“The best way to create suspense in a detective story,” declared Miss Phipps, “is to employ two characters, each of whose integrity appears to vary inversely with that of the other.”
“I don’t find that as clear as your usual pronouncements, Aunt Marian,” Mary remarked with a smile.
“Let us suppose we have two characters — A and B.”
“Arthur and Bob,” suggested Mary.
“Just so. If Arthur is to be believed, Bob should be a scoundrel. If Bob is to be believed, Arthur must be the scoundrel. For a few pages the reader is led to believe in Arthur. Then some slight but significant incident occurs, which appears to reinstate Bob. Can Bob be innocent after all? If so, Arthur must have been telling lies; therefore he must be the scoundrel. The reader’s suspense is drawn tauter and tauter by these alternate hooks — if you see what I mean.”
“Who is found guilty in the end?” asked Mary.
“Well, there lies the peculiar advantage of that kind of story,” said Miss Phipps, beaming. “There are no fewer than four possible answers to your question. One, Arthur can be guilty. Two, Bob can be guilty. Three, both can be guilty. And four, neither can be guilty. The final choice is open to the author and prevents the solution from becoming obvious until the end, or very late in the story.”
“Certainly a complicated structure would be necessary to maintain the situation in doubt until the last page,” said Mary, counting stitches.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Miss Phipps confidently. “It would need some skill in invention, of course.”
“Now you’re boasting, Aunt Marian. I challenge you to produce such a story, here and now.”
“But, my dear Mary—” began Miss Phipps.
“Start!” commanded Mary firmly.
“Well, let me see now,” said Miss Phipps, half flustered and half flattered. “Arthur — a rather old-fashioned name. Yes. Arthur, let’s say, was cashier of the Laire Woollen Company, a small but reputable firm manufacturing tweed cloth, in a rather quiet valley outside the city of Laire in Yorkshire.”
“You’ve begun well. A cashier suggests at once the possibility of embezzlement or theft,” said Mary.
“Doesn’t it? Well, Arthur was a man in his late fifties, thin, gray-haired, meticulous, with a habit of looking over his spectacles in a rather crushing style at any younger person who ventured to disagree with him — even, we’ll say, if that person were the junior partner. Slow in his bookkeeping, was Arthur, but sure — at least, the Laire Woollen Company had found him so for upwards of a quarter of a century.”
“But such a man could not possibly be guilty of any crime,” objected Mary.
“That,” said Miss Phipps, “is precisely the impression the reader is intended to receive — at first.”
“Go on,” said Mary.
“It was the custom of the Laire Woollen Company to have the wages of the employees fetched from the bank in Laire on Thursday afternoon. Arthur then prepared the pay envelopes, which were distributed on Friday morning. The money was fetched from the bank by Arthur and Bob—”
“Ah, ready to be stolen,” said Mary.
“Bob being the junior partner of the firm—”
“I thought so,” said Mary.
“—and Arthur and Bob naturally traveled to and from the bank in Bob’s car.”
“Tell me more of Bob,” said Mary.
“Bob’s grandfather, old Mr. Denison, was the head of the firm.”
“Grandfather?”
“Bob’s father was killed in World War II.”
“I see,” said Mary thoughtfully. “A gap of two generations, and a gap in sympathy, huh?”
“Exactly. Bob had been sent to a good public school, and then to the textile department of Laire University.”
“I suppose he was rather wild there, and got sent down without taking his degree.”
“On the contrary — and who is inventing this story, Mary? Bob wasn’t especially brilliant, but he took a good solid second-class. He also played rugby for the University.”
“Oh, no!” said Mary. “We can’t have the criminal being good at football.”
“Who said Bob was the criminal? He was — or appeared to be — a nice ordinary young man, strong though stocky in build, with brown hair and brown eyes. Quite knowledgeable about textiles, and fond of athletics and amateur dramatics.”
“That last item strikes a rather suspicious note,” commented Mary. “The ability to act is often found in a criminal plot.”
“Oh, he never took leading roles,” said Miss Phipps reassuringly. “Only minor parts — one of the two policemen at the end who arrest the villain, and that sort of thing, you know. What he really enjoyed was building the set — whacking about with a hammer and so on. He had a good deal of physical energy which had to be expended somehow.”
“He still sounds quite innocent,” said Mary.
“Moreover, he was in love with Arthur’s daughter.”
“The plot thickens! Was she a nice girl?”
“Both Arthur and Bob thought so. She worked with the Laire Woollen Company as old Mr. Denison’s secretary.”
“Pretty?”
“Yes, certainly. Very fresh and neat, with those attractive legs and full skirts one sees about so much nowadays. I haven’t worked out yet whether she was a blonde or a brunette,” said Miss Phipps thoughtfully. “Blonde, I think. Yes, fair hair, very well cut. Fine gray eyes. She was not a fool, you know. Intelligent. Sensible. Full of go. Kind to her father and mother.”
“The heroine, in short.”
“Exactly.”
“Had she any other admirers?”
“Oh, yes, one or two.”
“I think you ought to be more specific,” objected Mary.
“Very well. Let’s say, two. One of the clerks in the outer office, and a childhood friend, the boy next door. Her name was — let’s see, Catherine?”
“Agreed. Her father calls her Kitty in private?”
“I prefer Cathy. Arthur was a trifle old-fashioned, you remember.”
“In that case he’s probably rather strict with Cathy about dates and young men and coming in late, and doesn’t approve of Bob’s attentions.”
“I agree. Now we come to the day of the crime. A bright, pleasant day in October.”
“Thursday or Friday, no doubt.”
“Thursday afternoon, just after working hours. Arthur was just completing the preparation of the week’s pay envelopes when the mill buzzer sounded.”
“Buzzer?” queried Mary.
“Well, a hooter, a siren — whatever you like to call it. Some loud noise used to mark the beginning and ending of the work day.”
“Proceed.”
“The mill rapidly emptied of its employees, who poured out of the gate. Arthur finished his task and was just placing the pay envelopes in the office safe when a man came in and asked for work.”
“But don’t men in this country usually obtain employment through a Labour Exchange?”
“Exactly Arthur’s reaction. ‘You’ll have to go to the Labour,’ he said. ‘Any way we haven’t any vacancies here. Try so-and-so’s,’ he said, giving the name of a neighboring firm. ‘I did not,’ said Arthur when giving his evidence later — you understand, this is Arthur’s account of the affair — ‘I did not altogether like the appearance of the man. He didn’t look very respectable to me, and he held a handkerchief to his face in an unbecoming manner.’ ”
“Unbecoming is good,” said Mary with relish. “Just the right word for Arthur. What happened then?”
“The man said, according to Arthur, ‘I’d like to see old Mr. Denison, all the same.’ To which Arthur replied stiffly, ‘Mr. Denison has left.’ He looked into the inner office, and added, ‘Mr. Bob is not here either.’ ‘Good enough,’ said the man with the handkerchief, and drawing some implement from his pocket he whacked poor Arthur hard on the back of he head. Arthur fell down, but in falling grabbed hold of the man so that they rolled about together on the floor. The man disentangled himself, treading on Arthur in the process, and rushing to the window, shouted, ‘Come on in!’ and waved his arms, clearly beckoning to an accomplice. He then sprang back to the dazed Arthur, wrapped a scarf round his head, and sat heavily on him, holding him face down to the ground. Arthur passed out — I believe that is the expression. When he came to some time later and tore off the scarf, he found the safe empty and the men gone. Fortunately, some of the wage envelopes were still lying on Arthur’s desk — the men had overlooked these, or perhaps found them too scattered to collect in their haste. Arthur rang the police and old Mr. Denison, and very soon an able and conscientious Detective-Inspector — shall we call him Tarrant?—”