Dr. Czissar held up a finger. “Attention, please. The only logical part of that case against Selton was that he had over a long period stolen sums in cash amounting to £300 and intended to pay off racing debts. That is the thieving of a clerk. That he should suddenly steal £15,000 is different. And we only have his word for it that he did steal them.”
“But why on earth should...?”
“Mr. Wretford’s reputation,” pursued Dr. Czissar, “was not very good in London. I was told that he was the proprietor of a bucket shop, which is some slang but means that he was only technically honest, I think. I believe that those bonds were converted by Mr. Wretford for his own profit, and that he was in danger of being found out when he discovered Selton’s thefts. He was desperate, perhaps. Selton, he thought, would go to prison anyway. Let him agree to take a little extra blame and all would be well. Selton would have his reward when he came out of prison. Alas for Mr. Wretford. An idea that seems good when one is in danger is not so good when the danger has passed. Gregory Selton was not content with comfortable employment. He began, I think, to blackmail Mr. Wretford. Those racing debts, you see. More money, more money always. Threats. Blackmail. Mr. Wretford finally killed him.”
“But...”
“But how? Ah, yes.” Dr. Czissar smiled kindly upon them. “It was, I think, a sudden idea. The grounds of his house are extensive. He probably heard Wilder using the rifle nearby and thought of his own rifle. He used to be a member of a London rifle club. Selton would, he knew, be returning soon. It would be possible for him to get from his house to that place behind the hedge without going on to the road and risking being seen. When Selton was found, the blame would be put on this boy. For him, a few months in prison; for the respectable Mr. Wretford, safety — again. He stood behind the hedge at a range of perhaps ten feet from Selton as he cycled by. It would have been difficult to miss.”
Dr. Czissar stood up. “It is a suggestion only, of course,” he said apologetically. “You will be able to identify Selton from his fingerprints and arrest Mr. Wretford on a charge of perjury. The rifle will no doubt be found when you search the Grange. An examination of Mr. Wretford’s accounts will show that he was being blackmailed by Selton. Those large sums in one pound notes... but it is not for me to teach you your business, eh?” He smiled incredulously at the idea. “It is time for me to go. Good evening, assistant commissioner. Good evening, inspector. Good evening, sergeant.”
The answering “good evenings” echoed dismally in the corridor outside as Dr. Czissar departed.
For a moment there was a silence. Then:
“I knew there was something funny about this case, sir,” said Denton brightly. “Clever chaps, these Czechs.”
Don’t Look Behind You
by Fredric Brown
Your Editor is indebted to Mr. E. V. Halbmeier of Elmhurst, New York for the following quotation from John Raymond’s ITINERARY, CONTAYNING A VOYAGE MADE THROUGH ITALY IN 1646-47, published in London by H. Moseley in 1648:
“At Venice I saw a pocket Church Booke with a Pistoll hid in the binding, which turning to such a Page, discharges. A plot (I conceive) to entrap him you hate, whilst you are at your devotions together, when there s least suspicion.
“Another as rare, is a Pocket stone-Bow, which held under a Cloake shoots needles with a violence to pierce a mans body, yet leaves a wound scarce discernable.
“A third is a walking staffe in appearance; at the top is a Spring which graspt hard, at the other end will jet forth a Rapier with force enough to kill at a yards distance.
“A fourth is a Gunne to bee charg’d with winde, wich for six paces will not faile of execution with a small or no report.”
In the early days of the detective story these “gimmicks” were considered highly ingenious. Their ingenuity has faded, of course — note that we do not say their ingenuity has disappeared; alas, the book-booby-trap, the cane-concealed-weapon, and similar gadgets, still rear their hoary heads in many a contemporary detective story. But they are no longer regarded as “bright ideas.”
The story, however, that is based on a “trick” idea still flourishes, and should continue to. For an example of the modem “trick” story, infinitely removed from the primitive tales that depended on mechanical devices, we give you Fredric Brown s “Don’t Look Behind You” — and we warn you in all seriousness, DON’T!
Just sit back and relax, now. Try to enjoy this; it’s going to be the last story you ever read, or nearly the last. After you finish it, you can sit there and stall a while, you can find excuses to hang around your house, or your room, or your office, wherever you’re reading this; but sooner or later you’re going to have to get up and go out. That’s where I’m waiting for you: outside. Or maybe closer than that. Maybe in this room.
You think that’s a joke, of course. You think this is just a story in a magazine, and that I don’t really mean you. Keep right on thinking so. But be fair; admit that I’m giving you fair warning.
Harley bet me I couldn’t do it. He bet me a diamond he’s told me about, a diamond as big as his head. So you see why I’ve got to kill you. And why I’ve got to tell you how and why and all about it first. That’s part of the bet. It’s just the kind of idea Harley would have.
I’ll tell you about Harley first. He’s tall and handsome, and suave and cosmopolitan. He looks something like Ronald Colman, only he’s taller. He dresses like a million dollars, but it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t; I mean that he’d look distinguished in overalls. There’s a sort of magic about Harley, a mocking magic in the way he looks at you; it makes you think of palaces and far-off countries and bright music.
It was in Springfield, Ohio, that he met Justin Dean. Justin was a funny-looking little runt who was just a printer. He worked for the Atlas Printing & Engraving Company. He was a very ordinary little guy, just about as different as possible from Harley; you couldn’t pick two men more different. He was only thirty-five, but he was mostly bald already, and he had to wear thick glasses because he’d worn out his eyes doing fine printing and engraving. He was a good printer and engraver; I’ll say that for him.
I never asked Harley how he happened to come to Springfield, but the day he got there, after he’d checked in at the Castle Hotel, he stopped in at Atlas to have some calling cards made. It happened that Justin Dean was alone in the shop at the time, and he took Harley’s order for the cards; Harley wanted engraved ones, the best. Harley always wants the best of everything.
Harley probably didn’t even notice Justin; there was no reason why he should. But Justin noticed Harley all right, and in him he saw everything that he himself would like to be, and never would be, because most of the things Harley has, you have to be born with.
And Justin made the plates for the cards himself, and printed them himself, and he did a wonderful job — something he thought would be worthy of a man like Harley Prentice. That was the name engraved on the card, just that and nothing else, as all really important people have their cards engraved.
He did fine-line work on it, freehand cursive style, and used all the skill he had. It wasn’t wasted, because the next day when Harley called to get the cards, he held one and stared at it for a while, and then he looked at Justin, seeing him for the first time. He asked, “Who did this?”
And little Justin told him proudly who had done it, and Harley smiled at him and told him it was the work of an artist, and he asked Justin to have dinner with him that evening after work, in the Blue Room of the Castle Hotel.