Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 14, No. 71, October 1949

Old Beetle’s Crime{Copyright, 1928, by Cyril Alexander Barber} by Alex. Barber

Someone in a sportive moment had called him Old Beetle, and the name had stuck because it was so apt. The shell-like back of his ancient frock-coat, the unobtrusive way he had with him, his quick gliding movement about the office on shuffling feet that seemed scarcely to leave the floor — all these things fitted in with the idea of a harmless old insect.

Harmless. Anyone knowing the man would have felt that adjective rise instinctively to his lips in speaking of him. So dull — deadly dull — in his habits, and so self-effacing in all his drab clerkly life was Old Beetle. No one had ever seen him roused to anger. Even the thoughtless, irritating lapses on the part of the juniors under him only drew from him the milkiest of reproofs.

Untold years had passed since first he had entered the solid business house of Messrs. Pattinson, Gable, and Pattinson, Valuers, Estate Agents, and Auctioneers. Youngsters had come into the office, stayed a while, and then burst out again to free themselves from the stale, musty, cheesy atmosphere that lurked potently in the place. Old Man Pattinson had never been able to move with the times, and his iron rule had done all that was humanly possible to prevent the flood-waters of modernity from trickling under the stout doors of his “House.” Ambition, enterprise, the fire of young enthusiasms, were damped daily. Naturally, this had its sure reaction on the firm’s finances, but Messrs. Pattinson, Gable, and Pattinson never seemed to mind. As for the paid staff, they were a constantly changing factor — with the single exception of Old Beetle.

Finson, who hadn’t stayed long in the office, permitted himself a little sage summing-up to the obediently attentive office-boy.

“Old Beetle,” he remarked scornfully. “He’s waited for the mildew to settle on him. One of the maggots in this antique cheese, that’s what he is. Didn’t have the pluck to break away when he was younger, I daresay. Queer old fellow. Reckon he never did anybody much harm — or himself much good.”

Old Beetle heard that. He had heard a great many things of the same brand — about himself. The acoustic properties of the old-fashioned offices were a trifle odd, and in addition he had very sharp ears.

Those comments of Finson’s made him chuckle quietly to himself, lean fingers plucking at his thin white beard, alert eyes narrowed. All that afternoon, as he sat humped over his desk, he bathed in ironical delight.

Finson was a flashy young fool, he mused — not at all bitterly. One of these post-war puppies with a caustic tongue and no knowledge of human nature.

“Old Beetle... never did anybody much harm.” That was the stupid, ignorant phrase he had used. And he believed it. If in the full strength of that faith he were suddenly told the truth, what would he do? Old Beetle could imagine the stark consternation flooding into Finson’s pale, shallow face — could picture the leaping horror, mingling with disbelief, that must rise to his eyes. There were deeps in the hearts of men that Finson and his kind had never in their wildest dreams plumbed.

“No imagination. Poverty of insight,” muttered Old Beetle, pausing in his work on a ledger.

In some subtle way it annoyed him to feel that no one — not a soul around — thought him capable of strong emotions or fierce wild acts.

That night, and for many nights following, he lay awake and ran over in his mind the course of a certain secret crime.

So easy it had been, he reflected. No fuss. Not even any need for preparation. For years he had been the constant companion of that cheery young chap, Douglas Harrington, and when he had been found dead in his rooms, there had been no shadow of suspicion to fall in the right quarter.

“Almost too simple,” Old Beetle told himself, twisting over in bed, hot and restive, with his bony hands clutching hold of the counterpane. “A penholder, wasn’t it? Yes — a penholder. And they never thought of me. Who’d dream of suspecting Harrington’s best friend, anyway?” He laughed unevenly, and then fell silent for a time, while the clock on the mantel ticked impatiently, like the sound of far-off hurrying feet.

One thing was perplexing him. He could remember — even after all these years — every detail of the crime, and even something of the appearance of young Harrington’s features. The penholder, for instance, stood before his mind’s eye in slim vividness. But one important factor eluded him. Queer. He could turn his thoughts successfully in all directions — except one. It struck him, even in his puzzlement, that his memory was a bit like a watch with one hour-mark missing, and the fancy tickled him. He laughed in the still dark of the bedroom. Like a watch with one hour-mark missing! And yet it was a trifle eerie. That one essential thing simply wouldn’t obey his summons, and be ranked up with the rest.

Why had he murdered James Douglas Harrington? Why?

Search as he would, no shred of a reason came to solve that frightening mystery.

From that time, as the drab days went by, he found the great query looming larger before him. He even caught himself writing it down on the back of a receipt form.

“Won’t do,” he quavered, with a sharp glance round of fear. “It’ll all come out if they find anything like this about.”

He must keep a tight rein on himself. After these long working years of immunity, he would be a colossal fool to betray his secret of blood, he told himself.

James Douglas Harrington had been dead too long for any ordinary factor to reveal his murderer. He mustn’t let age pull on his imagination like this. Getting on. That was his trouble. No fool like an old fool. But he wasn’t going to give himself away. If dead men told no tales, why should he speak of ’em? Madness, that would be.

Nevertheless, it was queer how that big point always evaded the seeking fingers of memory. He tried to get at it by a calm statement of the facts, sitting on his bed with a purple dressing-gown folded about him in thick rolls and hummocks.

“I’ve killed him. With a penholder. How many years back? A long while, anyhow — never mind. Well. What then? What was I thinking of? With a penholder, it was. Of course. Wasn’t there something else?”

He shivered, and stared at unseen things beyond the walls of the coldly moonlit room. Somehow his thoughts seemed to elude any attempt to marshal them in order. Did pretty well as they liked. Funny thing, that. Did pretty well as they liked. Now why should they? That penholder. James Douglas Harrington. Years upon years ago. In another life — almost.

Then at last his muddled intelligence seized on the vital pith of the problem.

“Why? That was it. Why did I do it — all those years ago? Decent fellow, young Harrington. I spoiled his chances for him, didn’t I? And they never suspected. Just a penholder. Queer how things turn out in this jumbled old world. Dead. Him. It might have been the other way round — me dead, him alive now. You can’t make these things out, anyway. I got him. With a penholder. But that wasn’t all. The penholder was How. What was Why? That’s it. What was Why, if the penholder was How? Like a conundrum, ain’t it? A conundrum.”

Awkwardly he scrabbled into bed, curled up on his side, and lay staring into invisible distances. Presently a chuckle cut the silence. Then another.

“What was Why? That’s beaten me. What was Why? The reason behind it. Whacks me. Whacks me.”

Weeks sauntered past, and still Old Beetle’s puzzle gave no signs of solution. It mattered a lot now. It intruded more and more into his work. In fact, the austere head of Pattinson, Gable, and Pattinson’s had occasion to speak to the submissive Mr. Gable about it. Old Beetle’s behavior had attracted attention. Evidently he was “getting past it.” Pension, service, loyalty were words that played a part in old Pattinson’s talk with the sober Mr. Gable.

Old Beetle knew nothing of this side of the affair. His own perplexing mystery filled his little world of thought. He realised that he had murdered Harrington, but somehow that didn’t matter much. Years ago. Let it rest. But his motive — that counted. He had got to find it out. Must. There was a satisfying answer to that ceaseless question, if only he could stumble on it or thresh it out of the meaningless heap of facts that his mind held.

Why had he killed James Douglas Harrington?

Why?

Curious thing, how one point could run away from a man like a fear-stricken live creature. Perhaps the reason didn’t want to be known. This new theory filled him with sudden alarm. If Why was really unwilling to be found, it made the whole search tenfold harder.

“Get it some day,” Old Beetle murmured. “Stick to it — that’s the notion. Stick to it. The penholder did it. Yes. Then there must have been a cause. No, not a cause — that was the penholder. A reason. No other word. Reason. What was it? If the penholder was How, what was Why? Answer me that. Don’t know? Nonsense. Nonsense, I say! Well, then — stick at it till you do. Bound to get it some day. Bound to.”

Then, just as he was pulling off his socks one night, the brilliant inspiration came to him. The method of finding out that elusive Why. With a happy chuckle he began to draw on his sock again, but in time he remembered that nothing could be done so late. He must wait until the morning. Then he would know. I was a gorgeous idea, and the only winder about it was that he hadn’t thought of it before.

The police. They would know. Or if they didn’t actually know, they could find out. Their job. Paid for it, they were — to find out things for people. He’d simply go to them and let them get on with it. Have to confess, of course, but he didn’t mind that. No. The main object was to find out what that Why was. Of course.

The next morning saw Old Beetle carrying out his splendid notion. He knew where he could find a policeman, not far from the office, and then he would soon know. Up to the young constable he shuffled, and spoke in nervously eager tones. After the first slight shock of surprise the officer seemed to understand perfectly. He took Old Beetle along to the station, where he found a bald-headed man in uniform sitting behind a low table. Old Beetle patiently repeated what he had said to the constable.

“I want to confess to the murder of James Douglas Harrington. I did it with a penholder. Years ago.”

“Eh?” Glances were exchanged by the youthful constable and the bald-headed man at the table. “I see. What was it, again?”

“James Douglas Harrington. I killed him years ago. With a penholder.”

“Quite so.”

The bald-headed man’s tone was gentle, soothing. He gave orders, pressed his broad thumb on bells, made notes, and asked questions. Old Beetle was glad he had taken this step. Soon now he would solve the mystery of that everlasting Why.

“How long ago did you do it?” queried the man at the table, after sitting a while in silence, apparently waiting for the return of the constable, who had departed mysteriously.

Old Beetle thought hard. “Forty-three years,” he said presently.

He made no attempt to break the silence that followed. Minutes ticked by. Then footsteps approached.

It was the young constable back.

“Well?” said the bald-headed man at the table, in an undertone.

“I’ve seen Mr. Pattinson, sir,” whispered the young constable, bending to bring his lips close to the other’s ear. “Says he’s not particularly surprised. Been behaving very queerly for some time. They’d thought of pensioning him off. He’s been with the firm forty-three years in March.”

The bald-headed man started.

“Forty-three years, did you say?”

“That’s it, sir. Quite a character. Old Beetle, they call him. A record period of service, he’s got. One of the juniors told me he can’t imagine how anyone could stick the place for all that time. Like burying yourself, he said it was.”

The bald-headed man shot a quick glance across at Old Beetle, who was sitting still on his chair, perfectly happy now, a smile curving his mouth.

“Forty-three years. Like burying yourself,” murmured the bald-headed man, very thoughtfully. “And he’s sure he murdered someone forty-three years ago. With a penholder, of all things — with a penholder... What did you say his name was?”

The constable bent down again.

“Old Beetle, they call him,” he said quietly. “But his real name’s Harrington — James Douglas Harrington!”