John Dickson Carr
The Mad Hatter Mystery
1. A Cab Horse in a Barrister's Wig
It began, like most of Dr Fell's adventures, in a bar. It dealt with the reason why a man was found dead on the steps of Traitors' Gate, at the Tower of London, and with the odd headgear of this man in the golf suit. That was the worst part of it. The whole case threatened for a time to become a nightmare of hats.
Abstractly considered, there is nothing very terrifying about a hat. We may pass a shop-window full of them without the slightest qualm. We may even see a policeman's helmet decorating the top of a lamp-post, with no more than an impression that some practical joker is exercising a primitive sense of humour. Young Rampole, when he saw the newspaper, was inclined to grin at the matter as just that.
Chief Inspector Hadley was not so sure.
They were waiting for Dr Fell at Scott's, a tavern in the heart of Piccadilly Circus. Sitting in an alcove with a glass of beer, Rampole studied the chief inspector. He was wondering. He had only arrived from America that morning, and the press of events seemed rather sudden.
He said: `I've often wondered, sir, about Dr Fell. He seems to be all sorts of things.'
The other nodded, smiling faintly. You could not, Rampole felt, help liking the chief inspector of the C.I.D. He was the sort of man who might be described as compact; very neatly dressed, with a military moustache and smooth hair the colour of dull steel. If there was a quality about him you noticed at once, it was a quality of repose, of quiet watchfulness.
`Have you known him long?' Hadley asked.
`As a matter of fact, only since last July.' The American found himself rather startled to remember that. `Good Lord! It seems years! He… well, in a manner of speaking, he introduced me to my wife.'
Hadley nodded. `I know. That would be the Starberth case. He wired me from Lincolnshire, and I sent the men he wanted.'
A little more than eight months ago.. Rampole looked back on those terrifying scenes in the Hag's Nook, and the twilight by the railway station where Dr Fell had put his hand on the shoulder of Martin Starberth's murderer. Now there were only happiness and Dorothy.
Again the chief inspector smiled faintly. `And you, I believe,' he continued in his deliberate voice, `carried off the young lady. I hear glowing reports of you from Fell… He did rather a brilliant piece of work in that affair,' Hadley added abruptly. `I wonder… '
`Whether he can do it again?'
The other's expression grew quizzical. `Not so fast please. You seem to be scenting crime again.'
`Well, sir, he wrote me a note to meet you here..'
`And,' said Hadley, `you may be right. I have a feeling.' He touched a folded newspaper in his pocket, hesitated and frowned. `Still, I thought that this thing' might be rather more in his line than mine. Bitton appealed to me personally, as a friend, and it's hardly a job for the Yard. I don't want to turn him down. I suppose you've heard of Sir- William Bitton?’
`The collector??
'Ah,' said Hadley, `I fancied you would. Fell said it would be in your line, too. The book-collector, yes, Though I knew him better before he retired from politics.' He glanced at his watch. `He should be here by two o'clock, and so should Fell.'
A thunderous voice boomed, `AHA!' They were conscious of somebody flourishing a cane at them across the room, and of a great bulk filling the stairway to the street. The only other occupants of the room were two business men conversing in low tones in one corner, and they jerked round to stare at the beaming appearance of Gideon Fell.
All the old genial days, all the beer-drinking and fiery moods and table-pounding conversations, beamed back at Rampole in the person of Dr Fell. The American felt like calling for another drink and striking up a song for sheer joyousness. There was the doctor, bigger and stouter than ever. He wheezed. His red face shone, and his small eyes twinkled over eyeglasses on a broad black ribbon. There was a grin under his bandit's moustache, and chuckling upheavals animated his several chins. On his head was the inevitable black shovel hat; his paunch projected from a voluminous black cloak.
`Heh,', he said. `Heh-heh-heh.' He came rolling over to the alcove and wrung Rampole's hand. `My boy, I'm delighted. Delighted! Heh. I say, you're' looking fine. And Dorothy?
... Excellent; I'm glad to hear it. My wife sends her warmest regards'
There are people before whom you instantly unbend. Dr Fell was one of them. No constraint could exist before him; he blew it away with a superb puff; and, if you had any affectations, you forgot them immediately. Hadley looked indulgent, and beckoned a waiter.
`This might interest you,' the chief inspector suggested, handing Dr Fell a wine-card. He assumed a placid, innocent air. `The cocktails are recommended. There is one called an "Angel's Kiss"
'Hah?' said Dr Fell, starting in his seat.
`or a "Love's Delight"-'
`Gunk!' said Dr Fell. He stared at the card. `Young man, do you serve these?'
`Yes, sir,' said the waiter, jumping involuntarily.
`Young man,' continued the doctor, rumbling and polishing his glasses, `have you never reflected on what American influence has done to stalwart England? Where are your finer instincts? This is enough to make decent tipplers shudder.'
`I think you'd better order something,' suggested Hadley.
`A large glass of beer,' said the doctor. `Lager.'
Snorting he produced his cigar-case and offered it round as the waiter took away the glasses. But with the first healing puffs of smoke he settled himself back benignly against the alcove.
`My young friend here will tell you, Hadley,' Dr Fell rumbled, making an immense gesture with his cigar, `that I have been working for seven years on the materials of my book, The Drinking Customs of England from the Earliest Days, and I blush to have to include such manifestations as these, even in the appendix. They sound almost bad enough to be soft drinks. I…'
He paused, small eyes blinking over his glasses. A quiet, impeccably dressed man, who seemed like a manager of some sort, was hesitating near their alcove. He appeared to be ill-at-ease, and feeling slightly ridiculous. But he was contemplating Dr Fell's very picturesque shovel hat which lay across the cloak on a chair. As the waiter brought three rounds of beer, this man entered the alcove.
`Excuse me, sir,' he said, `but may I make a suggestion? If I were you, I should be very careful of this hat.'
The doctor stared at him for a moment, his glass halfway to his lips. Then a bright and pleased expression animated his red face.
`Permit me, sir,' he requested earnestly, `to shake your hand. You are, I perceive, a person of sound taste and judgement. I wish you could talk to my wife on this matter. It is, I agree, an excellent hat. But why should I exercise more than my usual care in guarding it?'
The man's face was growing pink. He said stiffly: 'I had no wish to intrude, sir. I thought you knew… That is to say, there have been several such outrages in this vicinity, and I did not wish to have our patrons incommoded. That hat — well, hang it!' the manager exploded, volplaning down into honest speech, `that thing would be too much. He couldn't miss. The Hatter would be bound to steal it.'
'Who?'
`The Hatter, sir. The Mad Hatter.'
Hadley's mouth was twitching back, and he seemed about to burst out laughing or leave the table in haste. But Dr Fell did not notice. He took out a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
`My dear sir,' he said, `this is most refreshing. Let me see if I follow you. Am I to understand that there is in this neighbourhood a hatter of such notoriously unbalanced mind that, as I walk innocently past his shop, he would be apt to dash into the street and steal my hat? That is carrying the aesthetic sense too far. I must courteously but firmly refuse,' continued Dr Fell, raising his voice warmly, `to run up Piccadilly pursued by impassioned hatters.'