Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 1, May 1967 (UK)

The Chinless Wonder by Stanley Abbott

’Tis a reasonably accurate prognostication that one who parades in false adornment may anticipate apprehension.

Walter Mills was twenty-five and fed up, “browned off” as he put it, with life and with Himself. Since he was seventeen, he Had worked in a solicitor’s office near Piccadilly, slowly working himself up from the high stool of a junior clerk to the desk of a bookkeeper.

For eight years he had carried out his routine work without complaint. but under the surface he burned with a sense of injustice. Rich clients left behind a tantalizing whiff of a rich cigar or an elegant perfume, and in his imagination they lived romantic and adventurous lives. He envied them, for he had never had a girl. He was convinced the secret was money. So for a couple of years he had been quietly embezzling small sums in such a way that it was impossible to detect.

One day he left the office at lunch time to buy a suit. It was really the suit that started it all, a smart Glen Urquhart check. If the salesman hadn’t been so insistent Walter Mills wouldn’t even have thought of trying it on; he had never worn anything but hard-wearing greys and blacks. But when he saw himself in the three-way mirror he was amazed at the difference it made. He hesitated when the salesman produced a smooth, olive green hat with a smartly shaped brim to go with it — he never wore a hat. He turned to look at himself and caught sight of his face in the side mirror. He looked away quickly, but the sharp-eyed salesman had noticed.

“Why, that suit makes a new man of you, sir,” he exclaimed with calculated amazement. Walter Mills had taken the lot. Self-satisfied, he didn’t go back to the office.

But when he put the check suit on in his garret room, high among the roofs overlooking the River Thames, and looked at himself in the cracked wardrobe mirror, his doubts returned. Timidity stared back at him with pale blue eyes. It was his chin, or rather the lack of it, that was the trouble; it just faded into his neck. He looked, as a callous Army sergeant had once said, like “a chinless wonder that couldn’t pull the skin off a rice pudding.” The check suit couldn’t conceal that and he began to regret buying it. He couldn’t wear it to a job, and he didn’t go anywhere.

With only books for company, Walter spent each night in his room in the roof, lonely, bitter, and seething with dreams of the lovely women he saw in magazines or the pin-ups on his walls. He longed for something more than mere existence; but he had no friends. He knew his looks didn’t give him a chance.

At one time he had tried to grow a beard, but it had been a straggly failure. Thinking of it as he studdied himself in his smart new suit and hat, he wondered if he couldn’t get a beard such as actors wore.

He remembered there was a famous theatrical costumiers on Wardour Street. He said he was an actor, and whether they believed him or not, a beard was produced to match his colouring. He was shown how it attached with a self-adhesive; it could be put on or taken off at any time quite easily. When it had been trimmed short and given a smart naval cut, the effect when he looked in the mirror was almost unbelievable; the weak, timid-looking Walter Mills had disappeared.

As he walked down Piccadilly he imagined everybody was looking at him. But when he realized that no one was the slightest bit interested, he stared fascinated at his reflection in the shop windows. The set of his shoulders altered and he held his head higher. He decided to walk home along the Embankment beside the river. When he came to the Black Swan, a pub on the corner of Corson Street, where he lived, and which he’d never entered before, he went in without hesitation and ordered a drink.

It was pleasant sitting up at the bar with a bright fire in the grate. Through the window he could see the clock tower of Big Ben just lit up across the river. The barmaid came and leant her elbows on the counter in front of him. He’d heard people calling her Mabel. She was a country-looking girl with a high colour and fine brown eyes.

“Are you off a ship?” she asked softly.

“No, I live up the street here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she smiled. “I hadn’t seen you here before; I took you for a naval man.”

He was delighted at this. “You’re not far wrong,” he lied. “I was in the merchant navy, but I’ve just moved here.”

“That’s the life for a man,” she said admiringly.

After he’d had another drink, Walter found himself shooting a line about the roaring forties and the head waters of the Amazon. It all came from books, for Walter Mills never had been any further than the Tower of London on a pleasure boat.

A couple at the bar joined in, and for more than an hour he kept them entertained. The girl wasn’t a patch on his pin-ups, and he guessed she was older than he was, but she had a nice complexion and soft dark hair.

“You made a hit with Noreen,” Mabel said when they had left.

“Was that her husband?” he asked.

Mabel gave a short laugh. “Curly? No, but he’d like to be. Noreen’s one of the lucky ones. Doesn’t have to work; she’s got money, enough not to worry about it.”

As he walked up the street to his lodgings he laughed to himself. How easily people were taken in. He was thinking of Noreen and wondering what her last name was, when it occurred to him that it would be a good idea if he had a new name. Walter Mills was too ordinary. He would like to be Captain somebody, but perhaps that was too risky. What about Marshall? That had something — Phillip Marshall.

Walter was mounting the steps to the front door when he saw his landlady coming up the area steps from the basement. It was dark and in the street light Mrs. Jones was looking at his suspiciously. In his new get-up he was obviously a stranger to her.

“Wot d’you want?” she called.

“I’m a friend of Mr. Mills,” he replied in a tone lower than his usual one. “Is he in, do you know?”

“ ’E’s never out so ’e must be in. Wot’s your name?”

It was ready on the tip of his tongue. “Marshall,” he replied.

“Well, ’e’s under the roof if you want to go up,” and with a sniff she turned away.

Up in his garret he smiled to himself as he took off the beard and rubbed his face. If he could fool Mrs. Jones, he could fool anybody. She wasn’t easily deceived.

To be a gentleman of leisure, to get up when he liked and do what he liked, was a new sensation for Walter Mills. With live hundred embezzled pounds in his savings account, he had no intention of getting a job till he had to. And it he had anything to do with it, he decided, he’d never have to. He had often dreamed of marrying a rich woman and lying around all day. Other people managed it. Why shouldn’t he? And if he couldn’t cut out Curly, there were plenty of fish in the sea besides Noreen.

But he found to his surprise that Mabel was right. Noreen Harper had fallen for him. Though he had to admit she wasn’t much compared to his dream girls, he could hardly credit his luck that he even had a girl, never mind once with a nice income and a smart-looking sports car.

He was soon taking her about to restaurants and fancy places in the West End that he wouldn’t have thought of going into before. Once when they were having a drink in the Black Swan, Curly came over and sat with them. Walter didn’t like the sharp way he dressed or the cold, hard-eyed look Curly gave him, and he was pleased when Noreen gave him the hint to push off.

Only one problem troubled him, his landlady. Whenever he went out dressed as Phillip Marshall, Walter had to creep down the stairs and slip out when he was certain Mrs. Jones was busy in the basement kitchen. Once he’d met her on the stairs and had hurried past saying he had been up to see Mr. Mills. He knew if she got wind of what he was doing, it would be all over the neighbourhood. They would hear of it at the Black Swan and that would put paid to his romance with Noreen. He didn’t dare risk that. He decided to move at night, when no once was about.

Walter found a room in a house on Maybury Street, which is two over from Corson Street, as he wanted to stay in the neighbourhood. He moved in as Phillip Marshall.

Because he liked rowing on the river, and also to impress Noreen, Walter bought a sailing dinghy at a boat club below the Embankment. It was second-hand and only cost twenty pounds. The boatman was giving him sailing lessons. It needed sanding down and varnishing.

One morning he was working on the boat when the tool slipped and cut his arm. Blood spurted over a canvas and the floorboards before he could stop it, but he managed to bind the cut with his handkerchief and ran up the steps to the Black Swan.

Noreen had just driven up and was going in. When she saw him she cried, “Oh, Phil, you poor thing; that needs bandaging properly. Here, jump in and I’ll take you up to my place.”

While Noreen was bandaging his arm her perfume, warm and inviting, surrounded him. Without realizing what he was doing, he bent down to kiss the nape of her neck beneath the soft dark curls. She turned her head at that moment and he found his lips on hers. The sensation overwhelmed him. He’d never kissed a girl before, but he soon found that didn’t matter.

It was late in the afternoon when he returned to the boatyard, elated and feeling very pleased with himself. There was still enough light and, as he wanted to get the boat in the water for the week-end, he went on working, thinking at the same time of Noreen. He’d wait a few days before asking her to marry him, he decided. After that he’d be on easy street. When he got fed up with her, as he already knew he would, he’d just have to get rid of her. There was always a way. Then he’d have lots of money and could look for one of his dream girls.

His thoughts were running riot when he heard footsteps coming down the wooden stairs to the yard. It was nearly dark but he could make out the thick-set figure of Curly as he came towards him.

“Doing all right, ain’t you, Phil?”

“Just finished,” he replied, looking down at the boat as he wiped his hands. “Put her in the water tomorrow.”

Curly’s large, hard hand shot out and caught him by the front of his shirt. “I’m not talking about boats, stupid. I’m talking about Noreen; doing all right, ain’t yer, Phil?”

Curly’s leering face was close to his and reeking of liquor.

Walter stammered, “I don’t know what...”

Curly reached up with his other hand and took hold of his beard. “How about it, Wally? Like me to rip this off and take you up to the Black Swan?”

Walter struggled to get out of Curly’s grip and tried to throw a foot to trip him, but Curly gave him a shake that rattled his teeth and nearly tore the beard off.

“Try that again,” Curly growled, “and I’ll stretch you. Wally Mills, the chinless wonder of Corson Street — who’d have thought it?” and he gave a low laugh. “Didn’t know I was on to you, did you, Wally? But I won’t let on, because you and me’s going to do a deal, see. Now listen; I got a load of stuff I don’t want round my place for the next two months or so. It’s hot, see, and you’re going to help me drop it in the river. You’ve got concrete mooring blocks with ropes and a float-can with a mooring ring on top, ain’t you?”

Wally nodded and Curly let go of him and took out a pack of cigarettes. When they had lit up, Wally asked, “Is... is there much of this stuff?”

Curly looked at him. “One sack — and it’s heavy.”

Wally had read of big robberies and saw a sack full of gold and silver candlesticks and plate. “I mean — what sort of stuff is it?”

“The less you know the better for you. What d’you think I am — stupid? It’s all wrapped up good and solid, so the water won’t get at it. My car’s backed up to the top of the steps, so let’s go.”

Wally hesitated and Curly came close to him.

“Would you like to go up to the Swan and have me rip that beard off in front of ’em all?”

Wally had been thinking about it and wondering if it wouldn’t be better just to take it off and be clear of the whole business. Life had been much simpler when he had been sitting on a high stool. But then he thought of how little money he had left, and of Noreen and how close he was to it. He knew Curly wouldn’t let on to anyone now he had something on him.

When the job was done, and Curly had helped him pull the boat up into the yard, they went up the stairs together.

“Don’t go getting any ideas about that stuff, Wally.” Curly said. “Two months from now, when everything’s nice and quiet again, you and me’s going to haul it up, and if it’s been touched you’ll finish up down there in place of it.”

Under the street lamp in front of the Black Swan, Curly stopped and looked at him. “Who’d have thought it? Wally the Beard,” he said, and gave him a playful jab to the mid-section that nearly doubled him up. Laughing, he vanished into the night.

It was a long time before Phillip Marshall could get to sleep that night and he awoke late, feeling tired and irritable. He decided he’d walk round to Noreen’s and take her out to lunch somewhere. After he’d dressed in his smart clothes and put on his beard he felt better. He was coming down the front steps when he saw Mrs. Jones, his sharp-eyed old landlady from Corson Street. He was hoping she wouldn’t recognize him and pretend not to see her, but she came right up to him.

“Aren’t you Mr. Marshall, Walter Mills’ friend? You visited him.”

He muttered something about having to catch a bus and hurried on, but not before Mrs. Jones had noticed he was wearing a belted raincoat belonging to Walter Mills. She was sure of it because she’d repaired the belt herself.

Wise in the way of lodgers, she wondered if perhaps Walter Mills was sharing a room here with Mr. Marshall, and if this wasn’t a good opportunity to get the rent that was owing to her when he left so suddenly. She rang the bell and spoke to Phillip Marshall’s landlady, and in no time the two of them were up in Phillip Marshall’s room indulging the favourite pastime of London landladies. Mrs. Jones immediately recognized all Walter Mills’ things.

“And look at this” she cried when they turned up a Savings Bank book showing he had had live hundred pounds but had drawn most of it out in the last few weeks.

When they found a canvas hold-all with reddish brown stains on it, that was enough for Mrs. Jones; she didn’t read the Police Court Gazette for nothing; in her vocabulary, stains went with only one other word — blood. She went to the police.

When he got back to his lodgings late in the afternoon, Phillip Marshall’s landlady met him in the hall with the news that a couple of plainclothesmen were waiting up in his room. “And I’ll trouble you to pack and get out. I keep a respectable house,” she told him.

Well, this is it, he thought. He wondered what the sentence was for embezzling funds. It had been a bad day from start to finish. Noreen hadn’t been at home; the place had seemed deserted. And when he had asked Mabel at the Black Swan if she’d been in, Mabel told him Noreen had sent a message by Curly that she’d had to go to Brighton for a few days to look after a sister who was sick.

But why Curly? That’s what he couldn’t understand. Mabel said he’d come in with the message about ten-thirty the night before, just about two hours after he had left Curly in the street.

Wally wondered if he should lust walk out the door and away from it all, when a voice called down the stairwell.

“Mr. Marshall, will you come up here, please?”

The man introduced himself. “I’m Inspector Marples and this is my assistant, Detective Sergeant Atkins.”

While the Inspector told him they were looking into the disappearance of Walter Mills, and would like to know why he had Walter Mills’ things, Phillip Marshall could hardly keep from laughing, in fact, it was such a relief that he felt slightly hysterical.

“That’s easily explained,” he said. “Wally went up north to get a job when he left Mrs. Jones’. He asked me to look after his stuff. Said he’d let me know when he got settled, and I could send it on to him.”

After more questions, the Inspector produced the canvas holdall. “And perhaps you could explain these stains, Mr. Marshall?”

“That’s blood. I cut myself — see,” and he rolled up a sleeve to show them.

“You are telling us this is your blood on Walter Mills’ bag, Mr. Marshall?” the Inspector asked quietly.

“That’s right. I cut myself working on my boat and it got on the bag,” he said brightly.

“So, you have a boat,” he said softly.

“Yes, it’s at Bunton’s yard, just at the bottom of the street.”

The Inspector and the Sergeant exchanged looks. “I think we had better see this boat,” the Inspector said.

Down in the yard they stood around looking at Phillip Marshall’s boat, while he lit a cigarette and thought what clunks these coppers are.

“It’s just been painted and varnished, sir,” said the Sergeant.

“It may seem strange, but I had noticed that, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Atkins was bent over, pulling at something. He straightened up with a section of the floorboards in his hand.

“Look at this, sir,” he pointed to some stains faintly visible on the surface of the wood.

“I was wondering about that, Sergeant,” said the Inspector, “but you failed to notice something very interesting; the wood is unvarnished.”

“You don’t varnish floorboards,” Phillip said.

“I’m not interested in that,” the Inspector said sharply. “Can you explain these stains?”

“Blood,” Phillip said impatiently. “I told you I cut myself and it went on the bag and the boards.”

“This wood shows evidence of a determined attempt to get rid of the stains; it’s been scoured, I should say...”

“With bleach,” Phillip cut in.

“Why did you want to get rid of the stains, Mr. Marshall?” the Inspector asked quietly.

Phillip gave a laugh. “Why? Because I didn’t want blood all over the boat.”

Inspector Marples stared out over the depressingly misty vista of the Thames. He could see signs of any sort of a case slipping away and was turning to go when he asked casually, “Do you always keep your boat up here?”

“Yes, but I’ve got moorings now and I’ll...” Phillip’s voice trailed off as he realized where it was leading. But Inspector Marples was leaning forward like a long, thin bird.

“You were saying, Mr. Marshall, that you have moorings.” He looked over the river at the boats tied up and then at the two float-cans some distance out. “Would those be they, Mr. Marshall?” he asked, pointing.

“Yes, but as I said, I haven’t used them yet.”

The Inspector gave a shrug as though it were of no importance. But as he turned to Sergeant Atkins, Walter had a feeling he was back on the scent.

“We’ll take the floorboard and the bag, Sergeant, and get the lab to run an analysis on them. Keep yourself available, Mr. Marshall. We’ll be back here in the morning.”

As he walked home, Phillip s first inclination was to take off. But they would soon catch up with him, he decided, and then it would be worse. Also, there was a chance that Inspector Marples might give up on the case, and then he wouldn’t have to disclose that he was Walter Mills. If the worst came to the worst and he had to tell them who he was, then he’d have to pick the moment before things went too far and they found out about Curly’s load at the bottom of the river. If there was one thing that scared him even more than Noreen and everyone at the Black Swan finding out about him, it was what Curly would do if the coppers dragged up that sack full of stuff.

Walter was in the boat-yard early next morning and hung around for more than an hour waiting for the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs leading down from the Embankmen, when a River Police launch roared m towards the wooden jetty. Inspector Atkins jumped down and the launch turned away up river.

“I think we’d better find somewhere to talk, Mr. Marshall,” the Inspector said. So he led the way to the boathouse, and after he’d shut the door and sat down, the Inspector came straight to the point.

“Our lab report shows that the blood stains on the canvas holdall and the floorboard check out the same as those on the Army records of Walter Mills. That was a deliberate attempt on your part, Mr. Marshall, to mislead the police. And your story about being in the Merchant Navy has checked out as equally false.”

This is it, Phillip thought, as the Inspector paused to light a cigarette. There’s no way out of it I’ll have to tell them.

“You can make it easier for yourself and for us, but especially for yourself, if you’re frank and tell us the truth,” the Inspector said, giving him a thin smile. “Maybe it was an accident that killed Walter Mills and you’re afraid to say so. If you’re not frank with us, Mr. Marshall, I must warn you I shall apply for a warrant for your arrest on the evidence available and charge you with the murder of Walter Mills.”

Thoroughly satisfied with himself, the Inspector sat back. In his experience, if there was anything that scared a man into talking it was the threat of arrest.

Sighing audibly, Phillip reached up and slowly peeled the beard from his face. “I am Walter Mills,” he said quietly.

A profound silence settled on the boat-house. It didn’t last for long. Inspector Marples seemed to explode upwards, and for nearly ten minutes remained almost completely incoherent at the thought that he was arresting a man for murdering himself.

When the Inspector had calmed down sufficiently, Walter Mills told them why he had done it. He spoke eloquently of his love for Noreen Harper, and he appealed to the Inspector’s better nature not to let his little masquerade become generally known as this would most surely result in the loss of his fiancée. Walter Mills was smiling to himself as he laid it on as thick as he could.

But Inspector Marples had no better nature left; a beautiful case had dissolved from under his very nose. Jumping to his feet, he shouted, “This is the most outrageous example of a public mischief I have ever encountered. And if you think you’re just going to walk out of here free, you’re greatly mistaken,” he roared. “I’m going to charge you with a public mischief, impersonation, and anything and everything I can think of.” He dropped back in his chair, breathless, and stared unbelievingly at the unhappy, chinless face in front of him. “Get out,” he shouted suddenly, “get out or I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Walter Mills got to his feet hesitatingly. He had turned towards the door when it burst open, as one of the flat-hatted River Police charged in.

“We’ve got the body, sir,” he shouted excitedly.

Inspector Marples got slowly to his feet. I must keep calm, he told himself. At all costs, I must keep calm.

“Sergeant,” he said wearily, “this is Waiter Mills. Take whatever you’ve got and begone.”

“I didn’t say it was the body of Walter Mills, sir. It’s...” Before he could say any more he was knocked to one side as two more flat-hats pushed in, carrying between them a dripping sack. They dropped it with a thud that shook the boathouse.

“Harper’s the name sir, one of the flat-hats said,” handing Inspector Marples a sodden leather wallet. “It was sunk with the mooring blocks, just as you said, sir.”

The Inspector stared at him in amazement, then at the wallet. “Harper?” he echoed, looking at Walter Mills, who had shrunk back against a wall.

Slowly a little smile dawned on Inspector Marples’ long, thin face. “Weren’t you just telling us of your great love for Noreen Harper?”

But Walter Mills’ eyes were fixed in horror on two of the sergeants who were tugging at one end of the sack. It came away slowly, letting the body flop to the floor. He forced himself to look at it. It didn’t look like Noreen. Dank black hair lay plastered across the forehead of a sallow face. Then he saw that the body was dressed in a man’s suit.

“Noreen Harper’s husband, eh?” said Inspector Marples. “I might have guessed it.”

“I... I didn’t know there was a husband,” Walter Mills stammered.

“Isn’t that what they always say, Sergeant?” Inspector Marples said to his assistant.

“Always, sir. Never fails.”

Walter Mills was staring at the dead man and thinking of Noreen. Curly and Noreen, probably at the other side of he world by now, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered now.

“I never knew him,” he said in a tired voice.

“Save it,” Inspector Marples cut in. “Save it for the Old Bailey.”

But Walter Mills didn’t hear him, for there was a singing in his ears, as he stood with the smartly cut beard clutched tightly in his hand.