Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Old Bag Dad by Keith Miles

As is the case with many prolific and successful authors, Keith Miles also writes under pseudonyms, his most famous being “Edward Marston,” which he reserves for his historical series. A new Marston novel, The Counterfeit Crank (an Elizabethan theater mystery featuring series character Nicholas Bracewell) is just out from St. Martin’s, and a new novel in his series of golfing mysteries, The Honolulu Play-Off (as Keith Miles), was published in April.

Nobody knew his real name. Since he was in his seventies, kept all of his worldly possessions in a plastic bag, and had a paternal manner, he was known as Old Bag Dad. Everyone who visited the Memorial Park knew and liked him. He was an institution. Sitting on his favorite bench and wearing the same tattered clothes year in and year out, he was a familiar figure in the community landscape, a cherished eccentric who radiated a kind of gentle wisdom.

Children loved him, parents trusted him, and Douglas Pym, the head park keeper, treated him with amused reverence. Old Bag Dad was not a troublemaker, or a wino, or a beggar, or a misfit, or a lunatic, or even one of the many aimless drifters who wandered in from time to time. He was, by his own definition, a good old-fashioned unrepentant tramp.

The bag was incongruous. Emblazoned with the distinctive logo of Harrods, it was filled with the most amazing range of items. It was hard to believe that Old Bag Dad had actually shopped in London’s most exclusive store, still less that he had bought there the penny whistle, the golliwogg, the pack of Tarot cards, the straw boater, the magnifying glass, the Tartan scarf, the alarm clock, the bicycle pump, the dog-eared copy of War and Peace, or any of the other unlikely objects that he invariably carried around with him. He was a collector with random tastes.

Douglas Pym always teased the old man about the bag. When he saw his friend on his bench that morning, he could not resist a joke.

“What have you got in there today?” he asked, peering into the bag. “Something from Harrods’ Food Hall?”

“Loaf of stale bread, Doug. That’s all.”

“Where did you get that?”

“I have my sources,” said the old man with a smile.

“They never seem to let you down. You always manage to get grub from somewhere. I saw you with a punnet of strawberries yesterday. Who gave you those?”

“That would be telling!”

Old Bag Dad was very fond of Douglas Pym. Though the park was locked every night, the old man was allowed to sleep there during warmer months, stretching out on his bench under a newspaper or two. On rainy days, Pym even left the door to his storeroom open so that his resident tramp could slumber under a roof for a change. What happened to Old Bag Dad in the winter was a mystery that Pym had never managed to solve. He repeated a question that he had asked a hundred times over the years.

“Where do you go, Bag Dad?”

“Here and there.”

“Come on,” said the park keeper, nudging him. “You can tell me now. I retire next week. I’ll take your secret with me. Scout’s honor! Where do you hide out in the winter?”

“I migrate south with the birds.”

“Can’t you be more specific?”

“No,” said the old man. “You’d only follow me.”

“What did you do before you became a tramp?”

“I lived a useless and unproductive existence.”

“And now?”

Old Bag Dad gave a throaty chuckle. “I’m happy,” he said.

“I’m not sure that your happiness will continue,” warned Pym sadly. “My successor may not be as easygoing as me. Ex-army man. Does everything by the book.”

“I’ll win him over, Doug.”

“You may find it difficult. Ken Latimer’s a martinet. When I told him that I made a few allowances for you, he said that they’d have to stop right away. Watch out, Bag Dad. He’s a bossy type. Likes to throw his weight about.”

Old Bag Dad grinned. “I’ll charm the pants off him.”

His voice was educated, his manners impeccable. It led many people to speculate about his earlier life. Some believed he was a university professor who had fallen on hard times, or a brilliant scientist who had had some kind of mental breakdown, or even a famous writer who could no longer get published. What set him apart from every other tramp was the pleasant aroma that always surrounded him. In a way of life not known for its attention to basic hygiene, Old Bag Dad was noted for his strong whiff of aftershave lotion, an odd choice for a man who had not shaved for years. It was almost as if he bathed in it.

“Good luck, anyway,” said Pym, offering his hand.

Old Bag Dad shook it. “Thanks for everything, Doug.”

“I should be thanking you. Whenever you’re around, the kids seem to behave much better. They wouldn’t dare to use drugs or sniff glue while Old Bag Dad is watching them. You’re a one-man police force.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Not by me.”

Douglas Pym gave him a salute before walking away. When he glanced over his shoulder, a young woman was asking the tramp to keep an eye on her baby while she went to the restroom. It was visible proof of the trust that he inspired. Singing a lullaby, Old Bag Dad rocked the child gently in its buggy. He was a picture of contentment.

Set in the heart of a large Midlands city, the Memorial Park was one of its finest assets. It contained three football pitches, two tennis courts, an open-air swimming bath, a well-tended bowling green, and — a quaint survival from an earlier age — a magnificent wrought-iron bandstand that was an irresistible challenge to juvenile climbers. Older visitors preferred the botanical gardens, but younger ones opted for the playground and its child-safe equipment. It was near the playground that Old Bag Dad liked to sit. Reclining on his bench, he was reading a book when he had his first encounter with the new head park keeper.

Ken Latimer did not believe in mincing his words. He was a tall, well-built man in his late forties with a military bearing. A tiny moustache bristled at the center of a craggy face. Marching up to the tramp, he stood over him and looked down with disdain.

“So!” he sneered. “You’re Old Bag Dad, are you?”

“That’s what they call me,” replied the other.

“Well, I don’t care whether you’re Old Bag Dad or Old Beirut. All I can see is a tramp who lowers the standards around here. My name is Mr. Latimer and my aim is to lick this place into shape.” He leaned forward. “You’re not welcome here anymore. Got it?”

“It’s a public park. You can’t throw me out.”

“I can, if you break the rules.”

“Is there a rule against reading War and Peace?” asked the tramp, holding up his book. “I would have thought an army man like you would recommend such literature.”

“Don’t try any back chat with me, old man,” cautioned the park keeper. “I’m not a soft touch like Doug Pym. Try to be clever with me and I’ll have you out of here in a shot. Got it?”

“Yes, Mr. Latimer.”

“Law and order have come to the Memorial Park.”

“They never went away.”

“Oh, yes, they did. I’m no mug. I know what’s been going on. Young kids playing truant so that they could hang around here and smoke. Couples groping each other in the long grass. Drunks puking all over the place. And a certain person,” he added meaningfully, “daring to spend the whole night in the park.”

“I had an arrangement with Doug Pym.”

“I’ve just cancelled it.”

“Why are you being so hostile, old chap?” asked the tramp, trying his warmest smile on the keeper. “At bottom, I’m on your side.”

“Not from where I stand,” retorted Latimer. “I work for a living, you don’t. I contribute, you simply take. You’re nothing but a parasite. A filthy, hairy, disgusting old parasite.”

“Bear with me and I’m sure that you’ll learn to love me.”

“Never! I rule the roost now — got it?”

“I think so.”

“Well, remember what I said. When the bell goes this evening, you leave the park along with everyone else. Trespassers will be prosecuted. In your case,” he said vengefully, “you’ll have a boot up your backside as well. Is that understood?”

“Tolstoy could not have put it more clearly.”

“Who’s he? Another tramp?”

“Don’t you ever read, Mr. Latimer?”

“Only the Rule Book. It tells me all I want to know.”

Ken Latimer was as good as his word. A strict new regime was imposed upon the park, but it made him few friends. The keepers were more vigilant and liable to chastise wrongdoers for the smallest misdemeanor. If anyone so much as let an ice-cream wrapper fall inadvertently to the ground, they were pounced on and reprimanded. Suddenly, the Memorial Park was no longer a place for fun and relaxation. Even in the botanical gardens, the iron hand of Ken Latimer was in evidence. Every visitor, young, old, or middle-aged, was aware of being under surveillance.

It was at night that Latimer claimed his greatest success. Fearing that the park was a meeting place for drug users, he instituted nocturnal patrols and chased any youths away. Lovers were also put to flight, caught in flagrante and subjected to the ear-splitting sound of Latimer’s whistle. Another victim was Molly Mandrake, a local woman of almost fifty summers, who regularly serviced her clients after dark, and who could somehow get in and out of the park at will. With his torch and whistle, Latimer soon put an end to Molly’s lucrative nighttime ventures.

He congratulated himself on what he saw as a moral triumph. No drugs, no sex — free or paid for — and no tramps. On behalf of the local community, he had comprehensively cleaned up the park. It was true that he opened his office some mornings to be met by the faintest smell of aftershave lotion, but he never for a moment connected it with a man he perceived as a filthy, hairy, disgusting old parasite. Besides, how could Old Bag Dad possibly gain access to an office that had three locks and a burglar alarm to guard it?

Ken Latimer was in control. The Memorial Park was run like clockwork and its dissident elements quickly driven away. The head park keeper could strut around as if he were still on the parade ground.

But then, the unthinkable occurred.

“Who first discovered the body, Mr. Latimer?” asked the chief inspector.

“I did,” replied the park keeper. “At seven forty-five A.M. precisely.”

“How can you be so sure of the time?”

“Because I always arrive a quarter of an hour before the gates are unlocked. As soon as I entered the park, I knew that something was wrong. When I glanced towards the bandstand, I saw the body.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran across to see if there were any vital signs, of course,” explained Latimer. “When I realized that she was dead, I took care not to damage the integrity of the crime scene.”

“Yes,” said Chief Inspector Fallowell, “we’re grateful to you for that. Did you, by any chance, recognize the lady?”

“She was no lady, Chief Inspector. That’s Molly Mandrake.”

“Show her some respect, sir. It’s a hideous way to die.”

“She had no right to be in the park.”

“That doesn’t mean she deserves to be throttled,” said Fallowell with compassion. “I know that you’ve been cracking the whip around here, Mr. Latimer, but surely even you would not advocate that intruders should be murdered in cold blood.”

“I suspect that the blood may have been a little hotter on this occasion, Chief Inspector. Molly and her client did not come in here to discuss theology.”

“How do you know it was one of her clients?”

“Who else could it have been?”

“An angry park keeper, perhaps.”

Tom Fallowell, head of the Murder Investigation Team, did not like the man he was interviewing in the shadow of the ancient bandstand. Summoned by a call from Latimer, he had resented his hortatory manner. Fallowell had great affection for the park. He had played there as a child and was now captain of the bowls team. His own children had also enjoyed the amenities but they, like so many others, found the place far less welcoming than it had been. Latimer’s reign had driven dozens of regular visitors away.

“I want this murder solved, Chief Inspector,” said the keeper.

“These things can’t be rushed, sir.”

“I’ve gone to great lengths to sweep this park clean. The last thing I need is a dead body lying in the middle of it. It’s bad publicity. Got it?”

“Molly Mandrake did not get herself killed deliberately,” argued the detective. “I know that she had reason to hate you, but even she would draw the line at being strangled so that she could ruin your nice, neat, well-behaved, spick-and-span park.”

“Don’t be sarcastic with me, Chief Inspector.”

“Then don’t try to tell me my job, sir. A murder investigation is a slow process. If we have to keep the park closed for a week, so be it. I’ll not be chivvied along by you.” He closed his notebook. “Have you spoken to Old Bag Dad yet?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Because he may be able to help us.”

“He’s been banned from the park at night.”

“So was Molly Mandrake, but that didn’t stop her, did it?”

“Old Bag Dad was nowhere near the place last night.”

“Nevertheless, we’d like to have a word with him.”

“It would be a waste of time,” said Latimer testily. “After what I said to him, he wouldn’t dare come here after dark. I put the fear of death into him.”

“I doubt that, sir,” said the other with a half-smile. “You obviously don’t know Old Bag Dad as well as we do. Did it never occur to you that Doug Pym let him stay here overnight for a reason?”

“Doug felt sorry for him, that’s all.”

“No, Mr. Latimer. Your predecessor had the sense to see how useful the old man could be. He was a sort of guard dog. There were no break-ins here when Old Bag Dad was on the prowl. And no drug users, either. Not because he’d try to arrest them — how could he? — but because he’d talk to them. He has a very persuasive tongue, you know. Old Bag Dad would do his damnedest to persuade them how stupid it was to rely on drugs for their kicks.”

Latimer was scornful. “We don’t need tramps here.”

“Fortunately, Doug Pym disagreed. That’s why we caught the lads who tried to vandalize the bowling green. Old Bag Dad saw them at it. He also foiled thieves who attempted to raid the botanical gardens. And there were many other occasions when he was a key witness.”

Latimer was stunned. “You’d listen to the word of a man like that?”

“With gratitude.”

“Well, he can’t help you this time, Inspector.”

“You may be surprised on that score.”

Fallowell turned away to supervise his scene-of-crime team and the park keeper was left to ponder. He was seething with frustration. The murder had made nonsense of his claim to have cleaned up the park. It was almost as if someone were deliberately trying to get back at him. He could think of only one person who might do that — Old Bag Dad.

It was two days before the park was reopened. Visitors swarmed in, still buzzing with curiosity about the crime and anxious to see the exact place where it had occurred. Molly Mandrake’s profession added a lurid glow to the whole affair. In their press statement, the police announced that the victim had suffered death by asphyxiation, though they were reticent about any sexual abuse involved. Colorful theories abounded.

When the head park keeper did a circuit of his domain, he was taken aback to see Old Bag Dad on his favorite bench. The tramp was in the process of eating a banana. Ken Latimer bore down on him.

“Don’t you dare throw that banana skin on the ground,” he warned.

“You have enough of those already,” said the tramp with a glint in his eye. “And it seems that you slipped on one of them. What happened to your nightly patrol, Mr. Latimer? You boasted that you’d make the park safe after dark.”

“That’s exactly what I did.”

“Try telling that to Molly Mandrake.”

“She had no business being in here.”

Old Bag Dad stiffened. “I hope you’re not going to tell me that she was asking for it,” he said, sounding a note of challenge. “No woman should suffer that fate. Molly may not’ve been a saint, but she’s entitled to our sympathy. God bless her!”

“Have you spoken to the police yet?” demanded Latimer.

“Why on earth should I do that?”

“Chief Inspector Fallowell thought you might’ve seen something.”

“Yes,” said the tramp with a chuckle. “I noticed that Tom Fallowell was in charge of the case. He’s a friend of mine. Give him my regards when you see him again.”

“You’re the one who should see him.”

“Am I?”

“Tell him what you know.”

“About what?”

“This crime,” said Latimer with irritation. “You know this park, and the people who use it, better than anybody. You must have ideas.”

“Dozens of them,” admitted the other, getting up. “Excuse me while I put this banana skin in the bin. You won’t slip on it then.”

“Were you acquainted with Molly Mandrake?”

“Not in a professional sense.” He dropped the banana skin into the metal bin. “But we often had a chat. Molly was good company. She used to be a bus conductor, you know. In the dear old days when we had such luxuries. Apparently, that’s how it all started.”

“What did?”

“Her change of direction. When they switched over to driver-only buses, Molly was out of work. She’d been so popular with her male colleagues that she decided to start charging for her expertise. I recall her telling me that it was just like being a bus conductor,” he went on with a fond smile. “They bought their ticket and she took them on a very pleasant journey.” He heaved a sigh. “The other night, alas, she reached her terminus.”

Latimer eyed him shrewdly. “You know something, don’t you?”

“I know lots of things, my friend.”

“You have information about this murder.”

“How could I?”

“It’s a crime to withhold evidence. Do you realize that?”

“What evidence could I have, Mr. Latimer?” taunted the old man. “I’m banned from the park after dark. You evicted me from my bench.”

“You might have sneaked back in here.”

“And eluded your eagle eyes? How could I possibly do that?”

“This is important. We’re talking about a serious crime.”

“Nobody is as anxious as me to see the killer brought to book,” said the tramp firmly. “Molly was a friend of mine. She was so full of life.” He shook his head slowly. “Molly was like me, Mr. Latimer. A harmless soul who relies on the sympathy and understanding of others. She also relied on their weaknesses, I grant you, but that doesn’t contradict my argument. Molly needed the kind of tolerance that Doug Pym used to give us. If he’d still been here, I have a feeling that she’d be alive to this day.”

Latimer blenched. “Are you saying I am responsible for her death?”

“Not exactly.”

“My intention was to get rid of any crime.”

“That was tantamount to throwing down the gauntlet,” said the old man. “Some people hate authority. When they’re given orders, they have this tendency to disobey them. Molly had to go on coming here.”

“And what about you?”

“Oh, I’m much more law-abiding.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Old Bag Dad beamed. “I always tell the truth to a man in a peaked cap,” he declared. “And you look as if you were born with it on.”

Ken Latimer was stymied. He realized that bullying would get him nowhere this time. If he wanted cooperation from the old man, he had to trade. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but the future of the park was at stake. He could not let an unsolved murder hang over it like a dark cloud.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s have it. What’s the deal?”

“Deal?”

“You were a witness. We need you to come forward.”

“But I was forbidden to come here at night,” the tramp reminded him. “If I give evidence, you’ll prosecute me for trespassing on council property. My lawyer would never allow me to do anything like that.”

“There’ll be no prosecution, Bag Dad.”

“What guarantee do I have of that?”

“My promise,” said Latimer proudly. “I’ll stand by it.”

“I need something more. I want to go back to the old arrangement.”

“You, staying the night here? I won’t have that.”

“Then there’s no deal. Got it?”

“There has to be. My reputation is at stake here.”

The old man indicated the bench. “So is my bed.”

“If I let you stay overnight, I’d be breaking the rules.”

“Join the club, Mr. Latimer.”

The keeper’s head sank to his chest. After a lifetime of enforcing rules and regulations, he was faced with an impossible dilemma. He could stay true to his principles and risk having an unsolved crime leaving a permanent stain on his park. Or he could compromise. It required a huge effort on his part.

“Very well,” he conceded grudgingly. “You win.”

“I’d prefer it if we could shake hands on that.”

It was almost too much to ask. Latimer was a fastidious man with a deep-seated hatred of tramps, but he knew that Old Bag Dad was in a position to dictate terms. With severe misgivings, he extended his hand. The other man shook it, then walked across to pick up his bag.

“I think I’ll go and have a talk with Tom Fallowell,” he said.

When he arrived at the police station, Old Bag Dad was taken straight to the chief inspector. A mass of evidence had already been collected, but no suspect had yet emerged. The police were baffled. The tramp was able to supply a crucial detail.

“I caught a glimpse of the registration number on the car.”

“What was it?” pressed Fallowell.

“This is only a guess, mind you,” said the old man. “It was quite dark. Luckily, he left the door open when he got out of the car so the courtesy light was on. That meant I saw him clearly.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Not exactly.”

“And the number of the car?”

“I think it was W848 MJK.”

“Any idea of the make?”

“A Mondeo. But don’t ask me the color, Tom.”

Fallowell wrote down the details on a slip of paper and handed it to a colleague. The latter immediately picked up a telephone to trace the owner of the vehicle. The chief inspector turned to Old Bag Dad.

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“I was held up by a legal technicality.”

“Would his name happen to be Ken Latimer?”

“No wonder you became a detective!”

“Thanks for coming forward, Bag Dad,” said Fallowell. “This may be the breakthrough that we need. But next time you have evidence,” he stressed, “make sure that you give it immediately. In a murder inquiry, we expect help from the public.”

The old man winked. “Oh, I think you’ll find that I’ve given that.”

Ten minutes later, Chief Inspector Fallowell was in a police car leading a convoy to an address that they had been given. When they reached their destination, they found the house in a quiet cul-de-sac. Standing on the drive was a blue Ford Mondeo with the correct registration plate. The inspector leapt out of the car and deployed his men around the property. He rang the bell, but got no response. When he pounded on the door with his fist, he still elicited no reply. Standing back, he nodded to a waiting police officer, who smashed down the door without ceremony. Armed detectives surged into the house to be met by a sight that made them stop in their tracks.

Chief Inspector Fallowell was as astonished as the rest of them. The man they wanted to interview could not have answered the door, even if he had wanted to do so. Sitting in an upright chair, he was bound and gagged. The look of desperation in his eyes was a confession of guilt in itself. He was untied, asked his name, then formally arrested on a charge of murder. Fallowell ordered his men to take the prisoner out. Others were told to search the premises.

One of the detectives sniffed the air. He wrinkled his nose.

“What’s that?” he asked. “Smells like aftershave lotion.”

“Funny,” said Fallowell with a knowing smile. “Can’t smell a thing.”

Douglas Pym soon got to hear how a brutal murder had been solved with the help of a tramp who was trespassing on council property. He was delighted to learn how Old Bag Dad had wrested a vital concession from the new head park keeper. The tramp had the freedom of the park once more. Pym caught his friend on his usual bench, finishing the last chapter of War and Peace. The old man let out a chuckle of satisfaction.

“I always wondered how the book ended,” he said.

“What’s it to be with Ken Latimer from now on — war or peace?”

“Peace with honor, Doug.”

“Be careful. He bears grudges.”

“I fancy that he’ll keep out of my way from now on.”

“Until the cold weather sets in,” noted Pym. “Even you won’t stay around the Memorial Park then. You’ll be up and away.”

“Following the sun.”

“But where to? I do wish you’d tell me that.”

“Then I’ll let you into the secret, Doug. I go to the Middle East.”

“The Middle East?”

“My spiritual home.”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

“Of course not. There’s only one place I could go.”

“Is there?”

“Yes,” said the tramp with a grin. “Old Baghdad.”