“You mean how Angel knew his number? Maybe through his family.”
“Undoubtedly. But how did the Studio know where to reach Angel Gossamer, registered in a New York hotel as Mrs. Sutherland? And the call came immediately after the minister had left. No, Watsie, there was no minister, no marriage, no studio grooming Angel Gossamer. Because there was no Angel Gossamer!”
“But why? How did she expect to get hold of the money if he’s not really married to her?” The question wasn’t out of my mouth when a coupe drove up and Mrs. Sutherland got out. Shirley greeted her without a tremor. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sutherland.”
Mrs. Sutherland is large and blonde and there is nothing dreamy or poetic about her. But she puts it on. “My poor boy! I’m afraid he isn’t up to seeing visitors.”
“He does look wretched. Ah, yes, Mrs. Sutherland, we saw Harry. In fact, we had a long talk. He has had a dreadful experience for a boy of his temperament.” Shirley said gently.
“I warned him not to talk about it. I don’t want the wretched mess aired around the school.”
“I can well understand that, Mrs. Sutherland. And I hardly think a scandal would help anyone concerned. Provided, of course, that every effort is made to undo the mischief.”
“I’m sure I’m doing everything in my power to find the girl. I’ve asked my sister Bernice to hire detectives out there. I’ve just received a letter—” She fished it out of her bag.
“May I see it? Merely the envelope? Thank you.”
“It’s postmarked Los Angeles,” she said sharply. “And since you’re so interested, they haven’t been able to locate the girl at any of the studios.”
“Really?” Shirley murmured politely.
“But my poor boy resents any suggestion that he’s been deceived. It only makes him more determined to stick to her.”
“But isn’t that your whole purpose, Mrs. Sutherland?”
She went white under her powder and the rouge stuck out on her cheeks like a clown’s. “I don’t know what you mean!”
“Oh, come now, Mrs. Sutherland. When you asked your sister to write the kind of letter you could show Harry, you should have warned her to use a different typewriter. Not the same one which typed this—”
Mrs. Sutherland snatched the pink envelope. “Give me that letter!”
“Certainly, Mrs. Sutherland. We have already noted the clogged ‘e’ and the dropped ‘S’.”
“I don’t know what’s in your nasty little mind, but if you spread any stories, I shall remove Harry from the school!”
“In spite of his father’s will? Yes, do sit down, Mrs. Sutherland. The will provided that Harry was to be sent to this school. His father doubtless for saw the danger of maternal domination. You got around it by buying this house. You were determined to keep your hold over Harry. You saw it threatened by his growing interest in Samantha Spade. You didn’t want him to fall in love with any girl, least of all the daughter of Sam Spade, who would certainly investigate your handling of Harry’s funds. You are not spending anything like $15,000 a year on Harry, who never questions your handling of his money. You want him to continue trusting you blindly, so that on his next birthday he will unquestioningly turn over to you the handling of the principal. So you figured a way to make him immune, not only to Sammy Spade, but to all girls.
“I notice you are not in mourning. Your father did not pass on. In fact, he was never ill. You never went to Florida. You went to Los Angeles to visit your sister. The letters from Florida were forwarded by your father. You bribed your whole grasping family to collaborate in a shameless, heartless hoax. Harry, believing himself married, would not look at another girl. And gradually, as you convinced him he had been deceived, it would be easy to poison his mind against all girls. So that he would feel only you were his friend, only you could be trusted. According to our old Psychology Professor, Luther Trant, many mothers are guilty of this type of misdirected ‘mother love’ although they do not go to the length of writing letters on pink stationery. You also coached your niece for the telephone talks.”
“It’s not true! You can’t prove a word of it!”
“There is a signature on a hotel register. Room clerks have been known to identify a face and it should not be too difficult to locate your niece in California and your New York sister, and your brother-in-law who posed as a minister. Providing, of course, it becomes necessary to prove the modus operandi to Harry.”
“He won’t believe you. Harry won’t believe you.”
“I wouldn’t count on that, Mrs. Sutherland. The picture seemed familiar because your niece looks a little like you — enough for him to recognize the resemblance when it is pointed out. He himself commented on your New York sister’s resemblance. But I am afraid the truth would be a great shock to him.”
Her head was bent over her clenched fists and I did not see how she could ever raise it again. I hated to see her escape punishment, and I begrudged her the hope I saw in her eyes as she looked up. But I had to agree with Shirley. “Oh, it would! He’s so hopelessly in love with Angel.”
“I question that. She didn’t know what he meant when he quoted his poems. I’m sure that, deep down, he was a little disillusioned. Time will do the rest, if he is encouraged to seek other young companionship. And under those conditions I agree it would be best for Harry not to learn, just yet, the kind of woman you are, Mrs. Sutherland. That is the shock he’s in no condition to receive. In time he’s bound to see it, unless you mend your ways. And that will be your punishment. Think it over, Mrs. Sutherland. I suggest an invitation to the Poe Tasters to hold their poetry reading here, Friday night. In which case, I do not think Dean Dupin need be troubled with any of this. He has so many other problems on his mind. I’m sure we understand each other, Mrs. Sutherland.”
We left her sitting there, tearing the pink envelope to shreds. “Ah, well,” said Shirley, “the less reminders he has of Miss Angel Gossamer, the better. And I think, when her spleen has vented itself, her very practical nature will indicate the only course open to her. So far as you and I are concerned, from here on Sutherland is 4F.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear Watsie, that he is Sammy Spade’s case. And you will agree he couldn’t be in better hands.”
Coincidence
by J. Storer Clouston
In 1920 William Blackwood of Edinburgh published a collection of detective short stories by J. Storer Clouston called CARRINGTON’S CASES. Unhappily for American fans, this book was never issued in the United States. The original edition, now exceedingly scarce, is bound in red pictorial cloth; its front cover shows Mr. F. T. Carrington himself, plump, monocled, mustachioed, carrying as odd an assortment of clues as ever perplexed a fictional sleuth: a bag, a bone, and (no, not a hank of hair!) a skull — and to add a final note of sheer grotesquerie, a book titled ADVICE TO MOTHERS.
But it is not the story of this strange miscellany we now bring you. Instead, we have selected “Coincidence” — Carrington’s greatest detectival achievement. Although more than a quarter of a century old, this story must still be ranked as an excellent example of sheer technical craftsmanship.
I: Mr. Wickley’s Story
“If it wasn’t for lucky coincidences,” said Carrington, “many a gentleman in ginger and broad arrows would be a highly respected citizen. They’re done in again and again by the most infernal flukes. The most baffling mystery — yes, I really think I may call it absolutely the most insoluble-looking that has ever come my way — was solved by what seemed like a mere series of extraordinary coincidences.”