‘He’s smart all right,’ said Richardson. ‘Fancy bowling us out like that! I’ll bet he’s even missed the glass you took!’
‘I never bet when I think I’m going to lose,’ returned Inspector Price. ‘I feel quite sure that he’s missed the glass, and I feel quite sure, too, now, that there’ll be no case for the jury.’
‘You mean – you mean – that he -!’
‘That’s just what I do mean, my boy. You heard me tell the sergeant to go round to the hotel. Well, that’s why I wanted him to go, but I think he’ll be too late.’
They gazed at each other in silence until the telephone bell again buzzed sharply. Inspector Price picked up the receiver. His conversation was short.
As he replaced the receiver, he said. ‘Yes, Dalton was smart. He knew we were on his wheel, and he took the same fatal medicine as he dished out to old Pansy. He even left a brief confession, which tidies up the whole business very nicely. Poor devil. As I said before, I can’t help feeling sorry for him.’
MAX AFFORD
Max Afford was Australia ’s most prolific radio dramatist. Before television, there was radio and it took a man of Afford’s skill and professionalism to turn out as many hours of entertainment as he did right up until his death in 1954. Born in Parkside, Adelaide, in 1906, Afford was a journalist before turning to radio serials and stage plays.
From 1932 until his death, Afford wrote many of the most popular serials of the time including Digger Hale’s Daughter, Hagen ’s Circus, and Danger Limited. It was said that in the 1930s Afford was one of the few people to make a living from writing drama. His radio success spilled over onto stage. He created Australian theatrical history by having two plays presented professionally – Lady in Danger in May 1944 and Mischief in the Air in August 1944 (both produced by J.C. Williamson at Sydney’s Theatre Royal). Lady in Danger was also staged on Broadway.
Afford wrote five detective novels. These were: Blood On His Hands (London, J. Long, 1936; Sydney, Frank Johnson, 1945), Death Mannikins (London, J. Long, 1937; Sydney, Frank Johnson, 1945), The Dead Are Blind (London, J. Long, 1937; Sydney, Collins, 1949), Fly by Night (London, J. Long 1942; as Owl Of Darkness, Sydney, Angus & Robertson, 1945). In December 1948 the short story ‘Vanishing Trick’ appeared in Frank Johnson’s new magazine, Detective Fiction. The magazine was short lived but an extremely worthy production which included the work of such writers as Frank Walford, Bob McKinnon, Audrey Francis, Richard and Alfreda Phillips, and Norman Way.
Following the first issue, Johnson received a letter from Arthur Upfield who said: ‘I thought the range of stories very good and give best marks to Max Afford.’ Johnson also reprinted some of Afford’s novels in his Magpie paperback series, Afford receiving the munificent sum of £25 for every 10,000 copies sold.
Jeffrey and Elizabeth Blackburn, stars of a long-running Afford radio series as well as several novels, made a late curtain call in Detective Fiction. ‘Vanishing Trick’ typifies the mannered, slightly tongue in cheek, stories of the period – heavy on drawing rooms, witty dialogue and deductive brilliance.
The Vanishing Trick
1
‘No ghost,’ said Sally Rutland firmly. ‘But we’ve got a kinda haunted room!’
She pronounced it ‘hanted’ since Sally Rutland hailed from Dallas, Texas.
Mr Jeffrey Blackburn, seated in the deep leather chair in the panelled room at Kettering Old House, looked across at Elizabeth and lowered his right eyelid an imperceptible fraction. The movement said plainly, ‘Darling, I told you so!’
Mrs Blackburn, swathed in satin, her corn-yellow hair shining under the massive electric chandelier, caught the expression.
‘But, darling! If you’ve got a haunted room, then you must have a ghost!’
‘Not here!’
‘Then what happened in this room?’
Sally Rutland said calmly, ‘People just vanish into thin air!’
‘Oh-oh,’ chuckled Mr Blackburn inwardly. His eyes slid around, taking in the expressions of the assembled guests.
There were six other people in the great reception room at Kettering. Almost opposite Blackburn, the thriller writer Evan Lambert hunched his thin body forward in an attitude curiously suggestive of a question mark.
On the square, ruddy face of the man next to him there was absolutely no expression at all. John Wilkins, of the Wilkins Trust and Finance Company, sat motionless, a statue to Mammon in well-cut tweeds, a business colossus whose self control was as rigid as the wall behind him.
Then there was Miss Rountree, an obscure relative of Jim Rutland’s – middle-aged, greying and somehow pathetic, like the bedraggled artificial roses she wore at her flat bosom. Her sagging face was ringed in circles – round eyes behind rounded spectacles, the little mouth pursed into an O of wondering anticipation. With all the ardour of the very lonely, Miss Rountree grasped at the promise of a new sensation, as in the past she had grasped at Yogism, Mental Healing, Physical Perfection in Diet and Inner Truths through Controlled Breathing.
Jeffery’s eyes came around to their hosts.
Strangers often wondered what Sally van Peters, daughter of the Dalls oil magnate, had ever seen in lanky, balding Jim Rutland, with his serious expression and quiet, almost stolid personality. Never were appearances more deceptive! For their intimates knew, by bitter experience, that one of the strongest bonds between these two was their wicked sense of humour. Jeffery mentally winced when he recalled the squeaking cushion, the leaking wineglass and trick cigarettes without which no Rutland party was complete.
‘Well,’ said Sally Rutland. ‘Don’t just sit there like dummies! Let’s see some reactions.’ She gave a quick, mischievous glance at her husband, standing tall by the heavy marble mantel. ‘They reckon it’s just another of our crazy gags, honey -’
Lambert’s mouth twisted.
‘At least it shows a little more originality than the electric matchbox -’
From the fireplace, Jim Rutland spoke.
‘No fooling, Evan. What Sally says is quite true.’ Was it Jeffery’s imagination or had the deep tone the faintest undercurrent of mockery? ‘She found an old book in the library with the craziest story about this room. Believe it or not, Satan himself is supposed to have come down here, breathed on a man – and he vanished! Just like that!’ A snap of his fingers emphasised the problem.
‘Now, really, Rutland -’ It was Wilkins. In contrast to Lambert’s frank ridicule, the financier’s tone was sceptical but polite. ‘He’s not one of us,’ thought Jeffery. ‘He’s an outsider. It isn’t like the Rutland ’s to mix close friends and casual acquaintances like this.’ Then he became aware that Miss Rountree was speaking to him from across the room.
‘And just what is your opinion of this, Mr Blackburn?’ she asked archly. ‘You’ve been so quiet in your little corner I thought you were asleep.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Jeffery firmly. ‘Definitely not! But before I commit myself, I’d like to hear something more about the story.’
Rutland said levelly, ‘I’ll give it you boiled down small. Back in the year seventeen hundred and something, there was a local parson – chap named the Reverend Gideon Perman. He was accused of witchcraft, brought along here and shoved into this room. The door was locked and barred. When they opened it, two hours later, Gideon had vanished -’