Part 4

‘My learned friend has just been telling you. I was going away for a brief and well-earned holiday, and I had decided to give the competition a miss this time. As I was sitting in the club, studying a guide-book, in came Quillian looking like a thimble-rigger who has just set up his little plush-covered table. He offered me his first bet. I put it aside. He offered the second, and he says I didn’t take time to think. Thought with me does not take the prolonged period of gestation that it does in the case of the nobler animals, such as K.C.’s. I thought two thoughts. The first was that Quillian was out after this competition. The second was that when two men gamble together what one wins the other loses and vice versa. That was enough. I took him. He won the first bet but lost a pound by it. It follows that I lost the first bet but won a pound by it. Similarly, when he lost the bet but won a pound I won the bet and lost a pound. It’s all very simple and elementary. I hope he’s going to make a victim of me again soon. This time without any effort on my part he has shoved fifty-five pounds at me. I’ve only had to take it. And I don’t care whether it was benevolence or mental short-sightedness—I’m going to thank him just the same.’

‘The claim’s allowed, of course,’ said the chairman. ‘The thing that makes me mad is that I didn’t see it myself until you pointed it out. It’s obvious. It simply shrieks at you. My mind must be going.’

‘The menu that you devised for our dinner to-night, sir,’ said Pusely-Smythe, ‘was sufficient proof of the contrary. Those that study the recondite must sometimes find the obvious out of their focus.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Matthews. ‘I’ll learn the last sentence by heart—it’ll make a ripping excuse next time I do a dam’ silly thing.’

Cheques were drawn for Quillian and Pusely-Smythe, and the chairman then opened the envelope containing the problem that Leonard had set for the following month. It was entitled ‘The Handkerchief Problem,’ and on the face of it scarcely supported the theory that the ingenious Leonard was a Great Moral Teacher. The Hon. James Feldane was reminded that it would be his duty to preside on the next occasion and to adjudicate on this problem, which was as follows: ‘It is required to steal as many handkerchiefs as possible from a member or members of the Problem Club. Violence may not be used and thefts detected in the act will not score. Restitution will be made of the stolen handkerchiefs within twenty-four hours of the adjudication, but felonious intent is to be presumed in every case.’

‘Rotten luck,’ said Feldane, to his friend, Hesseltine. ‘I should have enjoyed working on this problem. It appeals to my natural instincts. I should probably have won it, and in that case might have given one or two of them something on account. And so this has to be the occasion when I’m shut out of the competition and have to act as chairman.’

‘Yes,’ said Hesseltine. ‘Nobody’s so sure of himself as the non-starter.’

No. V.

The Handkerchief Problem

At the forty-seventh meeting of the Problem Club, the chair was taken by the youngest member, the Hon. James Feldane. That weary young gentleman having provided himself with a double portion of green Chartreuse, for the purpose, as he said, of supporting the dignity of the position, opened his adjudication a little informally.

‘Let’s get started,’ he said. ‘The first job is to read out the particular teaser with which the wily Leonard has been worrying you poor old things during the past month. Here goes.’

The terms of the Handkerchief Problem were then read out. They were as follows: ‘It is required to steal as many handkerchiefs as possible from a member or members of the Problem Club. Violence may not be used and thefts detected in the act will not score. Restitution will be made of the stolen handkerchiefs within twenty-four hours of the adjudication, but felonious intent is to be presumed in every case.’

‘I wish I could have been a competitor this time,’ the chairman continued, ‘instead of being stuck up here to give the momentous decision. I should have had some sport, and handkerchief-sneaking falls nicely within my line of intellect; I might have scooped the prize. But as I’m debarred from scoring off you, I’ve taken jolly good care that none of you should score off me. For the past month every handkerchief I’ve used has been attached to the interior of the pocket by a steel chain and swivel, and those not in use have been locked away in a safe. My valet thinks I’ve gone off my head, of course, but then he’d have been bound to have thought that sooner or later, anyhow. The great point is that not one of you low pickpockets has been able to get a handkerchief out of me. We’ll now pursue the inquiry. Hesseltine, are you guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty, m’lord,’ said young Hesseltine cheerfully. ‘I may not be winner, but I think it would be safe to back me for a place. I struck early. At our last meeting, as soon as this problem was announced, I slipped stealthily and unobserved from the room. I had rightly concluded that there would be no attendant in the cloak-room at that hour. If there had been I should have sent him away to get me a box of matches. From the overcoats of members I secured a nice little haul of nine handkerchiefs. One of them, a silk bandanna, the property of Major Byles, was big enough for two, and ought to count as two.’

‘Might count two on a division, as they say at the elections,’ said the chairman. ‘But in the undivided state it counts one. Anything further to say?’

‘That was my only _coup_. The only thing to add is that one of the nine belonged to a gentleman who did not start keeping them in the safe quite soon enough.’

‘All right,’ said Jimmy. ‘Speaking entirely _sotto voce_ and _ex officio_, I’ll be even with you for that one of these days. Meanwhile, Mr Matthews, it will be your painful duty as secretary to give that thief a score of nine.’

The chairman then called upon Mr Quillian, K.C., whose story was connected with the story of Mr Pusely-Smythe. In both cases it was a story of failure. Both men had hit on precisely the same idea.

Quillian called on Pusely-Smythe at a time when he knew he would be out, but would be expected back shortly. He, as he anticipated, was recognised by the servant and asked if he would wait. During the period of waiting Quillian made a swift and silent excursion to Pusely-Smythe’s bedroom with a view to abstracting his available store of handkerchiefs. But the chairman was not the only member who had taken the precaution of keeping his handkerchiefs in an unlikely place. Not one solitary handkerchief could Quillian find. And while he was thus engaged Pusely-Smythe had been calling on Quillian with similar intentions, similar practice, and a similar result.

‘You’re both too clever to live,’ observed the chairman, ‘but you’ve cancelled one another for once. Mr Harding Pope, as a politician, you should be familiar with the paths of dishonesty. How did you get on?’

The Member of Parliament gave a somewhat sickly smile.

‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that I have not competed. I represent a Dissenting constituency, which is careful—almost to the point of being inquisitorial—as to my character and private life. Had I competed, it is easily possible that I might have been arrested. I could have explained, but all explanations come too late. It would have done me great injury. In the circumstances I have decided to resign my membership of this club, and my resignation will be in the chairman’s hands at the next meeting. I have enjoyed these meetings immensely, but I have been—and am likely to be—too often debarred from taking an active part in the competition as a member should. The delightful but unscrupulous Leonard asks too much of me. Should I ever find myself in a position of greater freedom and less responsibility, I shall certainly crave the honour of re-election.’

‘Sorry,’ said the chairman. ‘I’m sure we all are. But the rules of the club do require that members shall be workers and not merely onlookers. If ever the political cat jumps the other way, and you’re thrown out of Westminster into the cold, cold night, I make no doubt that at the first vacancy we shall welcome the lost sheep back to the nest. I will now call upon Major Byles.’

The Major lived in the country. There were unusually good golf links in the neighbourhood, and he was both a good player and a good host. He had used his opportunities as he explained.

‘I worked on a system. I waited till my man was absolutely wrapped up in the game, meanwhile locating his handkerchief carefully. Then, at the moment when he was following the ball with the eye, I put in some swift finger-work. It was not always successful. The Doctor, for instance, bowled me out twice—he’s got eyes in the back of his head. But I got six handkerchiefs that way, and a seventh from a rain-coat that had been left in my hall. I’ve good reason to know that I’m not a winner, but it’s not bad—eh?’

‘A good sporting game,’ said the chairman. ‘These thefts from the person ought really to count more than easy overcoat-shots. They want more dexterity. The others only require brain-work. Still, I have to administer the law as Leonard lays it down. So far Hesseltine wins.’

‘But he won’t win,’ said the Major mysteriously. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve got good reason to know it.’ And he proceeded to compound for himself a due measure of whisky and seltzer-water.

Dr Alden, who was next called upon, could claim a score of only two. But so far as it went, it was brilliant and audacious work. One of the handkerchiefs had been taken from Sir Charles Bunford and one from Mr Matthews, and in both cases the theft had been committed in Piccadilly in broad daylight and under the eyes of the police.

‘It’s clear where your real talent lies,’ said Jimmy. ‘You’re wasted in Harley Street. However, time’s getting on, and a few bad men would like a rubber of bridge before we part. Will any member who claims to have beaten Hesseltine’s score kindly hold up a hand?’

The Rev. Septimus Cunliffe and Mr Wildersley, A.R.A., both held up hands.

‘What?’ said the chairman. ‘Our padre in the sneak-thief business? Has he no respect for his cloth? Leonard has a lot to answer for. However, we will hear you, Mr Cunliffe.’

[Illustration: Three gentlemen in a smoking-room, smoking and drinking. One man is wearing a clerical vest and collar; the other two are dressed in tuxedo dinner suits and have monocles. One man is speaking, addressing the room at large. He leans casually against a table upon which can be seen a cigar box, a whisky bottle, and drinking glasses. Caption: ‘“Has he no respect for his cloth?”’]

‘Leonard,’ said that broad-minded cleric in his sonorous voice, ‘has once more revealed himself as a great moralist. He has shown us that the thief, a bad man, must none the less have good qualities, and has taught us to differentiate the good from the bad. The spirit of adventure, the clever planning, the manual dexterity displayed by the thief, are all worthy of praise. It is solely to his felonious intentions that we should take exception. Leonard has expressly provided that for the purposes of this competition the felonious intentions are to be purely imaginary; they are to be supposed. Consequently, I could approach the problem with a clear conscience. And I admit that in compiling a score of fourteen my cloth has been of assistance. Suspicion does not attach readily to a man in clerical attire.

‘To proceed to my story, one Saturday, early in the month, I had been down to play golf with our friend, the Major. (By the way, you’ll send me back my handkerchief, Major. Already in the post? Thanks.) On leaving his house I noticed at the back entrance a laundry van, in charge of a sleepy-looking rustic. The name and address of the laundry were proclaimed on the van in large letters. My knowledge of the country showed me that in approaching the Major’s house that van would pass an inn called the Royal George, at a distance of two miles from the house, and a turning to the railway-station at a distance of one mile. That made everything easy. On the following Saturday I was on that road three miles from the house. My boots were dusty and I looked as tired as I could. I waited till the van came along, hailed it, and asked the driver to give me a lift as far as the station turning. He was not averse to making an extra shilling, and I climbed up. For the first mile I was talking to the man and making friends with him. When we reached The Royal George I suggested that a pint at my expense would not come amiss to him, and that I would look after the horse while he was inside. He was good enough to say that I was a parson after his own heart, and handed me the reins. The horse did not need any looking after; it was not that kind of horse. In the interior of the van I explored a laundry basket, and annexed fourteen of the Major’s handkerchiefs. (I have left them in the cloak-room for you, Major.) When the driver came out I was holding the reins and looking pensive. I stepped off at the station turning. What is your decision, Mr Chairman?’

‘Brainy piece of work, and a fair score of fourteen. My idea was that nobody would get beyond fifteen. Did you beat that, Wildersley?’

That large but child-like artist smiled. ‘I claim a score of one hundred and forty-four.’

‘Gee-whizz! I didn’t know there were so many handkerchiefs in the world. Which members did you get them from?’

‘I got the whole lot from you, in spite of the steel chain and the locked safe.’

‘But I’ve not got as many. It’s an impossibility. However, let’s have the yarn.’

‘You’ll find it’s all right, Mr Chairman. You young men are so careless that you don’t know what you’ve got. Some time ago I had to execute a Deed of Gift—making over a rotten-cotton picture of mine to a provincial gallery. Up to that time I didn’t know the difference between a Deed of Gift and a hole in a wall, but you learn things as you go on living. When this problem was set, I saw that by a Deed of Gift and a small investment I could do myself good. My first step was to buy twelve dozen handkerchiefs—top quality and deucedly expensive. I had a monogram of the chairman’s initials excellently designed by myself and embroidered by the shop on all those handkerchiefs. This having been done, I collected my parcel of lingerie and went off to my solicitor, who is of the old-established, eighteen-carat type. I told him what I wanted, and the shock nearly killed him. When he got better I explained that it was a joke, but that it was essential in order to get the laugh that the Deed of Gift making over the handkerchiefs should be all correct, water-tight, and copper-bottomed. He does not understand jokes and will believe anything about them. So he engineered me a lovely Deed. I then addressed the parcel to the Hon. James Feldane, and went off with it in a taxi to Jimmy’s place. I deposited the parcel, with the address downwards, on a chair in the hall, and put my overcoat and hat on the top of it. I then went in and had a few words with Jimmy about a bridge-problem. I had now made the handkerchiefs Jimmy’s property by Deed of Gift. I had delivered them at his residence. It only remained to steal them, and that was easy. It’s always easier to steal a thing if the owner doesn’t know he’s got it. Besides, as it was half-past eleven in the morning, Jimmy’s costume consisted of a bath-gown, a Turkish cigarette, and a bad headache, which excused him from coming out into the hall with me when I left. I picked up my hat and coat, and a parcel containing one hundred and forty-four handkerchiefs, the property of the chairman, and went off. He will find the parcel returned to him when he gets home to-night. And I should like his decision.’

‘Much obliged to you, Wildersley. It’s ironical that I can make a bit, as long as I’m not competing. All the same, the decision must be held up a moment. The fact that you’ve provided me with more handkerchiefs than I shall ever use this side of the silent tomb might influence my judicial mind. I must have a second opinion—counsel’s. Will Mr Quillian kindly give us his views on this claim.’

‘I don’t usually give opinions in this off-hand way,’ said Mr Quillian, ‘but on this occasion I have really no doubt. The Deed, sir, was duly executed, so we are informed. The goods in question were bona-fide intended to become your property, and have in fact become so. They were delivered at your residence. In the absence of felonious intent I should say that they had not been stolen, but the terms of the problem state that felonious intent is to be presumed. Your ignorance of the whole transaction does not seem to me to affect it. In your place, sir, I should have no hesitation in finding the claim good—and I only wish I had thought of the idea myself—I ought to have done.’

‘Thank you, Mr Quillian. Then I decide that Wildersley is the winner. Mr Matthews, will you please draw the usual cheque to Mr Wildersley’s order?’

This having been done, and the chairman for the next meeting appointed, Jimmy opened the sealed envelope containing the problem that Leonard, the astute head-waiter, had set for the ensuing month.

Jimmy read it to himself first. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is a new line of country. This is somewhat of a sensation. It’s called the Identity Problem, and runs as follows: “It is required to discover the identity of Leonard. The use of professional detectives, and any communication with Leonard himself on the subject of this problem, are forbidden.”’

‘I always knew,’ said Hesseltine, with conviction, ‘that chap was no ordinary head-waiter.’

And it appeared that several other members, who also had forgotten to mention it before, had always been of the same opinion.

No. VI.

The Identity Problem

The Rev. Septimus Cunliffe took the chair at the forty-eighth meeting of the Problem Club. The problem which Leonard, the astute head-waiter, had set the members to solve during the preceding month was simply the discovery of his own identity; and competitors were debarred from communicating with Leonard himself or from employing detectives in its solution.

Mr Cunliffe, with a pardonable enjoyment of his own excellent elocution, read out the terms of the problem in tones that almost made it a drama. And the few introductory remarks that usually fell from the chairman became in his case almost an address. True, the occasion furnished him with some excuse.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘with this meeting the Problem Club brings to a close the fourth year of its existence. The idea of the club, as I dare say most of you are aware, originated in the imaginative brain of Lord Herngill, and of the original members there are still three left us—Sir Charles Bunford, Major Byles, and Mr Matthews. The eccentric nobleman who was our founder did not himself long remain a member. Broken in health and, as I understand, suffering from private disappointments, he relinquished his clubs and retired altogether from society. He spent the remainder of his days on his Yorkshire estate, shut out from the world and even denying himself the companionship of old friends. It was only a few months ago that his death was announced in the newspapers. A somewhat gloomy subject, gentlemen, but it seemed to me fitting that on this occasion we should recall with gratitude the name of our founder.

‘Now for the first two years of the club’s existence the monthly problem was always provided by the member whose duty it would be to adjudicate on it. But during the second year it was found that this did not work well. Some of the members had not sufficient readiness of invention. Others did not show sufficient discretion. Our minutes of that period show some problems, I grieve to say, that can only be described as scandalous. Under these circumstances a member, Mr Barstairs, since dead, was deputed to find for us some able and trustworthy person who, for a small honorarium, would act as our setter of problems. At the next meeting he announced that he had selected Leonard, who had then just become head-waiter here.

‘The selection of a head-waiter for the purpose seemed to some of us—certainly to myself—fantastic, more especially as Barstairs offered no explanation at all. But, we must admit, fantasy plays some part in the spirit of the club, and no formal objection was raised. Time has shown that Barstairs had reason in his fantasy. Leonard has given us every satisfaction. Whoever he may be, I think that we are agreed on one point—that he possesses qualities unusual in a head-waiter.

‘In fact, gentlemen, the news that I am about to give you will, I am sure, be received with regret. I have a letter from Leonard in which he tells me that after eleven to-night he will cease to be in the service of the hotel, and will no longer be available as our problem-setter. He offers, if it would be any convenience to us, to name a successor whose ability and discretion he can guarantee absolutely. I may add that it is a very properly-expressed and respectful letter.

‘The appointment of a successor may, I think, be considered later. Let us now proceed to the adjudication of the current competition. I confess that if I personally had to find out who Leonard is, I should not, under the conditions imposed, know how to begin. However, I have great confidence in the ingenuity of the ten members before me—there would have been eleven but for Harding Pope’s resignation.’

The chairman’s confidence was misplaced. Every member had made an attempt to solve the problem, but every one had failed. Several of them had hit on the expedient of following Leonard when he left the hotel. The Hon. James Feldane, for example, had hit on it, and recounted his failure.