Chapter III: Part 3

‘That is correct. I remained here for these months while some legal matters were completed, and to oblige Hance, for I consider that he did me a good turn. I leave for Enthwaite to-night. And now, gentlemen, since time presses, may I mention that I have a successor to myself to propose to you, if you have made no other arrangements? He would act on the same terms as I have done. I will answer for his ability and discretion. He is, like myself, a poet. He is also the editor of an obscure weekly publication called _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_. If you choose him I have here his first problem to deliver to the chairman. His name is William Bunting. With your permission I will retire for a few minutes while you consider this.’

When he had gone out it was found that every member of the Problem Club had formed the same idea. On his return to the room Lord Herngill was informed that Mr Bunting had been appointed, and also that Lord Herngill had been proposed by the chairman, seconded by Sir Charles Bunford, and unanimously elected a member of the Problem Club.

No. VII.

The Shakespearean Problem

The failure of the members to discover the identity of Leonard—the last problem that he had set them—meant that at the forty-ninth meeting the prize was doubled, and a cheque for two hundred and twenty pounds awaited the lucky winner. Leonard, formerly known as a capable head-waiter and an astute setter of problems, had revealed himself as the grandson and heir of the Lord Herngill who had founded the club, and had been elected to membership. He had described himself further as a poet. He had now travelled up from Yorkshire for the express purpose of attending the first meeting after his election, and the dinner with which the proceedings opened showed him, as had been expected, a charming, accomplished, and quite amusing companion.

Young Hesseltine and the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe were, respectively, chairman and secretary for the evening. The chairman, equipped with a bound copy of Shakespeare, and certain other forms of refreshment, read out the terms of the competition. They were longer than usual, and ran as follows:—

‘Members are required, in the course of conversation, to make undetected quotations from Shakespeare, and to detect and challenge the quotations which are made by other members.

‘The score is two for making an undetected quotation, and one for detecting and challenging a quotation made by another. The highest score wins. If any member challenges as a quotation from Shakespeare words which are not a quotation from that author, he will have one deducted from his score. Any member with a score of minus three is out of the game.

‘The method of challenging will be by raising one hand, when the chairman will temporarily arrest proceedings and investigate. Where several members raise their hands simultaneously, all will score the detection, or be penalised for the failure, as the case may be. Otherwise, only the first hand up can score or be penalised.

‘A quotation must consist of more than four words, or it will not rank as a quotation. The words must be given in their correct order, but otherwise any attempt may be made to disguise the quotation. Any member who has made an undetected quotation should notify it to the chairman at the earliest opportunity, while it is still fresh in the memory.

‘Detection, to be valid, should be made immediately—say, within twenty seconds of the utterance of the quotation.

‘The chairman will stop the competition when in his opinion all members have had a fair and full chance of speaking, and on all disputed points his ruling is absolute.’

‘Yes,’ said the chairman, when he had read out the above, ‘our new problem-setter, the mysterious editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_, seems to be rather a lengthy beggar. More like a round game than a problem, to my mind. I can imagine literary circles playing it on winter evenings. However, I think we’ve most of us got the hang of it. There’s double the usual amount of boodle in the jack-pot, but all the same I’m not sorry to be debarred from competing. I had a good deal of Shakespeare boosted into me by schoolmasters when I was a boy, but I fear that it ain’t stuck to me. Well, it’s all up to the high-brows to-night. And I’ll call on our old friend Leonard, who’s our new member, Lord Herngill, to start the ball rolling, and our padre to keep the score as directed.’

‘Well,’ said Leonard, ‘I can’t say that I am a stranger here, but I am certainly a new member, and very glad to be. Now, I told you that I was a poet, but a writer of poetry is not necessarily a reader of poetry. I can’t say whether he ought to be or not.’ He paused to relight a cigarette. ‘To be candid——’

‘I challenge,’ said Mr Cunliffe, with uplifted hand. ‘The quotation is, “To be or not to be,” rather cunningly broken up.’

‘Admitted,’ said Leonard.

‘Then,’ said the chairman, ‘the secretary will score one to himself.’

‘At the same time,’ said Leonard, ‘I should like him to score two to me. The words, “I am a stranger here,” are a quotation from _King Richard II._, Act 2, Scene iii. Northumberland speaks them. And the quotation was not recognised.’

This was verified and found correct and the score allowed. The chairman turned to the Hon. James Feldane, who was sitting—or, to be accurate, reclining—in the chair next to Leonard. ‘Go ahead, Jimmy,’ he said.

‘Very well,’ said Jimmy wearily. ‘The—er—the quality of mercy——’

Five hands went into the air together.

‘Jimmy,’ said the chairman, ‘it looks as if you were pretty considerably challenged—by five simultaneously. You, Major Byles, being one of them, will tell us why.’

‘Why?’ exclaimed the Major. ‘Because it’s one of the best-known quotations in Shakespeare. I won’t swear which play it comes from, but everybody knows it. Let’s see, how does it go? “The quality of mercy is not strained, but droppeth like the thingamy of the something-or-other.”’

‘Any defence, Jimmy?’ asked the chairman.

‘Somewhat,’ said Jimmy. ‘I said, “The quality of mercy.” I admit it. I glory in it. But that’s only four words, and it’s laid down that four words do not make a quotation.’

‘That is so. I fear that the Major, Dr Alden, our only K.C., and our two artist-members must all have a minus one recorded against them.’

‘What I was going to have said when they interrupted me was that the quality of mercy differed in some material respects from coffee that has been made with a percolator. Same thought as Shakey’s, but a different mode of expression. Five of you have now lost a life through being premature. You need to be careful. A score of minus three puts you outside of any chance of two hundred and twenty of the very best. And I’m dangerous to-night—I’m out for blood. The brindled cat winds slowly o’er the lea—anybody like to challenge that?’

Wildersley said it would make a good title for an Academy picture, but nobody asserted that it was Shakespeare—not even Jimmy.

‘You’re an unenterprising lot,’ said Jimmy disdainfully. ‘But I’ll give you one more chance. “Satiate at length, and heightened as with wine.” That’s more than four words. Any challengers?’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Charles, holding up his hand. ‘I don’t know for certain, but it’s got the flavour of the period in it. Anyway, I’d sooner lose one life than let you score a triumphant two for it.’

‘Then you’ll lose the life. It’s a quotation all right, but it happens to be a little bit that I cut out of the best end of _Paradise Lost_, by J. Milton, Esquire.’ And Jimmy leant back in his chair satisfied. He had scored nothing for himself, but he had done something to spoil the chances of six other men.

The chairman turned to Sir Charles. ‘Don’t you think that Jimmy’s an irreverent young blackguard?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ said Sir Charles, with an air of quiet dignity. ‘Jimmy is young and I am old. As we progress on life’s journey, we old men cease to expect to find universal agreement with our views. We know that our opinions are our own, but cannot be all the world’s.’ He paused and sighed. ‘A stage or two farther on, and Jimmy may come to think, as I do now, that——’ And here suddenly Sir Charles broke off and chuckled. ‘Well, I’m blest!’ he said. ‘I never expected to do it. I knew this wasn’t a little nest of Shakespeareans, but I did think that you’d spot the best-known line in Shakespeare.’

That air of pathetic dignity had merely been a bit of acting, but the acting had been so good that it had distracted the attention from the words. Otherwise members must have found in Sir Charles’s remarks the well-worn tag that ‘All the world’s a stage.’ It scored two for Sir Charles, thus putting him on the way to a win, at any rate.

A few minutes later another well-known quotation very nearly came through unscathed. Somebody, speaking of Leonard, had said, ‘Leonard, or Lord Herngill, whichever he prefers to be called.’

Leonard smilingly said that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. He admitted afterwards that he had not had the slightest intention of quoting Shakespeare. He had merely uttered a platitude because it happened to be apt, though as soon as he said it he recognised his own quotation. Unfortunately for him, the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe had also recognised it, and by challenging it added one to a score that was growing slowly but surely. He attempted no quotation himself, and never challenged unless he was sure. To put it plainly, he played for safety.

‘Yes,’ said Jimmy Feldane plaintively, commenting on this incident, ‘one of the worst points about Mr W. Shakespeare is that he made such a lot of proverbs. I don’t want to brag, but I suppose I’ve read as little as most people, and I expect that even I don’t keep clear of Shakespearean quotations altogether. I’m not aiming at him, but every now and then he flies into it, so to speak.’

The supercilious Mr Quillian had provided himself with a stock of quotations from Elizabethan dramatists other than Shakespeare, and did deadly work with them. They were challenged, and brought the penalty on the challengers. And having thus inspired a dread of traps, he introduced three quotations which really were from Shakespeare, and two of them got through undetected. Pusely-Smythe, who generally welcomed a chance of a friendly duel with Quillian remained silent, watching him with sardonic amusement.

The game became very strenuous. There was the closest attention in order to spot any veritable quotation. Every strategic dodge that had been thought of during the previous month was brought into action, to induce a challenge that would be penalised, or to get a quotation through undetected. Several members reached minus three, and were ruled out.

‘This game is too much for me,’ said Mr Matthews, on losing his third life. ‘It’s too subtle. The American game of draw-poker, with three jokers in the pack and one of the players a crook, is simple, transparent, and childlike compared to it. However, one of the joys of being out of it is that I can get myself that little drink that I have long needed.’ And he made his way to the side-table.

‘Mr Chairman,’ said Sir Charles, ‘I think a ten-minutes’ interval would be welcome. It’s wearing work to keep on thinking what one is saying.’

His suggestion was warmly supported and accepted by the chairman. Some members followed the comfortable example of Mr Matthews. Some chuckled over the clever caricatures, drawn on the back of bridge-markers, with which Wildersley had been occupying his enforced leisure; an excess of zeal over discretion had put him out of the game at an early stage. All consulted the secretary’s score-sheet. Quillian was leading with a score of nine. The secretary and Sir Charles were each at eight. Major Byles was three, and Pusely-Smythe one. Jimmy Feldane was minus one, and Lord Herngill—who had at one time reached the noble score of four—had by reckless challenging brought himself to the perilous position of minus two.

‘Can’t make it out,’ said Mr Matthews to him. ‘You used to set all our problems. You ought to be a flyer at this kind of a game.’

‘It’s an easy job to set problems,’ said Leonard, ‘and to set them so that you can solve them, but it’s a different thing altogether to solve the problems that somebody else has set.’

‘Oh, well, it’s an open thing still. Quillian’s just leading, but I don’t believe he’ll pull it off. Shan’t be surprised if old Bunford is two hundred and twenty the richer before the evening’s out.’

Proceedings were now resumed. ‘Come, now, Pusely-Smythe,’ said the chairman, ‘we’ve not heard much from you to-night.’

‘Afraid of being challenged?’ suggested Quillian.

‘As a rule,’ said Pusely-Smythe angrily, ‘I’m told that I am much too venturous. However, my learned friend, if you want to talk, go on and I will wait for you. The chairman called on me to speak, not you, and as a matter of fact, I had a thing to say. But let it go—it may make trouble later, and then you’ll remember I told you what would come of this. Your blessed challenges, indeed! You may think you can do everything, but I know you can do very little.’

Quillian stared at him aghast and perplexed.

‘Really,’ he said, ‘I don’t understand this outburst. I had not the slightest intention——’

But here he was interrupted by Pusely-Smythe’s laughter. ‘All right, old man,’ said Pusely-Smythe cheerily. ‘Don’t worry. It was all spoof and part of the game. Thanks to you, I’ve just made five undetected quotations from the work of the bard. You’re my benefactor. In fact, as the Orientals say, you are my father and my mother, and I am the son of a dog.’

‘Five?’ said the chairman. ‘It hardly seems possible.’

But Pusely-Smythe made out his list and it was found to be quite correct. The five quotations were as follows:—

‘I am much too venturous,’ _King Henry VIII._, Act 1, Scene ii.

‘And I will wait for you,’ _Julius Cæsar_, Act 1, Scene ii.

‘I had a thing to say—but let it go,’ _King John_, Act 3, Scene iii.

‘I told you what would come of this,’ _The Winter’s Tale_, Act 4, Scene iii.

‘I know you can do very little,’ _Coriolanus_, Act 2, Scene i.

‘It’s a great _coup_,’ said the chairman. ‘It puts you right at the head of the list. Closing time is imminent, gentlemen. So if you have anything else to say, get on with it.’

‘Well,’ said Quillian, ‘somebody ought to have spotted him. It’s really more our carelessness than his cleverness. But I should imagine that’s the last undetected quotation he will be able to get through to-night. You’re a watched man now.’

‘By Jove, yes,’ said the Major.

‘Since you talk like that,’ said Pusely-Smythe, smiling. ‘I will make another quotation. By the way, how long will you give me? I should have asked you that before, of course.’

‘Five minutes,’ said the Major. ‘And then perhaps we might close the competition, if the chairman sees fit.’

A general agreement was reached on this point, and Pusely-Smythe was enjoined by the chairman to get on with it.

‘I’ve finished, thanks,’ said Pusely-Smythe. ‘The words, “I should have asked you that before,” are a quotation from a play called _Romeo and Juliet_. It’s the second scene of the first act—Romeo speaking.’

The quotation was verified, and advanced Pusely-Smythe’s score to thirteen—a lucky number for once—thus leaving him an easy winner.

‘And,’ said young Hesseltine, the chairman, as he handed him the cheque, ‘considering the way you must have sweated through tons and tons of absolute Shakespeare during the month, in order to pick out the little bits that didn’t look like quotations, I’m not sure that you haven’t earned about five per cent. of it.’

The chairman now opened the sealed envelope containing the problem for the next month. In this the talented editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_ had been quite brief. It was entitled ‘The Impersonation Problem,’ and the terms of it were as follows:—

‘It is required to be mistaken for six different people in the course of one hour.’

‘He don’t use any unnecessary words about it,’ said Mr Matthews.

But it may be remembered that the editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_ was also a poet—and real poets never use unnecessary words.

No. VIII.

The Impersonation Problem

The terms of the Impersonation Problem, which came up for adjudication at the fiftieth meeting of the club, were as follows:—

‘It is required to be mistaken for six different people in the course of one hour.’

Mr Wildersley, A.R.A.—large, cheerful, and childlike—took the chair, and observed that it was just as well for other members that the dignified position of adjudicator prevented him from competing, as otherwise he would have been a certain winner. It was a claim that the chairman for the evening very frequently made, but Wildersley was not very serious about it.

‘My profession,’ he said, ‘would have given me a start of about eighty yards in the hundred. I’m skilled in the rapid use of oil-paints. Within the prescribed limit of one hour I could have painted myself to look like a rabbit, or a tomato, or a man, or a hole in the ground, or any other object of the seashore, so as absolutely to defy detection. Not one of you duffers would have had a chance.’

‘Pardon the interruption,’ said Mr Quillian, K.C., ‘but the terms of the problem require us to be mistaken for six different people. May I ask the chairman if he would consider a rabbit and a tomato as being people for the purposes of this problem?’

‘The time of the chairman,’ said Wildersley, severely, ‘is not to be wasted on purely hypothetical cases. If, when his turn comes, Mr Quillian claims to have been mistaken for a rabbit, I shall be ready both to believe it and to adjudicate upon it. And now, gentlemen, we will have the story of your dismal failures. Hesseltine here is acting as secretary to-night, and he may as well get his talking done first, so that he can give his undivided attention to his duties.’

‘Well,’ said Hesseltine, ‘Feldane and I went into partnership this time, as the rules permit. We don’t claim to have scored the full six, but we had a lovely time while it lasted. Jimmy had better tell you about it, as he played the lead.’

‘Yes,’ said Jimmy, with a weary smile, ‘it was quite on the amusing side. Involved a lot of work though—thinking it all out and getting together the properties for the drama. If we scooped fifty-five pounds each over it we shouldn’t be overpaid, but just as we were doing nicely the bottom fell out of it. However, I’ll tell you.’

The incidents which Jimmy related were as follows: Early on a fine morning he and Hesseltine were conveyed by a taxi-cab to a point, previously selected, on a road on the outskirts of a south-western suburb. Here they unloaded their miscellaneous collection of properties and got to work. The driver took the cab off to a public-house in the vicinity, and there awaited further orders.

Hesseltine was disguised as a labourer. Jimmy, who was to act as his boss, was got up as, to use his own description, ‘a sort of semi-scientific clerky person, clad in a seedy suit, a pince-nez, and an air of educated wisdom.’ They began by enclosing a portion of the roadway with stakes and ropes, fixing red flags at the corners of the square. Then Hesseltine entered the enclosure and began vigorously to dig a hole in the road with pick and spade. It was still early, and there were few people about. So Hesseltine’s boss condescended to lend a hand with the digging. Afterwards Feldane contented himself with strolling round the hole with a voltmeter, borrowed from the taxi-cab, in one hand, a two-foot rule sticking out of his breast-pocket, and a general air of importance.

When the hole was about three feet deep a sleepy policeman paused on his way past.

‘Something wrong with the drains?’ he asked.

‘Hope not,’ said Feldane cheerfully. ‘But that’s what we’re going to find out. We’re just putting in the smoke-test on this section.’

‘I see,’ said the policeman. ‘You ain’t from Mackworth’s, are you?’

‘Mackworth’s? Oh, no. We’re from Matthews and Byles, the sanitary engineers at Vauxhall. Dare say you know the name.’

The policeman said he believed he’d heard it, and passed on. The game had now definitely begun, and there was only one hour to play it in and no time to be lost. A small car was approaching with a lady driving. Feldane ran into the road, held up his hand, and stopped it.

‘Sorry, madam,’ he said to the lady, ‘but would you mind waiting just for a few seconds? I’m sure you’ll understand. We’ve got an Erichsen’s galvanometrical balance working in that hole, and the least vibration would spoil the reading. We shan’t be a minute.’

‘Certainly,’ said the lady. ‘I know something of these delicate instruments. What are you using it for?’

‘We’re from the Post Office Electrical Survey. There’s trouble with the telegraph wires here that they can’t locate. Of course if iron pyrites has been used in the construction of the road, that would account for it. We’re looking into it. Bill,’ he called to Hesseltine, ‘what do you make it?’

Hesseltine examined the bottom of the hole. ‘Steady at two point five,’ he called back.

‘Good. Let this car past, and then set a foot further in. Thank you very much, madam.’

The unsuspecting lady drove on. Hesseltine sat down in the hole and laughed. Jimmy glanced at his watch. ‘That’s two in under ten minutes,’ he said. ‘If we can keep it up at anything like this rate, we ought to do.’

But for some time after this passers-by proved curious but unenterprising. They stared with the keenest interest at the proceedings, but did not put in any inquiry. Then an elderly tramp paused on his way into the town.

‘Water-main?’ he suggested.

‘Ay,’ said Jimmy.

‘All that work for a little water! Sooner you than me.’

Almost immediately afterwards a rather fussy and important little man demanded to know what it was all about.

‘Gas,’ said Jimmy laconically.

‘There’s no gas-main in this road,’ snapped the little man.

‘No,’ said Jimmy. ‘Nor likely to be until we’ve took the level for the pipes. Pass along, please.’

The little man said that it seemed hopeless to expect a civil answer to a civil question nowadays, but he passed along. Jimmy again consulted his watch.

‘Four in half an hour,’ he observed. ‘We can hardly miss it now.’

But fate was already on its way in the shape of a young, newly-appointed, eager and suspicious policeman. He watched Jimmy and Hesseltine for a minute or so in silence. Jimmy made an entry in a pocket-book.

‘All right, Bill,’ said Jimmy to Hesseltine. ‘You can fill in again now.’

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked the policeman.

‘Rubberite Road Construction,’ said Jimmy. ‘They’re putting down an experimental section here, and this is just the preliminary testing.’

‘Don’t they put no notice-board up with the name of the firm on?’

‘They will, of course, as soon as the actual work begins. I have their card.’ This printed card had been one of Jimmy’s properties. The policeman slipped it into his pocket.

‘I’ve no doubt it’s all right,’ said the policeman, ‘but I’ll just show this card to make sure.’

‘Certainly,’ said Jimmy; ‘that’s the thing to do. You’ll find they know all about it up at the station.’

The game was up. As soon as the policeman was round the corner Jimmy dashed off to fetch the taxi while Hesseltine completed the work of filling in the hole and getting their various properties together. They had at least the satisfaction of getting clear away before the policeman returned.

The chairman, when he had heard the story, said that if everybody had their rights it was probable that two of the younger members of the Problem Club would now be in prison, but he would allow them a score of five all the same. The fifth score might seem a little doubtful, but the young policeman has said that he believed it was all right, and if he had not would probably have taken stronger measures. The chairman also refused to admit Quillian’s objection that the conspirators had been mistaken for imaginary people. People might be real or imaginary, and the subtle editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_ had not indicated that either meaning was excluded. A further protest by Major Byles and Mr Matthews against the scandalous use that had been made of their names for the firm of sanitary engineers was not taken seriously.

But the Major may have been embittered by the completeness of his own failure. With the help of a gray wig and beard and some shabby clothes, he had intended to call at six different back-doors and to represent in succession six different people—a beggar, a fortune-teller, a vendor of cheap jewellery, and so forth. But the first back-door at which he called was his own, and there he was immediately recognised by a house-dog and by his own kitchen-maid. His subsequent explanation that he had merely been doing it for a bet had not been well received. He did not give details, but it was gathered that Mrs Byles had had a good deal to say on the subject.

Lord Herngill had done very little better. He had attempted no disguise at all. His idea had been, in the course of travel on the Bakerloo Tube railway, to get into conversation with six different people and to tell six plausible but erroneous stories about himself. His statement that he personally had driven the first train that had passed under the Thames in that tube, being in fact the consulting engineer of the company, was received by an old lady with great interest and not the slightest suspicion. He then changed into another carriage and found an opportunity to tell a young curate that though he lived within ten miles of London he had never been there in his life before. He was only there then because he had to see property that he had inherited at Swiss Cottage. And could the curate tell him at all where Swiss Cottage was?

That question was his undoing. ‘I can not only tell you,’ said the smiling curate, ‘but, as it happens, I am going there myself, and it will give me much pleasure to have your company.’

And by the time that he had got rid of that curate it was hopeless to attempt his remaining impersonations within the prescribed time. It was generally felt that in a matter of impersonation Lord Herngill, on his previous character, should have done better.

Mr Quillian had bestowed six shillings on six different crossing-sweepers. Five of them had said, ‘Thank you, m’lord,’ and the other had said, ‘Thank you, Captain.’ On this he claimed to have won, as it was obvious that all five crossing-sweepers could not have mistaken him for the same peer. It was pointed out to him by the chairman that there was not the slightest evidence that any one of those crossing-sweepers had made any mistake at all.

For once Pusely-Smythe had failed to compete, and said that he had been too busy. It was suggested that his time had been taken up with spending his winnings from the previous month. Mr Matthews also had taken no part in the competition. The reason he gave was simple cowardice; the ghastly breakdown of his attempt to impersonate an old lady for the purposes of the Kiss Problem had spoiled his nerve for anything of the kind in the future.

The disgraceful adventure of Feldane and Hesseltine seemed likely to be the nearest approach to the problem-setter’s requirements, until Sir Charles Bunford was called on for his experiences. Sir Charles claimed to have won.

‘I came to the conclusion,’ said Sir Charles, ‘that the man who asks for something or tries to sell something is likely to create an atmosphere of suspicion. On the other hand the man who gives something, even to a complete stranger, will have his explanatory story accepted without question. The fact that he stands to lose by the transaction is accepted as evidence of his genuineness.

‘With this conviction, and with such disguise as I thought advisable, I called at various houses all in one row in the Willesden neighbourhood. I was accompanied by a covered handcart, propelled by a boy hired for the purpose. Inside the handcart were the gifts that I had prepared for the occupants of the houses. Taking from the handcart a fruit-cake in a paper bag, I rang at the first house and requested the dirty little girl who opened it to fetch her dear mamma. Mamma appeared, wiping her hands on her apron, and looking displeased with life in general and me in particular.

‘“Good-morning, lady,” I said. “I am instructed by my employers to ask you if you will do them the favour of accepting as a present this fruit-cake of their manufacture. They are shortly opening a branch in this neighbourhood and are taking this method of making ladies acquainted with the quality of their goods. It is, in fact, an advertisement.” After assuring herself again that there was nothing to pay, and that the consumption of the cake would not bind her to deal with my firm—Messrs Butterstone and Co.—in future, she consented to accept the cake, and even to say that it seemed a straight way of doing business. She inquired where the new shop would be, which I told her, and what the price of a similar cake would be if she ever wanted to buy one. I put it at half what I had paid for it, and she said it was a pleasant morning. Never for one moment did she doubt that I was what I had represented myself to be.

‘At the next house with equal success I presented half a pound of butter as a sample of the products of the Farm Creameries Company, and a similar story. The third house got a tablet of scented soap from an enterprising chemist who was just starting in business in the neighbourhood. At the next three houses I distributed as free advertising samples a pound of sausages, a box of cigarettes, and a small bottle of whisky. It took longer than I had expected, because the ladies had such a lot of questions to ask about the new shops that were to be opened, but I finished six minutes under the hour. Of course, I could have carried all the goods round in a basket, but the handcart looked more like a house-to-house distribution on a large scale.’

The decision was not given in his favour until after Quillian had raised an objection. He maintained that in each case Sir Charles had been mistaken for the same thing—to wit, the representative or agent in advance of a business firm. But the chairman’s decision that Sir Charles had been mistaken for six different representatives of six different firms was generally approved. And as no other member had a claim to make the cheque was handed to him.

The chairman then opened the sealed envelope containing the problem on which their ingenuity was next to be expended. It was entitled ‘The Alibi Problem,’ and the terms of it were as follows:—

‘It is impossible for a man to be in two places at once. But it is required so to arrange matters that bona-fide evidence would be procurable that at a certain hour of a certain day or night you were in two places at once, the two places to be not less than one hundred miles from each other.’

‘Not uninteresting,’ said the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe, ‘but it leaves a good deal to the discretion of the chairman. He will have to decide which of us could produce the best evidence that the impossible had been accomplished. By the way, who is the next chairman?’

‘Should have been Harding Pope,’ said Wildersley. ‘But as he’s gone, it will be the member elected in his place—our old friend Leonard, Lord Herngill.’

‘My poor abilities are at your service,’ said Lord Herngill, laughing, ‘at London’s lowest prices always.’

No. IX.

The Alibi Problem

Lord Herngill read out the demand made by the editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_ on the ingenuity of the members of the Problem Club. Members were required to produce evidence, that could be given in good faith, that at a certain hour, day or night, they had been in two places at once, the two places not being less than one hundred miles apart.

Lord Herngill said that he felt anxious and depressed. His manner and appearance, it may be added, hardly bore out the statement. He assigned his depression to two reasons. Firstly, other chairmen had had the simple task of adjudicating on a point of fact. He—a new member, a novice, a mere babe, as you might say—was required to undertake far more delicate and difficult work, and to base his decision on an estimate of evidence. Secondly, the secretary for the evening was Mr Wildersley. On the last occasion that Wildersley had acted as secretary he had adorned the minute-book with drawings of the chairman which were undoubtedly amusing and possessed of artistic merit, but at the same time were calculated to bring that chairman into ridicule and contempt.

‘So you see, gentlemen,’ Lord Herngill continued, ‘that this is nervous work for me. However, I will make the plunge. Towards the end of dinner a telegram was handed to Mr Feldane over which I noticed him to be chuckling. May I inquire if it had any bearing on the problem before us?’

‘Well, it had,’ Jimmy admitted. ‘Brainy work to have guessed it. But I’m not on in this act—I’m resting. The wire really concerns Hesseltine’s claim.’

‘You two generally hunt in couples. Perhaps Mr Hesseltine will let you put his case for him.’

‘Anything that pleases you and saves me trouble,’ said Hesseltine generously. ‘I can always correct Jimmy if he makes an ass of himself.’

‘Well,’ said Jimmy, ‘we can see for ourselves that Hesseltine is here to-night. I don’t want to dwell on his misfortunes, but he looks much as usual. Talks in the same silly way too. But that telegram is his evidence that he is really in Liverpool. It is signed with his name and was handed in at a Liverpool office. I’ll read it. “So sorry to be unable to be with you to-night, but have promised to remain here to act as judge at local baby-show.” Well, it isn’t for me to say anything, though I could.’

‘The evidence that Mr Hesseltine is here,’ said the chairman, ‘is good. The evidence that he is in Liverpool is less good. A telegram is not necessarily despatched by the man whose name is signed to it. Further, it seems to me improbable that a young bachelor would have been selected for the high office which Mr Hesseltine claims to have fulfilled. I think we shall do better than that. I will ask Mr Pusely-Smythe how far he has succeeded in being in two places at once.’

‘It is easier to be in one place at twice,’ said Pusely-Smythe. ‘But I have done what I could, considering how unversed I am in the arts of deception.’ The applause which greeted this statement was possibly of an ironical character. ‘On the morning of Tuesday last,’ Pusely-Smythe continued, ‘I was at the Rectory, Meldon Bois, where I had been spending the week-end. The village of Meldon Bois is one hundred and eight miles from London. It had been my intention to leave Meldon Bois by the 10.5 a.m. for London. I had been pressed to remain for one more night, as there was to be a performance of a pastoral play by distinguished amateurs in the grounds of the Rectory on Tuesday afternoon, and it would be a pity for me to miss it. I will not conceal it from you, sir, that the said pastoral play constituted the principal reason for my departure.

‘You have grasped these facts? Very good. Now, on the morning of Tuesday, by the first post, I received a letter from my one and only aunt, who resides in London, to say that as I was coming up to town that morning she hoped I would lunch with her in Grosvenor Street and accompany her afterwards to hear a lecture to be given by some eminent idiot on “The Future of Eugenics.” My aunt is one of the most strong-minded and wearisome women in existence. I had been reluctant to witness the amateur performance in the Rectory grounds, and I contemplated the idea of listening to a lecture on “The Future of Eugenics” with horror and loathing. That was the situation. I had to miss two birds with one stone.

‘My first step was to telegraph to my one and only aunt as follows: “Regret detained here. Am writing.” On the following morning she received a letter from me which I am able to produce in its envelope. The letter is in my own handwriting on paper stamped with the Rectory address. The letter is dated Tuesday evening, and the post-mark on the envelope shows that it was posted at Meldon Bois on that day. Now that letter not only states that I had remained so as not to miss the pastoral amateurs, but also makes several statements as to their performance, every one of which can be proved to be absolutely accurate. These statements are that Miss Sykes looked charming in some pale lilac-coloured contraption, that the comedian over-acted, that the weather was not entirely favourable, that some of the players seemed to find a difficulty in making themselves audible, that quite a nice sum was realised for the Cottage Hospital, and that the Rector in proposing a vote of thanks to the players said that where all were so good it would be invidious to differentiate. I have no doubt that on the strength of that letter and the details it contains, my aunt would give evidence in good faith that to her knowledge I must have been at Meldon Bois on Tuesday afternoon. Notwithstanding this, I left Meldon Bois on Tuesday morning by the train originally contemplated, and on Tuesday afternoon I was playing bridge at my club in London, as various members of the club who met me there would attest.’

‘On the face of it,’ said the chairman, ‘it looks like rather a good case. I presume that you wrote the letter to your aunt before leaving by train in the morning, and gave it to a servant with instructions to post it after the performance.’

‘Precisely so.’

‘But how did you manage to give an accurate account of the performance at which you were really not present?’

‘Well, Miss Sykes was staying at the Rectory and had told me what dress she would wear. The rest was intelligent anticipation. The glass was low, and, besides, the weather is always unfavourable for pastoral plays, and some of the players always fail to make their voices carry in the open. Given village amateurs, over-acting by the comedian is as certain as death. To put the receipts as a nice sum was quite safe. It was riskier to quote the Rector’s actual words, but he’s a kindly and tactful man with a circumscribed mind, so I thought I might chance it, and it came off.’

The next few members on whom the chairman called produced nothing of interest. Some, like Hesseltine, had thought of the bogus telegram. Some, like Feldane, were resting. Dr Alden had tried an idea of his own, and expressed the hope that the chairman would think better of it than he did himself.

Early one morning he had entered a tobacconist’s shop where he was not known and investigated the man’s stock of cigars. He found it difficult to make up his mind as to which of three different brands would suit him best. He took away with him a specimen of each, and said that he would try them after luncheon and let the tobacconist know. At three that afternoon Dr Alden’s man called at the tobacconist’s with a note from the doctor saying that the trial had been made and naming the brand selected. Five hundred of this brand were ordered, and a cheque for the exact sum was enclosed in payment. The tobacconist was to deliver the goods to the bearer of the note, as the doctor was leaving for the country at four and wished to take some of the cigars with him. This was done, and probably the tobacconist would have been willing to swear in consequence that Dr Alden was in London until four that day. As a matter of fact, the doctor had left for the North by express shortly after ten that morning.

‘Yes,’ said the chairman, ‘you convinced that tobacconist that you were in London when you were not, just as Pusely-Smythe convinced his aunt that he was not in London when he was. In each case it is the evidence of one person only. Have you done any better, Mr Wildersley?’

‘Better?’ said Wildersley cheerfully. ‘I should rather think I have. I should have made out the club cheque for the prize to my own order already but for the fact that I prefer the formal routine. Cast your chairmaniacal eye over this sketch-book. It is filled with pencil drawings made from time to time, if not oftener, by the eminent Wildersley. The last few pages were made at the political meeting at Glasgow last week. They are dated in my own hand. There are notes as to the colour also in my hand. They are in my sketch-book. If they are not proof positive that I was at that meeting, then what are they? All the same I was in London while that meeting was being held, and can produce countless witnesses who saw me and spoke to me.’

The chairman looked carefully at the drawings. ‘Not done from photographs, I suppose?’

‘No, m’lord,’ said Wildersley. ‘All genuine hand-work and done on the spot.’

Lord Herngill compared them with previous drawings in the book. ‘These look to me,’ he said, ‘as if they were done by somebody who was trying to imitate your technique but had not quite got it.’

‘Yes,’ said Wildersley, ‘that finishes us. You have it. The other artist member and I went into collaboration in this enterprise. Austin went to Glasgow, and made the sketches in the book with what he was pleased to call an imitation of the worst of the Wildersleian mannerisms. I remained in London giving my famous impersonation of myself. I added the date and manuscript notes afterwards. Still, if this book fell into the hands of somebody who had not the full use of his eyes—and very few people have—he might use it as evidence in good faith that I was at Glasgow at that date.’

‘Undoubtedly. I shall not forget your claim. Meanwhile, is there any other?’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Charles Bunford placidly, ‘I think my claim to have established an alibi is stronger than any you have heard yet. Birmingham is more than a hundred miles from London. A certain butler in Birmingham would swear that he saw me and spoke to me on a certain afternoon. A photographer in Birmingham would swear that he photographed me on that same afternoon, and would be able to produce the negative. Yet during the whole of that afternoon I was in London, as the evidence of many of my friends would show. And all the evidence would be given in good faith.’

‘And how was this miracle accomplished?’ the chairman asked.

‘I’ll tell you the story as briefly as I can. I went to stay for a fortnight with an old friend of mine, a bachelor named Fraser, who has a house outside Birmingham. He is a keen ornithologist. He employs in the preparation of specimens and so on a curious character called Mitten, who is just as keen on birds as Fraser himself. Fraser only has Mitten’s spare time. Mitten’s regular work is with a Birmingham photographer, for whom he does developing and also has charge of the stock of negatives. Fraser is quite unlike me in the face, except that we both have the same deficiency of colour in the hair, but we are of about the same height and build. There is also a slight similarity in our voices. That was the rough material that I had at my disposal, and no doubt you can guess how I got my results from it.’

‘You’d better continue,’ said the chairman, smiling.

‘On the day before I left I pointed out to Fraser that a similarity in mass often prevented a dissimilarity in detail from being noticed, and that the attitude of expectant attention is a frequent source of error. Fraser asked me, as I had thought he would, what I meant and what I was getting at. I replied that by taking advantage of two facts I had mentioned he could probably get himself mistaken for me. He said that nobody would make the mistake. I said that Hammond’s butler would make it on the following afternoon, if he cared to try the experiment.

‘“I’d like to try it, but it’s impossible. That butler has known me for the last two years, and he has only seen you four or five times in the afternoon. How could he be taken in?”

‘“He has always seen you in dark and chastened clothing, such as it is your custom to wear. He has always seen me with a gray bowler, a light suit, white spats, and a distinctive necktie. He expects to see me to-morrow afternoon, because I borrowed an umbrella there to-day, and said I would bring it back then. All you have to do is to wear my clothes, and hand in that umbrella. He will expect to see me. He will actually see my clothes on a man of about my figure. The hall at the Hammonds’ house is rather dark, and you will have the sun behind you. It’s quite certain the man will be mistaken.”

‘It was tried and happened as I had foretold. The butler addressed Fraser as Sir Charles.’

‘But how did you manage about the photograph?’

‘That was done by means of a bet. Old Mitten is a great believer in system, and has his own infallible method for cataloguing photographic negatives so that a mistake is impossible. I chaffed him about it and told him that I would cause him to enter two lots of negatives wrongly. I offered to bet a sovereign on it and he accepted with avidity. I then settled with Fraser what we would do. Fraser booked an appointment with the photographer for the morning that I left for London, and I booked another for myself in the afternoon, the appointments being made by post. I kept Fraser’s appointment just before I left for the station, and Fraser kept mine in the afternoon after he had finished with Hammond’s butler. Mitten found out what had been done, of course, catalogued the negatives correctly, and has collected his sovereign. But I understand that he has not informed his employer, on the ground that the employer dislikes larks. The entries in the appointment book remain as they were. So that it is on record that I was photographed in the afternoon, though the photographic negatives entered under my name are really those taken from me in the morning.’

‘This,’ said the chairman, ‘is the most elaborate attempt we have had. Nobody else claims to have been seen in two places at the same time. I do not say that the evidence is perfect, but then the evidence of an alibi must always have a hole in it somewhere. Does anybody claim to have beaten it? Nobody? Then I have no hesitation in deciding in Sir Charles’s favour, and I congratulate him on the distinction—which, so far, has been held by Mr Pusely-Smythe alone—of winning the prize on two successive occasions.’

The next problem was now read out. It was entitled ‘The Threepenny Problem,’ and ran as follows: ‘It is required to offer a half-crown for a threepenny bus-fare, and to receive the change wholly in threepenny bits. No gift or promise of a gift may be made to the conductor to induce him to give the change in this form.’

‘That’s the easiest we’ve ever had,’ grumbled Major Byles. ‘So, of course, it’s my turn to be in the chair, and I can’t compete.’

No. X.

The Threepenny Problem

‘Childs-play,’ said Major Byles, ‘that’s what this problem is. It is required to offer a half-crown for a threepenny bus-fare, and to receive the change wholly in threepenny-bits. And you’re not allowed to give the conductor anything or promise him anything as an inducement to let you have the nine threepennies. It’s my belief that you’d only have to ask in a civil way, and any conductor would do it for you. A more obliging set of men than the London bus-conductors couldn’t be found, except, perhaps, the London police. I don’t call it a problem at all. You’ll all win, of course, and that will mean a comfortable tenner for every member of the club except myself—just because I’m stuck up here in the chair. It’s scandalous.’ He snipped the end of a cigar ferociously, and lit it as if he took pleasure in its destruction—which, indeed, may have been the case. ‘However, I must do my duty, and I’ll call on my reverend friend, Mr Cunliffe, to tell us what he has done about it.’

‘My story is a sad one,’ said the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe. ‘It leads me to believe that our chairman has over-estimated the amiability of the conductors and underestimated the difficulty of the problem. I gave a half-crown for a threepenny fare, and told the man that it would be a great kindness if he could let me have my change in threepenny pieces. He never said a word, but handed me a florin and three coppers.

‘“Did you hear what I asked you?” I said to him.

‘“Oh, yes,” he said, “I heard. If you want all them threepennies, you’d better get them out of the blanky offertory-bag next Sunday!”’

‘Extraordinary,’ said the chairman. ‘Something must have occurred to ruffle the man’s temper. Did you find any difficulty, Bunford?’

‘I failed absolutely,’ said Sir Charles Bunford. ‘No doubt I made a mistake in putting my request during the busy hour of the morning. The conductor looked resigned but sardonic.

‘“Want it all in threepennies, do you?” he said. “Would you like them of any particular year?”

‘I said that the date was immaterial. Any year would do.

‘“That’s all right,” he said. “Then you can wait for next year’s.” And he gave me a shilling, a sixpence, and ninepence in what is generally described at the inquest as bronze.’

‘Of course,’ said the chairman, ‘it was a mistake to bother the man when he was busy. And a little tact is wanted. If I’d been in for this competition myself I shouldn’t just have asked for my change in threepennies, I should have given some plausible reason for wanting it.’

‘With great respect, sir,’ said Mr Quillian, ‘I must differ from you. I had the same idea and tried it. I told the conductor that I had a bet that I would get my change entirely in threepennies. I thought it would appeal to his sporting instinct. All he said was, “You’ve lost, then,” and gave me the change without as much as one threepenny in it. Seemed rather pleased about it, too.’

‘I’d much the same experience,’ said Dr Alden. ‘As I gave the man my half-crown I mentioned that I was a collector of threepenny bits, and asked him if he could help me. He gave me two shillings and three pennies.

‘“Well,” he said, “if you like to step off at the Bank of England and ask the Chief Cashier to give you threepennies for that little lot, you can mention my name.”’

‘It’s quite possible,’ said the chairman, ‘that those conductors had not got the threepennies to give you. I go for days sometimes without as much as seeing a threepenny bit. It really looks as if the problem presented more difficulties than I had at first supposed. Did you manage to surmount them, Mr Matthews?’