the head, went quickly away. I breathed deep. The effect she had upon me was astonishing; it was an effect, not of attraction or repulsion, but of awe.
A moment elapsed before I recovered enough to say, “Rouben employs waitresses, I observe. Or are they, as they seem, princesses?”
“One,” replied Calloway. “Waitress, not a princess.”
“A beauty. Is she Rouben’s daughter?”
“No,” said Calloway.
That was all. It made me eager to see the princess again — and, in fact, to observe the effect she had on Calloway. He obviously knew Rouben’s cellar. Did he rate Rouben’s beautiful waitress above the cellar? I did not dare to ask.
Rouben himself — or so I judged — now came from somewhere near the front door straight toward us. He was slightly above middle height, broad, swarthy, black-haired and black-eyed, very genial and very smiling, and he had small white plump hands like those of Queen Victoria in her late photographs. The tips of his fingers, which rested upon our table under the light, were excessively delicate. I saw from the slight movement of Calloway’s eyes that they had attracted his attention.
“You order, gentlemen?” he said in a smooth voice. “You happy, that’s so?”
What a smile! Rouben’s lids dropped; his full lips spread; within his geniality I read insatiable appetite. Was the beautiful waitress thus explained? I looked at Calloway, admiring his mask, which was that of as typically beefy an Englishman as ever appeared in Continental fiction.
“All are happy at Rouben’s,” said Calloway, with the air of a dull man being gallant. “Rouben makes them so.”
It seemed acceptable.
“I like much to think that. Oh, I like to think that!” murmured Rouben, devoutly. He looked toward the ceiling; and one’s heart hardened at the sight of the coarse lips and fleshy under-chin. This was a cruel man. “It is my prayer! You know, gentlemen—” He lowered his head confidentially. Piety was succeeded by gentle unction like the flow of thick oil from a tap. “So much unhappiness in the world; so many lonely, disappointed, frustrated... If I can, you understand...” He made the maître d’hôtel’s small gesture in which thumb and forefinger touched. “If I can bring a little cheer... forgetfulness...”
He struggled for still better words.
Calloway nodded. “Oblivion, yes. You’re a benefactor, Mr. Rouben.”
The man laughed. The chuckle shook his body. How genial! And at the same time how not genial! He ought to have offered us each a small white packet of oblivion.
Instead of doing this, he gave a smiling little bow, looked closely at Calloway from under his heavy lids, and turned to another table by the opposite wall. There he greeted newly-arrived guests, bowing low to the woman, shaking hands lingeringly with the man as if they were intimate friends.