The Complete Simon Iff Read online

  “Perhaps he was prevented. No; no one has seen him, to be positive, since the dramatic features began, later than Friday evening, or perhaps possibly after he left the bank.”

  “That’s so; and there’s nae doot o’ it.

  “But he was seen after leaving the bank on Friday; a man answering to his description hired the big touring car in which his body was found this morning, at an hour very shortly after he left me. Otherwise he has not been seen, as you say.”

  “Yet infinite pains have been taken to show you the man, dead or alive, here, there, and everywhere.”

  “But some of those are unreasonable. This morning, for instance, and the corpse at Ilfracombe.”

  “Yes, my poor pragmatic friend, that is the point. You would have analyzed purely rational appearances; these were beyond you. The strange atmosphere of the case bewildered your brain. It’s probably the same at Scotland Yard.

  “Observe how you were played on throughout. Why alarm you so early and so elaborately? Criminals always prefer the maximum time to make their get away. This thing was planned from long before — and probably, if you had refused to be frightened about the money, the whole scheme would have miscarried. Note that Mr. Clever does not begin to alarm you until after Vision Number Two, when doubtless he changed the package for the dummy. Stop! what was the size of the package?”

  “Pretty bulky; about a cubic foot.”

  “Then I’m an ass. Oh dear! now I must begin to think all over again.”

  “If he changed it before Fisher’s eyes, Fisher must be in the plot. Yet that would compromise him hopelessly. Besides, that must have been Fraser, now that I come to think of it. He had the combination.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter, as I see it. I’ve been rash and foolish, but I see the whole thing now, I think. Others besides Fisher would have noticed if Fraser had carried a parcel, or a bag, in or out?”

  “Yes: I asked that. He had nothing in his hands; and his light overcoat was buttoned tight to his very slim figure, so he couldn’t have concealed it.”

  “Thank you. Everything is perfectly clear now. But I don’t want to tell you; I want to prove it to your eyes. Let me call at your apartment at 9:30 to-morrow morning, and we will settle this business together. Can you keep the morning free?”

  “Oh yes! Fisher can do all that is necessary at the bank.”

  V

  The next morning Simon Iff was punctual to his appointment. “Our first business,” he told Macpherson, “is one of simple good feeling and good manners. Miss Clavering must be in a terrible state of mind. We will call and tell her that Fraser has been cleared, and condole with her upon his loss. Would you telephone and ask for an appointment?”

  Macpherson did so. The answer came that Miss Clavering was still asleep; on her waking, the message would be given. Where should she, the nurse, telephone?

  Macpherson gave his number. About twenty minutes later the nurse called him. “Could you be here at ten minutes before eleven?” she said. Macpherson agreed. “Splendid!” cried Iff, when he hung up the receiver; “of course, I wish she could have made it twelve minutes instead of ten. We may be a little late at the bank.” The Scot looked at him to see if his mind were not sick; but his whole face was so radiant, his eyes so alight with mischievous intelligence, that the banker could not fail to divine some signal triumph. But he was none the less amazed. What information could the man have gleaned from the mere time of a quite commonplace appointment?

  Simon Iff was exceedingly punctilious in pushing the bell at Miss Clavering’s to the minute. They were admitted at once. The girl, a tall, slim, languid beauty, Spanish in type, with a skin of extreme pallor, was lying on a couch. She was dressed very simply in black; her mind seemed exhausted by the grief and pain through which she was passing. The nurse and doctor, kneeling at the foot of the couch, were in the act of dressing the injured ankle. It was probably adorable in normal times, but now it was swollen and discolored. The first consideration of Macpherson and his friend was to express sympathy. “Is it a bad sprain?” they asked the doctor. “I have a feeling that one of the small bones is displaced; I have asked Sir Bray Clinton to step in; he should be here in a few minutes.” “Perfect, perfect!” murmured Iff; “if the case goes ill, it will be from no lack of care.”

  “Everybody is charming to me,” lisped Miss Clavering faintly.

  Macpherson then proceeded, as arranged, to exonerate Fraser from guilt; though he said that he had no idea of the real culprit, and it was the most bewildering case he had ever heard of.

  “We know the principal party concerned, though,” chirped Iff. “He is a Chinaman, we are sure of that, though we don’t know his name; and there’s not the least chance of arresting him. In fact, one can hardly say that he is guilty.”

  Macpherson turned open-mouthed upon the mystic. “A Chinaman!” he gasped.

  “Well, now you mention it, I don’t really know whether he was a Chinaman after all!”

  Macpherson thought it best to hint that his companion was a little fanciful. At that moment the bell rang. “That will be Clinton!” said the doctor. “I’m so charmed with your calling,” sighed the girl, in evident dismissal, “and I’m so relieved that at least Mr. Fraser died an innocent man.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment; then, mastering herself, extended them to her visitors, who leaned over them, and departed with the nurse. On the door-step stood Sir Bray Clinton, to whom both Iff and Macpherson extended hearty greeting.

  “Now,” said Iff, as they turned down the street, “that pleasant duty off our minds, to the bank, and prepare for sterner work!”

  VI

  “It is a cold morning,” said Simon Iff, taking a chair in the managerial room, “at least, to so old a man as I. May I have a fire, while we are waiting? And would you please be so good as to ignore me for a while; I will tell you when all is ready.”

  Macpherson grew more bewildered every moment, for the day was very warm; but the authority of the Hemlock Club still weighed upon his soul. He was a snob of snobs, like all Scotsmen who barter their birthright of poverty and independence for England’s sloth and luxury; and he would almost have jumped out of the window at a request from any member of the aristocracy. And the Hemlock Club thought no more of snubbing an Emperor than a child of plucking a daisy.

  Half an hour elapsed; Macpherson busied himself in the bank. At the end of that time Iff came out, and brought him back. “I should like,” he said, “to have a few words with Mr. Fisher.”

  Macpherson complied. “Shut the door, Mr. Fisher, if you please,” said the magician, “we old men fear the cold terribly. Take a seat; take a seat. Now I only want to ask you one small point connected with this case; it is one that puzzles me considerably.” “I’m entirely baffled myself,” returned Fisher; “but of course I’ll tell you anything I know.”

  “There are really two points: one you may know; the other you must know. We will take them in that order. First, how did the doctor come to miss his appointment on the Ewing Road? Second, how long ——”

  Fisher had gripped the arms of his chair. His face was deathly.

  “How long,” pursued the mystic, inexorably, “is it since you fell in love with Clara Clavering?” Macpherson had bounded to his feet. He compressed his Scottish mouth with all his Scottish will. Simon Iff went on imperturbably. “I think perhaps you do not realize how critical was that failure of the doctor to materialize. Knowing the moment of Fraser’s murder, everything becomes clear.”

  “I suppose this is what you call the third degree!” sneered Fisher. “I’m not to be bluffed.”

  “So you won’t talk, my friend? I think you will when we apply this white-hot poker here to your bare abdomen.”

  Fisher faltered. “That was terrible!” It was the cry of a damned soul. “Was terrible, you’ll note, Mr. Macpherson,” cried Simon Iff, “not will be. Come, Mr. Fisher, you see I know the whole story.”

  “Then you had better tell it.”
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  “I will. You’ll remember, Macpherson, I told you that I saw in this whole plot the workings of a creative mind of high color and phantasy; possibly on the border of madness. So I began to look for such a mind. I did not need to look for clues; once I found the right kind of mind, the rest would fit. I began to suspect Mr. Fisher here on account of his rose-growing activities; but I soon saw that he had too many alibis. Fraser, with a mind like a Babbage calculating machine, was out of the question from the start, although he had just fallen in love — which sometimes works some pretty fine miracles in a man!

  “The only other person in the circle was Miss Clavering herself, and I made an opportunity to see her. I saw, too, that she was not very much in the circle; she appeared accidentally and quite naturally. I thought that such an apparent comet might be the Sun of the system of deception.

  “I was delighted when I was given an exact time, not a round hour or half hour, for the interview; it suggested an intricacy.

  “I arrive at the house; I see a perfect stage picture; an undeniable swollen ankle, which is also an undeniable alibi; and, in case any one did doubt the ankle, there was a witness above all suspicion, Sir Bray Clinton, on his way to see it. Could I doubt that Miss Clavering was awake when Macpherson first telephoned, and used the interval to make a date with Clinton and the doctor? Only we must not be there for the interview; Clinton would ask when the accident happened. It would not do to tell him “Friday,” when the other doctor had deliberately dislocated the foot, as I was sure, on Monday, after Vision Number Ten of poor Fraser.

  “But how does it happen that Fraser writes and telephones just as Miss Clavering dictates? Here we touch the darkest moment of the drama. He was evidently a puppet throughout. It is clear to me that Miss Clavering, disguised as Fraser, hired the big racing car; that she met him on Friday night, chloroformed him, took him to the house of Fisher here, and kept him in durance.

  “On the Saturday she and Fisher play their appointed roles. Vision Number Two is devised to make it appear that Saturday noon is the moment of the robbery, when in reality the parcels had been exchanged long before.”

  “I never packed the notes,” said Fisher. “I put them away in my bag and took them home with me on Friday night.”

  “Good boy! now we’re being sensible. Well, to continue with Saturday. Miss Clavering has a corpse in her car — and this made me suspect a medical accomplice — goes through her tricks, and returns to Fraser’s house. They then proceed to put pressure on Fraser. He resists. Miss Clavering resorts to the white-hot poker. How do I know? Because care was taken to destroy the abdomen. Under this torture Fraser wrote the telegram which was later handed in by Clara; then he was set to telephone to you, Macpherson, with the implement of torture ready in case he should make a mistake. Yet he kicked; they had to ring off, and have a second orgie of devilment before he would give the answer you required. It was useless for him to give a false answer; his best chance of help (as they probably showed him) was to convince you that it was he.

  “Directly this is over, Fraser is murdered. It would really have been safer to wait till the last moment ——”

  “Of course it would. You don’t know all, though you must be the devil to know what you do. But Fraser had aortic regurgitation; he died while still speaking to you. We had meant him to say a great deal more. That was where our plan broke down.”

  “Still, it was a good plan,” returned Simon Iff cordially. “And the rest is simple. The car is left on a lonely road, with Fraser in it, an evident suicide. And the doctor was to drive past; he was in waiting, after firing the shot into Fraser’s abdomen, for the lights of the patrol or whoever should come up; and he was to certify that the shot had caused death. Why should anyone suspect anything else? Perhaps the doctor would offer to take it away in his car, and lose time in various ways, until the hour of death was no longer certain. Now, Fisher, why didn’t he do as arranged?”

  “Clara was full of morphia up to the neck. She did it all, plan and execution, on morphine and hysteria. Oh, you don’t know her! But she broke down at that moment. She was in the car with Leslie; she had a fit of tearing off her clothes and screaming, and he had to struggle with her for an hour. When she came to, it was too late and too dangerous to do anything. When I heard it, an hour later, I knew the game was up. I knew that Fate was hunting us, even as we had thought we were hunting Fate! The two accidents — Fraser’s death and her insanity — were the ruin of all! God help me!”

  “So she took morphia!” cried Macpherson. “Then was that what you meant about the Chinaman?”

  “Good, Macpherson! You’re beginning to bring your Shakespeare into the bank!”

  “But you — how did you know about it?”

  “I was ten years in China. I’ve smoked opium as hard as anybody. I recognized the drama from the first as a mixture of opium-visions and sex-hysteria.”

  “But I still don’t see why they should play this mad and dangerous game, when it would have been so simple just to steal the money and get away.”

  “Well, first, there was the love of the thing. Secondly, it was exceedingly shrewd. The important point was to cover the one uncoverable thing, the theft of the money. Left alone, your business routine would have worked with its usual efficiency. You would have traced the Paris package minute by minute. Instead of that, you never gave it one thought. You were out on a wild goose chase after Fraser. She took you out of the world you know into the world she knows, where you are a mere baby. I could follow her mad mind, because I have smoked opium. You might try that, too, by the way, Macpherson, if the Russian Ballet doesn’t appeal to you!

  “And now, Mr. Fisher, I wish you to answer my second question. I have reasons for inclining to acquit you, in part; for giving you a chance. The man I mean to hang is Dr. Leslie. He is one of a common type, the ambitious money-loving Scotsman, clever and handsome, who comes to London to make his way. They become women’s doctors; they seduce their patients; they make them drug-fiends; they perform abortions; and to the extortionate charges for their crimes they add a tenfold profit by blackmail. These men are the curse of London.”

  “It’s true; I think he ruined Clara with morphine. I feel sure she was a good girl once.”

  “Tell us of your relations with her.”

  “I met her a year ago. Her fascination conquered me at once. Oh, you don’t know her! She could do anything with us all! She could tantalize and she could gratify, beyond all dreams. She was a liar to the core; but so wonderful, that even at the moment when reason declared her every word to be a lie, the heart and soul believed, as a nun clings to a crucifix! I was her slave. She tortured and enraptured me by day and night. At this moment I would kill myself to please her whim. She has delighted to make me do degrading and horrible things; she has paid me for a week of agony with a kiss or a smile; she ——”

  The boy gasped, almost fainted. “Are there such women?” asked Macpherson. “I thought it was a fairy-tale.”

  “I have known three, intimately,” returned Simon Iff: “Edith Harcourt, Jeanne Hayes, Jane Forster. What the boy says is true. I may say that indulgence in drink or drugs tends to create such monsters out of the noblest women. Of the three I have mentioned, the two latter were congenitally bad; Edith Harcourt was one of the finest women that ever lived, but her mother had taught her to drink when yet a child, and in a moment of stress the hidden enemy broke from ambush and destroyed her soul. Her personality was wholly transformed; yes, sir, on the whole, I believe in possession by the devil. All three women ruined the men, or some of them, with whom they were associated. Jeanne Hayes ruined the life of her husband and tore the soul out of her lover before she killed herself; Jane Forster drove a worthy lawyer to melancholy madness. Of their lesser victims, mere broken hearts and so on, there is no count. Edith Harcourt made her husband’s life a hell for three years, and after her divorce broke loose altogether, and destroyed many others with envenomed caresses.”

  “You kne
w her intimately, you say?”

  “She was my wife.”

  Macpherson remained silent. Fisher was sitting with his head clasped in his hands, his body broken up with sobs.

  “Now, Macpherson, we are going to compound felony. I’m glad there was no murder, after all. I want you to let me take Fisher away with me; I’m going to put him with a society of which I am president, which specializes in such cases, without cant or cruelty. Its aim is merely to put a man in the conditions most favorable to his proper development. This was a fine lad until he met the woman who destroyed him, and I know that such women have a more than human power.

  “It will be your business to put Miss Clavering in an asylum, if you can catch her, which I sorely doubt. But I think that if you go warily, you may catch Leslie.”

  It turned out as he had said. Clara had scented mischief, with her morphine-sharpened intellect and her hysteric’s intuition. She had persuaded Sir Bray Clinton to send her down to a hospital of his own in the country — and on the way she had seized the soul of the chauffeur. They disappeared together, and there was no word of her for many a day. But Leslie had suspected nothing in the visit, or had laughed it off, or had decided to bluff it out; he was arrested, and sentenced to penal servitude for life.

  Fisher justified the good opinion of Simon Iff; but his spirit was broken by his fatal love, and he will never do more than serve the society that saved him, with a dog’s devotion.

  Macpherson followed the old mystic’s advice; he is to-day the most daring, although the soundest, financier in London. Two nights ago he dined with the magician at the Hemlock Club. “I’ve brought Shakespeare into the Bank,” he said, laughingly, to Simple Simon. “But I’ll keep him out of the Club, this time!”

  “Oh well!” said Simon, “to spend too much time in studies is sloth; to use them too much for ornament is affectation; to make judgement wholly by their rules is the humor of a scholar; they perfect nature, and are themselves perfected by experience; crafty men condemn them, wise men use them, simple men admire them; for they teach not their own use, but that there is a wisdom without them and above them won by observation. It’s well worth Five Pounds!”