Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 57, No. 3. Whole No. 328, March 1971

Finessing the King by Agatha Christie[5]

In which our old friends Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, master and mistress of the International Detective Agency (alias Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives), remember with nostalgia the manners and methods of McCarty. And how many of you remember Isabel Ostrander’s detective McCarty? Ah, tempus fugits, and where are the sleuths of yesteryear?...

It was a wet Wednesday in the offices of the International Detective Agency. Tuppence let The Daily Leader fall idly from her hand.

“Do you know what I’ve been thinking, Tommy?”

“It’s impossible to say,” replied her husband. “You think of so many things, and you think of them all at once.”

“I think it’s time we went dancing again.”

Tommy picked up The Daily Leader hastily.

“Our advertisement looks well,” he remarked, his head to one side. “Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives. Do you realize, Tuppence, that you and you alone are Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives? There’s glory for you, as Humpty Dumpty would say.”

“I was talking about dancing.”

“There’s a curious point that I have observed about newspapers. I wonder if you have ever noticed it. Take these three copies of The Daily Leader. Can you tell me how they differ one from the other?”

Tuppence took them with some curiosity.

“It seems fairly easy,” she remarked witheringly. “One is today’s, one is yesterday’s, and one is the day before’s.”

“Positively scintillating, my dear Watson. But that was not my meaning. Observe the masthead, The Daily Leader. Compare the three — do you see any difference between them?”

“No, I don’t,” said Tuppence, “and what’s more, I don’t believe there is any.”

Tommy sighed, and brought the tips of his fingers together in the most approved Sherlock Holmes fashion.

“Exactly. Yet you read the papers as much — in fact, more than I do. But I have observed and you have not. If you will look at today’s Daily Leader, you will see that in the middle of the downstroke of the D is a small white dot, and there is another in the l of the same word. But in yesterday’s paper the white dot is not in Daily at all. There are two white dots in the L of Leader. That of the day before again has two dots in the D of Daily. In fact, the dot, or dots, are in a different position every day.”

“Why?” asked Tuppence.

“That’s a journalistic secret.”

“Meaning you don’t know.”

“I will merely say this — the practice is common to all newspapers.”

“Aren’t you clever?” said Tuppence. “Especially at drawing red herrings across the track. Let’s go back to what we were talking about before.”

“What were we talking about?”

“The Three Arts Ball.”

Tommy groaned. “No, no, Tuppence. Not the Three Arts Ball. I’m not young enough. I assure you I’m not young enough.”

“When I was a nice young girl,” said Tuppence, “I was brought up to believe that men — especially husbands — were dissipated beings, fond of drinking and dancing and staying up late at night. It took an exceptionally beautiful and clever wife to keep them at home. Another illusion gone! All the wives I know are hankering to go out and dance, and weeping because their husbands will wear bedroom slippers and go to bed at half-past nine. And you do dance so nicely, Tommy dear.”

“Gently with the butter, Tuppence.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Tuppence, “it’s not purely for pleasure that I want to go. I’m intrigued by this advertisement.”

She picked up The Daily Leader again, and read: “I should go three hearts. Twelve tricks. Ace of spades. Necessary to finesse the king.”

“Rather an expensive way of learning bridge,” was Tommy’s comment.

“Don’t be an ass. That’s nothing to do with bridge. You see, I was lunching with a girl yesterday at the Ace of Spades. It’s a queer little underground den in Chelsea, and she told me that it’s quite the fashion at these big shows to trundle round there in the course of the evening for bacon and eggs and Welsh Rabbits — Bohemian sort of stuff. It’s got screened-off booths all round it. Pretty hot place, I should say.”

“And your idea is—?”

“Three hearts stands for the Three Arts Ball tomorrow night, twelve tricks is twelve o’clock, and the ace of spades is the Ace of Spades.”

“And what about its being necessary to finesse the king?”

“Well, that’s what I thought we’d find out.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you weren’t right, Tuppence,” said Tommy magnanimously. “But I don’t quite see why you want to butt in on other people’s love affairs.”

“I shan’t butt in. What I’m proposing is an interesting experiment in detective work. We need practice.”

“Business is certainly not too brisk,” agreed Tommy. “All the same, Tuppence, what you want is to go to the Three Arts Ball and dance. Talk of red herrings!”

Tuppence laughed shamelessly. “Be a sport, Tommy. Try and forget you’re thirty-two and have got one gray hair in your lovely left eyebrow.”

“I was always weak where women were concerned,” murmured her husband. “Have I got to make an ass of myself in fancy dress?”

“Of course, but you can leave that to me. I’ve got a splendid idea.”

Tommy looked at her with some misgiving. He was always profoundly mistrustful of Tuppence’s brilliant ideas.

When he returned to the flat on the following evening, Tuppence came flying out of her bedroom to meet him.

“It’s come,” she announced.

“What’s come?”

“The costume. Come and look at it.”

Tommy followed her. Spread out on the bed was a complete fireman’s kit with shining helmet.

“Good God!” groaned Tommy. “Have I joined the Wembley fire brigade?”

“Guess again,” said Tuppence. “You haven’t caught the idea yet. Use your little gray cells, mon ami. Scintillate, Watson. Be a bull that has been more than ten minutes in the arena.”

“Wait a minute,” said Tommy. “I begin to see. There is a dark purpose in this. What are you going to wear, Tuppence?”

“An old suit of your clothes, an American hat, and some horn-rim spectacles.”

“Crude,” said Tommy. “But I catch the idea. McCarty incog. And I am Riordan.”

“That’s it. I thought we ought to practise American detective methods as well as English ones. Just for once I am going to be the star, and you will be the humble assistant.”

“Don’t forget,” said Tommy warningly, “that it’s always an innocent remark by the simple Denny that puts McCarty on the right track.”

But Tuppence only laughed. She was in high spirits.

It was a most successful evening. The crowds, the music, the fantastic dresses — everything conspired to make the young couple enjoy themselves. Tommy forgot his role of the bored husband dragged out against his will.

At ten minutes to twelve, they drove off in the car to the famous — or infamous — Ace of Spades. As Tuppence had said, it was an underground den, mean and tawdry in appearance, but it was nevertheless crowded with couples in fancy dress. There were closed-in booths round the walls, and Tommy and Tuppence secured one of these. They left the doors purposely ajar so that they could see what was going on outside.

“I wonder which they are — our people, I mean,” said Tuppence. “What about that Columbine over there with the red Mephistopheles?”

“I fancy the wicked Mandarin and the lady who calls herself a Battleship — more of a fast Cruiser, I should say.”

“Isn’t he witty?” said Tuppence. “All done on a little drop of drink! Who’s this coming in dressed as the Queen of Hearts — rather a good get-up, that.”

The girl in question passed into the booth next to them accompanied by her escort who was “the Gentleman Dressed in Newspaper” from Alice in Wonderland. They were both wearing masks — it seemed to be rather a common custom at the Ace of Spades.

“I’m sure we’re in a real den of iniquity,” said Tuppence with a pleased face. “Scandals all round us. What a row everyone makes.”

A cry, as of protest, rang out from the next booth and was covered by a man’s loud laugh. Everybody was laughing and singing. The shrill voices of the girls rose above the booming of their male escorts.

“What about that Shepherdess?” demanded Tommy. “The one with the comic Frenchman. They might be our little lot.”

“Anyone might be,” confessed Tuppence. “I’m not going to bother. The great thing is that we are enjoying ourselves.”

“I could have enjoyed myself better in another costume,” grumbled Tommy. “You’ve no idea of the heat of this one.”

“Cheer up,” said Tuppence. “You look lovely.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Tommy. “It’s more than you do. You’re the funniest little guy I’ve ever seen.”

“Will you keep a civil tongue in your head, Denny, my boy. Hullo, the gentleman in newspaper is leaving his lady alone. Where’s he going, do you think?”

“Going to hurry up the drinks, I expect,” said Tommy. “I wouldn’t mind doing the same thing.”

“He’s a long time doing it,” said Tuppence, when five minutes had passed. “Tommy, would you think me an awful ass—” She paused.

Suddenly she jumped up. “Call me an ass if you like. I’m going in the next booth.”

“Look here, Tuppence, you can’t—”

“I’ve a feeling there’s something wrong. I know there is. Don’t try and stop me.”

She passed quickly out of their own booth, and Tommy followed her. The doors of the next one were closed. Tuppence pushed them apart and went in, Tommy on her heels.

The girl dressed as the Queen of Hearts sat in the comer leaning up against the wall in a queer huddled position. Her eyes regarded them steadily through her mask, but she did not move. Her dress was carried out in a bold design of red and white, but on the left-hand side the pattern seemed to have got mixed. There was more red than should have been.

With a cry Tuppence hurried forward. At the same time Tommy saw what she had seen, the hilt of a jeweled dagger just below the heart. Tuppence dropped on her knees by the girl’s side.

“Quick, Tommy, she’s still alive. Get hold of the manager and make him get a doctor.”

“Right. Mind you don’t touch the handle of that dagger, Tuppence.”

“I’ll be careful. Go quickly.”

Tommy hurried out, pulling the doors to behind him. Tuppence passed her arm round the girl. The latter made a faint gesture, and Tuppence realized that she wanted to get rid of the mask. Tuppence unfastened it gently. She saw a fresh flowerlike face, and wide starry eyes that were full of horror, suffering, and a kind of dazed bewilderment.

“My dear,” said Tuppence, very gently. “Can you speak at all? Will you tell me, if you can, who did this?”

She felt the eyes fix themselves on her face. The girl was sighing, the deep palpitating sighs of a failing heart. And still she looked steadily at Tuppence. Then her lips parted.

“Bingo did it—” she said in a strained whisper.

Then her hands relaxed, and she seemed to nestle down on Tuppence’s shoulder.

Tommy came in, two men with him. The bigger of the two came forward with an air of authority, doctor written all over him.

Tuppence relinquished her burden.

“She’s dead, I’m afraid,” she said with a catch in her voice.

The doctor made a swift examination.

“Yes,” he said. “Nothing to be done. We had better leave things as they are till the police come. How did the thing happen?”

Tuppence explained rather haltingly, slurring over her reasons for entering the booth.

“It’s a curious business,” said the doctor. “You heard nothing?”

“I heard her give a kind of cry, but then the man laughed. Naturally, I didn’t think—”

“Naturally not,” agreed the doctor. “And the man wore a mask, you say. You wouldn’t recognize him?”

“I’m afraid not. Would you, Tommy?”

“No. Still, there is his costume.”

“The first thing to do is identify this poor lady,” said the doctor. “After that, well, I suppose the police will get down to things pretty quickly. It ought not to be a difficult case. Ah, here they come.”

It was after three o’clock when, weary and sick at heart, the husband and wife reached home. Several hours passed before Tuppence could sleep. She lay tossing from side to side, seeing always that flowerlike face with the horror-stricken eyes.

The dawn was coming in through the shutters when Tuppence finally dropped off to sleep. Then she slept heavily and dreamlessly. It was broad daylight when she awoke to find Tommy, up and dressed, standing by the bedside, shaking her gently by the arm.

“Wake up, old thing. Inspector Marriot and another man are here and want to see you.”

“What time is it?”

“Just on eleven. I’ll get Alice to bring you your tea right away.”

“Yes, do. Tell Inspector Marriot I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

A quarter of an hour later, Tuppence came hurrying into the sitting room. Inspector Marriot, looking very straight and solemn, rose to greet her.

“Good morning, Mrs. Beresford. This is Sir Arthur Merivale.”

Tuppence shook hands with a tall thin man who had haggard eyes and graying hair.

“It’s about this sad business last night,” said Inspector Marriot. “I want Sir Arthur to hear from your own lips what you told me — the words the poor lady said before she died. Sir Arthur has been very hard to convince.”

“I can’t believe,” said the other, “and I won’t believe, that Bingo Hale ever hurt a hair on Vere’s head.”

Inspector Marriot went on: “We’ve made some progress since last night, Mrs. Beresford. First of all we managed to identify the lady as Lady Merivale. We communicated with Sir Arthur here. He recognized the body at once, and was horrified beyond words, of course. Then I asked him if he knew anyone called Bingo.”

“You must understand, Mrs. Beresford,” said Sir Arthur, “that Captain Hale, who is known to all his friends as Bingo, is the dearest pal I have. He practically lives with us. He was staying at my house when they arrested him this morning. I cannot but believe that you have made a mistake — it was not his name that my wife uttered.”

“There is no possibility of mistake,” said Tuppence gently. “She said ‘Bingo did it—’ ”

“You see, Sir Arthur,” said Marriot.

The unhappy man sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. “It’s incredible. What earthly motive could there be? Oh, I know your idea, Inspector Marriot. You think Hale was my wife’s lover, but even if that were so — which I don’t admit for a moment — what motive was there for killing her?”

Inspector Marriot coughed.

“It’s not a very pleasant thing to say, sir. But Captain Hale has been paying a lot of attention to a certain young American lady of late — a young lady with a considerable amount of money. If Lady Merivale liked to turn nasty, she could probably stop his marriage.”

“This is outrageous, Inspector.”

Sir Arthur sprang angrily to his feet. The other calmed him with a soothing gesture.

“I beg your pardon, I’m sure, Sir Arthur. You say that you and Captain Hale both decided to attend this show. Your wife was away on a visit at the time, and you had no idea that she was to be there?”

“Not the least idea.”

“Just show him that advertisement you told me about, Mrs. Beresford.” Tuppence complied. “That seems to me clear enough. It was inserted by Captain Hale to catch your wife’s eye. They had already arranged to meet there. But you only made up your mind to go the day before, hence it was necessary to warn her. That is the explanation of the phrase ‘Necessary to finesse the king.’

“You ordered your costume from a theatrical firm at the last minute, but Captain Hale’s was a homemade affair. He went as the Gentleman Dressed in Newspaper. Do you know, Sir Arthur, what we found clasped in the dead lady’s hand? A fragment torn from a newspaper. My men have orders to take Captain Hale’s costume away with them from your house. I shall find it at Scotland Yard when I get back. If there’s a tear in it corresponding to the missing piece — well, it’ll be the end of the case.”

“You won’t find it,” said Sir Arthur. “I know Bingo Hale.”

Apologizing to Tuppence for disturbing her, they took their leave.

Late that evening there was a ring at the bell, and somewhat to the astonishment of the young pair, Inspector Marriot once more walked in.

“I thought Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives would like to hear the latest developments,” he said.

“They would,” said Tommy. “Have a drink?”

He placed materials hospitably at Inspector Marriot’s elbow.

“It’s a clear case,” said the Inspector. “Dagger was the lady’s own — the idea was to have made it look like suicide, evidently, but thanks to you two being on the spot, that didn’t come off. We’ve found plenty of letters — they’d been carrying on together for some time, that’s clear — without Sir Arthur tumbling to it. Then we found the last link—”

“The last what?” said Tuppence sharply.

“The last link in the chain — that fragment of The Daily Leader. It was torn from the dress he wore — fits exactly. Oh, yes, it’s a perfectly clear case. By the way, I brought round a photograph of those two exhibits — I thought they might interest you. It’s very seldom that you get such a perfectly clear case.”

“Tommy,” said Tuppence, when her husband returned from showing the Scotland Yard man out. “Why do you think Inspector Marriot keeps repeating that it’s a perfectly clear case?”

“Smug satisfaction, I suppose.”

“Not a bit of it. He’s trying to get us irritated. You know, Tommy, butchers, for instance, know something about meat, don’t they?”

“I should say so, but what on earth—”

“And in the same way, greengrocers know all about vegetables, and fishermen about fish. Detectives, professional detectives, must know all about criminals. They know the real thing when they see it — and they know when it isn’t the real thing. Marriot’s expert knowledge tells him that Captain Hale isn’t a criminal — but all the facts are dead against him. As a last resource Marriot is egging us on, hoping against hope that some little detail or other will come back to us — something that happened last night — which will throw a different light on things. Tommy, why shouldn’t it be suicide, after all?”

“Remember what she said to you.”

“I know — but take that a different way. It was Bingo’s doing — his conduct that drove her to kill herself. It’s just possible.”

“Just. But it doesn’t explain that fragment of newspaper.”

“Let’s have a look at Marriot’s photographs. I forgot to ask him what Hale’s account of the matter was.”

“I asked him that in the hall just now. Hale declared he never spoke to Lady Merivale at the show. Says somebody shoved a note into his hand which said, ‘Don’t try and speak to me tonight. Arthur suspects.’ He couldn’t produce the piece of paper, though, and it doesn’t sound a very likely story. Anyway, you and I know he was with her at the Ace of Spades because we saw him.”

Tuppence nodded and pored over the two photographs. One was a tiny fragment with the legend Daily Le — and the rest torn off. The other was the front sheet of The Daily Leader with the small round tear at the top of it. There was no doubt about it. The two fitted perfectly.

“What are all those marks down the side?” asked Tommy.

“Stitches,” said Tuppence. “Where it was sewn to the other pages, you know.”

“I thought it might be a new scheme of dots,” said Tommy. Then he gave a slight shiver. “My word, Tuppence, how creepy it makes one feel. To think that you and I were discussing dots and puzzling over that advertisement — all as lighthearted as anything.”

Tuppence did not answer.

“Tuppence,” said Tommy gently, shaking her by the arm. “What’s the matter with you?”

But Tuppence remained motionless. Presently she said in a faraway voice, “Dennis Riordan.”

“Eh?” said Tommy.

“It’s just as you said. One simple innocent remark! Find me all this week’s Daily Leaders.”

“What are you up to?”

“I’m being McCarty. I’ve been worrying round, and thanks to you I’ve got a notion at last. This is the front page of Tuesday’s paper. I seem to remember that Tuesday’s paper was the one with two dots in the L of Leader. This has a dot in the D of Daily — and one in the l, too. Get me the papers and let’s make sure.”

They compared them anxiously. Tuppence had been quite right in her remembrance.

“You see? This fragment wasn’t tom from Tuesday’s paper.”

“But, Tuppence, we can’t be sure. It may merely be different editions.”

“It may — but at any rate it’s given me an idea. It can’t be coincidence — that’s certain. There’s only one thing it can be if I’m right in my idea. Ring up Sir Arthur, Tommy. Ask him to come round here at once. Say I’ve got important news for him. Then get hold of Marriot. Scotland Yard will know his address if he’s gone home.”

Sir Arthur Merivale, very much intrigued by the summons, arrived at the flat in about half an hour’s time. Tuppence greeted him.

“I must apologize for sending for you in such a peremptory fashion,” she said. “But my husband and I have discovered something that we think you ought to know at once. Do sit down.”

Sir Arthur sat down, and Tuppence went on. “You are, I know, very anxious to clear your friend.”

Sir Arthur shook his head sadly. “I was, but even I have had to give in to the overwhelming evidence.”

“What would you say if I told you that chance has placed in my hands a piece of evidence that will certainly clear him of all complicity?”

“I should be overjoyed to hear it, Mrs. Beresford.”

“Supposing,” continued Tuppence, “that I had come across a girl who was actually dancing with Captain Hale last night at twelve o’clock — the hour when he was supposed to be at the Ace of Spades.”

“Marvelous,” cried Sir Arthur. “I knew there was some mistake. Poor Vere must have killed herself after all.”

“Hardly that,” said Tuppence. “You forget the other man.”

“What other man?”

“The one my husband and I saw leave the booth. You see, Sir Arthur, there must have been a second man dressed in newspaper. By the way, what was your own costume?”

“Mine? I went as a Seventeenth Century Executioner.”

“How very appropriate,” said Tuppence softly.

“Appropriate, Mrs. Beresford? What do you mean?”

“For the part you played. Shall I tell you my ideas on the subject, Sir Arthur? The newspaper dress is easily put on over that of an Executioner. Previously a little note has been slipped into Captain Hale’s hand, asking him not to speak to a certain lady. But the lady herself knows nothing of that note. She goes to the Ace of Spades at the appointed time, and sees the figure she expects to see. They go into the booth. He takes her in his arms, I think, and kisses her — and as he kisses he strikes with the dagger. She only utters one faint cry and he covers that with a laugh. Presently he goes away — and to the last, horrified and bewildered, she believes her lover is the man who killed her.

“But she has torn a small fragment from the killer’s costume. The murderer notices that — he is a man who pays great attention to detail. To make the case absolutely clear against his victim the fragment must seem to have been torn from Captain Hale’s costume. That would present great difficulties unless the two men happened to be living in the same house. Then, of course, the thing would be simplicity itself. He makes an exact duplicate of the tear in Captain Hale’s costume — then he burns his own and prepares to play the part of the loyal friend.”

Sir Arthur rose and bowed. “The rather vivid imagination of a charming lady who reads too much fiction.”

“You think so?” said Tommy.

“And a husband who is guided by his wife,” said Sir Arthur. “I do not fancy you will find anybody to take the matter seriously.”

He laughed out loud, and Tuppence stiffened in her chair.

“I would swear to that laugh anywhere,” she said. “I heard it last in the Ace of Spades. And you are under a little misapprehension about us both. Beresford is our real name, but we have another.”

She picked up a card from the table and handed it to him. Sir Arthur read it aloud, “International Detective Agency.” He drew his breath sharply. “So that is what you really are! That was why Marriot brought me here this morning. It was a trap—”

He strolled to the window.

“A fine view you have from here,” he said. “Right over London.”

“Inspector Marriot!” Tommy called out sharply.

In a flash the Inspector appeared from the communicating door.

A little smile of amusement came to Sir Arthur’s lips.

“I thought as much,” he said. “But you won’t get me this time, I’m afraid, Inspector. I prefer my own way out.”

And putting his hands on the sill he vaulted clean through the window.

Tuppence shrieked and clapped her hands to her ears to shut out the sound she had already imagined — the sickening thud far beneath. Inspector Marriot uttered an oath.

“We should have thought of the window,” he said. “Though, mind you, it would have been a difficult thing to prove, I’ll go down and — and — see to things.”

“Poor devil,” said Tommy slowly. “If he was fond of his wife—”

But the Inspector interrupted him with a snort. “Fond of her? That’s as may be. He was at his wits’ end where to turn for money. Lady Merivale had a large fortune of her own, and it all went to him. If she’d bolted with young Hale, he’d never have seen a penny of it.”

“That was it, was it?”

“Of course. From the very start I sensed that Sir Arthur was a bad lot, and that Captain Hale was all right. We know pretty well what’s what at the Yard — but it’s awkward when you’re up against seemingly incontrovertible facts. I’ll be going down now — I should give your wife a glass of brandy if I were you, Mr. Beresford — it’s been upsetting-like for her.”

“Greengrocers,” said Tuppence in a low voice as the door closed behind the imperturbable Inspector. “Butchers. Fishermen. Detectives. I was right, wasn’t I? Marriot knew.”

Tommy, who had been busy at the sideboard, approached her with a large glass.

“Drink this.”

“What is it? Brandy?”

“No, it’s a large cocktail — suitable for a triumphant McCarty. Yes, Marriot’s right — that was the way of it. A bold finesse for game and rubber.”

Tuppence nodded. “But he finessed the wrong way round.”

“And so,” said Tommy. “Exit the King.”