The Gong of Doom

It was a normal evening in the Hades Club and the members were, as usual, enjoying the peace and quiet of their surroundings. In the great oak-panelled room, the gentle hum of discreet conversation could barely be heard above the crackling of the flames in the hearth. Crossed swords hung above the imposing black marble mantelpiece, on which stood a bust of the Greek god who had given his name to the club: the meeting-place of a select circle of prosperous Londoners devoted to the discussion of puzzling mysteries, criminal and otherwise. But the peace was suddenly shattered by a strange noise…

As one, the members turned to stare reproachfully at Horace, the servant who had had the misfortune to drop a large silver tray and was frantically trying to gather up its contents.

“That’s strange,” said Superintendent Charles Cullen. The senior Scotland Yard official, a straight-backed man clearly in the prime of life despite graying hair combed carefully back, was sitting close to the fire in the company of his old friend, the eminent criminologist Dr. Alan Twist. The learned doctor, advanced in years but still sporting a splendid ginger moustache beneath a pair of gentle but shrewd eyes, behind a pince-nez, had frequently helped the Yard over the course of his career.

“And what a noise,” continued Cullen. “It sounded just like an oriental gong. For a moment I thought I was back in India and we were being called to dinner.”

“Strange? Why do you say that?” replied Twist. “Horace had just served Professor Felton his customary port, but then, unfortunately, he must have slipped on the freshly polished floor and dropped the tray while he was trying to retain his balance. When it hit the floor the tray produced a deep, resonant sound — a powerful vibration not unlike a gong, as you have correctly observed. The train of events seems perfectly logical to me. I really don’t see what’s odd about it.”

The policeman shrugged his shoulders:

“What I meant to say was, that’s not the kind of sound one hears every day, you must admit.”

Comfortably ensconced in his armchair, Twist slowly took off his pince-nez and appeared to contemplate the collection of swords and daggers above the mantelpiece.

“What would have been strange was if the tray had made no sound at all. Or if a great gong, having been struck, reverberated on its stand but remained silent.”

“That’s clearly impossible,” scoffed Cullen. “But, knowing you, it’s obvious that you’ve been reminded of one of your famous imbroglios: those seemingly impossible problems that you seem to attract like flies. Wait! Let me guess… it’s something to do with those weapons, I’ll bet. Perhaps that oriental dagger you’ve been staring at so intently?”

The criminologist nodded smilingly.

“You’re very observant, Charles. But in fact, it’s more like the opposite.”

“The opposite?” echoed the superintendent, frowning. “I don’t understand.”

“It was not about a silent gong—”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“—but a gong that sounded without being struck.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Not at all. The object in question had the reputation of sounding by itself. And in this case, it wasn’t to announce dinner but something altogether more sinister. I should really tell you the whole story, Charles, so you can appreciate why the detectives in charge of the investigation were at their wits’ end. After all, not only was there the Gong of Doom, there was also a murderer who could walk on snow without leaving a trace!”

Charles Cullen’s reaction was to take a quick gulp of whisky and stare hard at the grim statue of Hades. After a moment of silent contemplation, he observed:

“You don’t really look like him, but there’s something, nevertheless… “

“What? Are you comparing me with the Prince of Darkness?”

“Yes, my dear fellow. You’re every bit as diabolical in your manipulation of people.”

A mischievous gleam appeared in the eminent detective’s eyes.

“But you still want to hear the story, it seems. I thought you’d planned a hand of bridge.”

“It can wait. Once again, you’ve aroused my curiosity.”

After taking his time to light his pipe, Dr. Twist replied:

“So be it. It’s a story that goes all the way back to the end of the Great War, in other words the early twenties, but fortunately I have a memory which, as regards criminal matters, is positively elephantine. I can remember the smallest detail.”

“I know that from all the times you’ve been of assistance to us.”

“It does help that Miss Rose Strange had magnificent chestnut hair, emerald green eyes, and a slender, graceful figure… “

“No story worth its salt is complete without a pretty girl. I suppose that Miss Rose was the heroine?”

“In a manner of speaking. She was twenty at the time and was going out with Philip, a young man of relatively humble origins, but honest and hardworking. His employer had thought highly enough of him to promote him to foreman at the bicycle factory where he worked, which offered the couple the prospect of financial security. But there was one formidable obstacle to their happiness: Rose’s uncle and guardian Colonel Henry Strange. The colonel, a confirmed bachelor, may well have had a heart of gold but, if so, he went to great lengths to conceal it. A strict disciplinarian, he treated her after the death of her parents as if she were his own daughter, but watched over her with a gimlet eye far sharper than any father’s.

“He had been a medical officer in the army, but had left to take up an important post in the Ministry of Defence. He lived a strictly regimented life and expected others to do the same. If his niece was going to be married, it would have to be to a young man of his choosing, such as an army officer; it goes without saying that he was less than enchanted with his niece’s choice. He didn’t dislike the young man personally, but there was no question of him becoming Rose’s husband. For his part, Philip was fully aware of the colonel’s views and had decided to confront him that very evening, to inform him that, once his niece reached her majority, only death could prevent the marriage from taking place.”

“And death is precisely what happened, I imagine,” commented the superintendent wryly, taking another swig of whisky.

“Yes, death intervened brutally and in an almost supernatural manner, as if a deity had intervened. The study, where Colonel Strange had received Philip, was the scene of a senseless and inexplicable murder which defied the most elementary laws of logic — at least for those who believed in the innocence of the accused, like Rose. She was the only one who did at the time, and frankly the charges appeared to be pretty damning. Philip appeared to be the only one who could have committed the crime. To make matters worse, his explanation seemed scarcely credible… and he was also the only one with a motive for the murder.”

Charles Cullen rubbed his chin thoughtfully:

“Let me guess. They were closeted together in the study and quarrelled, after which Philip was found alone with the colonel’s body.”

“Exactly.”

“And he denied having killed him.”

“Precisely.”

“A classic detective-story situation.”

“Perhaps, but this wasn’t a story.”

“Where was the murderer, then?” asked Cullen, obviously intrigued.

“Nowhere.”

“Nowhere? I’m afraid I don’t follow. Colonel Strange was killed in front of his visitor, who didn’t see anything? Is that what you’re saying?”

Dr. Twist nodded in agreement.

“Yes.”

“A phantom assassin, in other words?”

“That was certainly the only plausible explanation if one assumed Philip was innocent. But let me begin at the beginning… It happened in London, on an evening a few days before Christmas. It had been snowing all day and the city lay under a thick blanket of snow. Rose and her uncle lived in Bloomsbury, in a house at the end of a dead-end street. A high wall ran the length of the opposite side of the street, behind which stood an abandoned warehouse. Philip arrived around eight o’clock, while it was still snowing. Rose was in a state of agitation, not only because of what Philip was planning to say to her uncle, but also because he had found her in the company of an officer, John Buresford, whom Strange had invited. The fair-haired young man was pleasant enough and rather shy, but what had struck Rose immediately was the stiffness of his gloved right hand. With a smile, he explained to her that it was a souvenir of the battle of Ypres: ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it. People seem embarrassed by it but, to be absolutely frank, I’ve almost forgotten about it. Over the last five years, I’ve become accustomed to the thing. All I have to do is to think about the friends that didn’t make it back to realise how lucky I was to get out of there at all. And anyway, I’ve still got one left.’

“So saying, he held out his good hand and Rose naturally held out hers. And at that moment Philip came into the room.

“He was covered in snow and had forgotten to ring the doorbell in his haste to escape the weather. With his collar turned up and his hat jammed down on his head, his eyes were barely visible, but he nevertheless shot a furious glance at the couple and looked Buresford up and down as if he were an intruder. At that point Henry Strange arrived and, no doubt sensing the tense atmosphere, proffered some drinks and proposed a game of bridge, which lasted two hours. At half-past ten John Buresford excused himself and left, at which point Philip asked to speak privately to the colonel and they went into the study together and shut the door.

“Henry Strange knew very well what it was all about. During the bridge session, Rose had observed him looking out of the corner of his eye at Philip and herself, but had been too flustered to dwell upon it. Despite Philip’s insistence, she had never plucked up the courage to confront her uncle about her marriage intentions and so, knowing the characters of both men, she now feared the worst. Her uncle was inflexible, and Philip was as stubborn as a mule. Things did not bode well…

“She went into the kitchen to await events and in less than five minutes could hear voices raised in anger; hardly a surprise, but disturbing nevertheless. Even though two doors separated her from the two men — the kitchen door opening onto the corridor with the study door opposite — she could still hear them, as could Jasper, her uncle’s manservant, who lived on the floor above. As the quarrel showed no signs of abating, Jasper came down to join Rose in the kitchen. She explained what she knew of the situation and together they went into the corridor to stand outside the study door. Suddenly there was a booming, resonant sound and the voices stopped abruptly. Jasper and Rose looked at each other and stood there, straining to hear if the dispute was about to start again. But to no avail: There was not the slightest sound…

“Now, before I go any further, I need to tell you about the gong and the dagger.”

Dr. Twist turned towards the mantelpiece and, indicating one of the oriental arms, asked his friend:

“You guessed quite correctly a few minutes ago: That was one of the objects that reminded me of this business. You know what it is, I suppose?”

“Of course,” replied Cullen. “It’s a kandjar, a traditional Indian dagger.”

“Well, as it happened, there was a kandjar in Colonel Strange’s study, and there was also a gong. A very remarkable gong. Superficially, there was nothing to distinguish it from any other, but the Indian who sold it to him claimed that it possessed supernatural powers.

“Let me guess,” exclaimed Cullen. “A gong which would sound without anyone having struck it!”

“Precisely. And whenever that occurred, it was best not to listen, for it was an ill omen. It announced someone’s imminent death, or so it was said. Colonel Strange used to talk frequently about the legend, although nobody in the house had ever heard it emit a sound. Or, at least, without human intervention: for Rose, as a child, loved to give it a little tap from time to time. Its very sound emphasized the oriental nature of the room, with the thick Persian carpet and exotic weaponry, and the shelves full of trinkets, miniature elephants and other statuettes in ivory. But until that moment, at least since the colonel’s return from India, it had never sounded by itself.

“Back to Jasper and Rose: Following the booming sound, they had heard nothing, even though they had been listening attentively. Now, worried about the prolonged silence, they made their way to the study, knocked gently, and tried the door. It was locked from the inside, but Philip unlocked and opened it immediately. He looked very pale as he let them in. Once inside, they could see that the window opposite the door was wide open. On the wall to their right, near the window, hung the gong and the kandjar. The body of the colonel lay on the floor almost beneath the kandjar. There was an arrow piercing the colonel’s neck and Philip told them there was nothing they could do, for the colonel was quite dead. Rose stood there in stunned silence while Jasper, who had kept his head, asked Philip to describe what had happened. Unfortunately, the young man’s explanation seemed so preposterous they feared he had lost his reason and might even have killed Colonel Strange himself in a fit of uncontrollable anger.

“Needless to say, the question of marriage was at the root of the quarrel. As the colonel rejected his arguments with a cold authority, Philip had tried to keep his composure while pacing to and fro. Eventually he couldn’t take any more of the biting comments and, reconciled to defeat but shaking with anger, was about to leave the study when it happened. He was facing the door and the colonel was standing at the other end of the room with his back to the window, seemingly studying the kandjar and the fateful gong on the side wall. Suddenly Philip heard a curious sound, like a booming vibration. He thought immediately of the gong because of the legend Rose had recently told him about. He turned around and saw Henry Strange staggering and trying to clutch at the wall for support, in a vain attempt to remain upright. But, before Philip could reach him, he collapsed on the carpet. It was only then that Philip noticed the arrow in Henry’s neck. Because the window was open, he immediately thought that the shot had come from outside and went over to take a look. There was nothing, not so much as a cat. The street was silent and deserted. A solitary bronze street lamp illuminated the scene and created a sheen on the surface of the snow, which he could see was unmarred by footprints or marks of any kind. Opposite him was an unbroken brick wall without a single nook or cranny. Where could any mysterious archer have hidden to fire the deadly shot? There was nowhere. It slowly dawned on Philip that all the evidence pointed to him being the only one who could have committed the murder.”

The eminent criminologist paused for dramatic effect. After favouring him with a rather cynical look, the superintendent commented:

“An intriguing problem, I must say. If Philip was indeed innocent, which you seem to be implying, there are a couple of unexplained phenomena. First, obviously, there’s the gong that reverberated all of its own accord by way of announcing an imminent death. Secondly, there’s Colonel Strange’s abrupt demise in seemingly impossible circumstances. Perhaps you could elaborate on the latter?”

“Of course,” agreed Twist with an ironic smile. “And I’ll try to be objective even though I already know the solution. First, I must tell you about the snowman at the end of the cul-de-sac, made by some schoolboys during that same afternoon. They had decorated it with whatever had come to hand: an old broom; the traditional carrot for its nose; a battered old hat on its head; and an orange on top of the hat. With regard to the layout of the street: Starting from the T junction formed by the cul-de-sac and the main road to the south, it was a good thirty yards north to the wall at the end where the snowman stood guard. The high wall ran the full length of the west side and on the east there were three houses next to one another side by side, that of the Stranges being the last. Its front door was therefore some twenty yards from the T junction, with the street lamp almost opposite providing bright illumination for the whole street. There were three windows looking onto the cul-de-sac: that of the study, adjacent to the front door, and two others belonging to a larger room — the dining room, I believe. If you leant out of the study window you would see, slightly to the left, the street lamp and, five or six yards to the right, the wall at the end of the cul-de-sac. Are you with me so far?”

“Absolutely,” replied Charles Cullen, who had been concentrating with his eyes closed.

“Jasper had had the presence of mind to call the police and they arrived quickly. At first they concentrated on the virgin snow in the street, hoping to find incriminating footprints. Philip’s statements were so absurd that they believed he must be innocent — at least at first. The only footprints they could find were made by John Buresford, which went from the front door of the house to the T junction. They were very clear because the snow had stopped around the time he had left. There was nothing suspicious about them: Their general direction, depth, and — above all — their angle relative to the study window ruled out the possibility of a shot from that particular path. When the colonel’s body had been found, it was several feet from the window. Furthermore, Philip — who had nothing to gain by pointing it out — insisted that Colonel Strange was not at the window at the fatal moment. He was standing by the gong just before Philip briefly turned his back on him.

“The police examined various potential lines of fire from outside the house, but in all cases the marksman would have to have been positioned close to the wall opposite the window, and within an area less than thirty feet wide. Furthermore, from the angle of the arrow in the victim’s neck, the shot must have been pretty well horizontal. Now, from a careful examination within the designated thirty-foot limit, there wasn’t the minutest aperture in the wall — not even a loose brick — and, as I’ve already noted, not a single incriminating mark in the snow on the street or on the window sill. It was seemingly impossible for the crossbowman — for the initial theory was that the arrow had been fired from a crossbow — to have taken his shot from outside the house.

“That left only the study itself, which narrowed the possibilities to just two: Either the colonel had been killed by the only other person in the room at the time, or by a cunningly concealed mechanical trap. Given the absence of any evidence of the latter, it seemed inescapable that Philip was the guilty party.”

“How did he do it, then?” asked Cullen. “Did they find a crossbow in the study?”

“No.”

“So where the devil did he hide it after he’d fired it?”

A mischievous gleam appeared behind the pince-nez of the famous detective.

“In fact, at this point the authorities were by no means totally convinced that the arrow had been fired from a crossbow. After examining the body, the medical examiner had some questions about the wound. It seemed to be consistent with the cause of death, yet didn’t seem to be a clean enough wound to be completely natural. The skin appeared to have been torn. On questioning, Philip recalled having tried in vain to pull the arrow out of the fallen victim, but quickly realized his host was dead. He now realized it was a mistake, but it was a reflex action, done in a moment of panic. The explanation was plausible, according to the examiner, but it was only one of several possibilities and still didn’t explain how the shot was fired.

“The police inspector had another theory which, in fact, explained the mystery completely. The fatal wound was inflicted by the suspect not with a crossbow arrow at all, but with a dagger. At the height of their quarrel, Philip grabbed the first weapon to hand: the kandjar. After stabbing the colonel, and noticing a crossbow arrow in the room, he tried to make it appear as though the shot came from outside. All he had to do was remove the kandjar, wipe it down and put it back on the wall, drive the arrow all the way into the wound, and then open the window. There was just one small detail that tripped him up: There were no incriminating footprints anywhere in the cul-de-sac. Everything thus pointed to Philip, and he was arrested the following day. It proved a devastating shock to Rose, even though she had been half expecting it.”

“They could scarcely have done otherwise,” observed the superintendent. “People have been hanged for a lot less. But weren’t there any other witnesses?”

“There were indeed. Fortunately for Philip, the inspector wasn’t entirely satisfied with his own theories; everything seemed too pat. Besides, not a single trace of blood had been found on the kandjar. Would Philip really have had time to clean it so thoroughly and come up with an explanation, no matter how implausible? There had barely been a couple of minutes between the end of the quarrel and the discovery of the tragedy. Would that have been enough?

“The inspector pursued his enquiries and eventually found two witnesses who, according to a local innkeeper, had left his establishment around the time of the crime. On their way home they had passed by the top end of the cul-de-sac, where the police had in fact found two sets of muddled footprints in the snow at the T junction. This was quite understandable, given that they had left the pub in a highly inebriated state, having passed the evening in a celebration of some sort. Apparently they were simply passing through. They weren’t locals, and one of them was carrying a suitcase. This helped the inspector to trace them and bring them in for questioning. They both claimed to have seen nothing, but the inspector detected a certain nervousness in their demeanour. Had they noticed something they were afraid to talk about? Had the alcohol affected them to the point of seeing ghosts?”

“Maybe they saw the snowman at the other end of the street.”

“And you think he might have been the phantom archer?” asked Dr. Twist scornfully. “Well, why not? At least that would be a murderer out of the ordinary.”

Charles Cullen shrugged his shoulders. “No, of course not, but I think there’s a glimmer of a clue there.”

“You’re very warm, but that’s not the answer. Still, I think I’ve given you enough information to solve the puzzle. Any thoughts?”

Cullen emptied his glass before answering:

“Sorry to disappoint you, but despite all the interesting snippets, I still feel it was the chief suspect. Mainly because of the window. You haven’t told me why it was open like that on a winter evening. It doesn’t make sense. Unless Philip himself had an explanation?”

“As a matter of fact, the inspector did ask him and it’s very simple. After Colonel Strange had flown off the handle, he opened the window wide so as to get some fresh air and try to cool down.”

“And what about the study door being locked? Did he have an explanation for that? Did the colonel also do that?”

“Yes. As soon as Philip had explained the subject of the meeting, Colonel Strange made a show of locking the door and declaring that nobody would leave until the matter was settled. According to Rose, that was completely in character.”

The superintendent shook his head in defeat.

“Well, in that case, I give up. Jasper, the servant, has a cast-iron alibi because he was with Rose at the time of the crime. And that, of course, eliminates her as well. That leaves the young officer who lost a hand on the Belgian front. One can readily imagine him falling for the girl even on the very first night, but it’s quite a stretch to imagine that he immediately set about trying to rid himself of her fiancé by killing the colonel and framing his rival. And how could he have shot the fellow as he was leaving? From your own account, the angle of flight rules out the arrow having been fired from anywhere near the front door. And anyway, how could he have manipulated a crossbow with just one hand? It’s completely impossible, just like everything else in this damned story… arrows appearing from nowhere and gongs sounding all by themselves!”

Dr. Twist smiled knowingly. “But in fact, the solution to the whole mystery lies in those two elements. Remember the circumstances: It was just after hearing the sound that Philip saw the colonel collapse, mortally wounded by a crossbow arrow. Think carefully, that wasn’t a coincidence: There was a clear connection between the strange noise and the arrow.”

Charles Cullen looked perplexed.

“Quite frankly, I don’t see it. If anything, the problem is more complicated than ever. Am I supposed to believe the legend whereby the sound of the gong presages death and disaster? Or that someone familiar with the gong’s deadly powers succeeded in invoking them?”

The celebrated detective shook his head. “No, of course not. You’re not looking at this the right way. I’m afraid you’re allowing the legend to influence your thinking. Once again, think how short a time elapsed between the sound and the fatal wounding of the colonel.”

“Put me out of my misery,” announced Cullen, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Philip was exonerated,” replied Twist reflectively. “He escaped the rope, but not his fate. One month after his release, he was killed in an accident at the factory.”

“Well, that’s all very sad,” observed the superintendent. “But what about the solution to the puzzle?”

“I hate to disappoint you, my dear fellow, but it’s simplicity itself. When you hear it, you’re going to kick yourself.”

“Well then, give me a clue, for heaven’s sake.”

“Very well. You’ve heard of William Tell, no doubt. The Swiss archer who had to shoot an apple from the top of his son’s head or die himself.”

With difficulty, the policeman controlled himself. “Of course, everyone knows the story. Get on with it!”

“Well, it’s the key to the whole mystery. Except in this case it was an orange, not an apple. An orange perched on the hat of the snowman at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. It was reminiscent of William Tell and his son, wasn’t it? And it was too tempting. One of the revellers thrown out of the pub couldn’t resist trying out the crossbow he’d just bought, which was in the suitcase he was carrying. On the way to the pub, he’d noticed the snowman and, in particular, the orange stuck on his head. On the way back, after he and his friend had sunk a few, he recalled that the seller had challenged him to be worthy of William Tell and spear the fruit. When next they saw the snowman, they were at the top of the cul-de-sac, about ninety feet from it — not a great distance for a crossbow. The orange on top of its head was illuminated by the light of the street lamp. And that’s the solution to the mystery, because the two jokers confessed to the inspector. A simple accident, the result of a drunken bet.”

“I still don’t understand,” announced the superintendent, now at the limit of his patience. “If things happened the way you describe, the archer was well outside the line of fire as defined by the police experts. Unless Colonel Strange, in direct conflict with Philip’s testimony, stuck his head out of the window at that precise moment and then fell back wounded into the room.”

“You’re still off the mark, even though I drew your attention to the warning sound of the Gong of Doom or, more precisely, the strange reverberations Philip heard at the moment of the killing. It was, in fact, caused by the crossbow arrow that was deflected from its course and struck its victim’s neck after flying through the open window. And, as you know, a crossbow bolt, even on ricochet, retains a remarkable force and momentum.”

“But what the devil could it have struck? A brick? Ridiculous! There has to be a hard, smooth, metallic surface for that to happen and there was nothing like that in the street, according to your own account.”

“But there was! A round, smooth metallic surface as obvious as the nose on your face: the bronze lamppost which, by the way, resonates when struck — and which Philip’s fervent imagination mistook for the sound of a gong. Think back to my description of the scene and envisage the respective positions of the archer, the lamppost, and the victim. Connect the dots and you have the precise path of the projectile. And you have to admit that the explanation is childishly simple.”