“I sprang forward, then stopped. ‘No, Eric,’ I said sharply, ‘I won’t play Liebestod” for you.’ ”
Von Genthner pulled himself out of his chair and walked to the window. Those chimes had stepped and now my room was empty of the sound, but full of something else.
“Twenty years ago today that was,” he mused, “at just about this lime.” He turned from the window.
“Finish it, finish your story, Von Genthner. What happened?”
“Why” — he looked surprised — “I did finish it. He asked me to play ‘Liebestod’ — the song of death — and I refused, that’s all.”
“Well, you might have played it for him. After all, you were going to have him killed.”
“Killed? Killed?” the Baron said testily. “Do you think I could kill a man who asked me to play the ‘Liebestod’? Of course I didn’t have him killed. I told Kreutzer and Marschner that our friend had been drinking too much and that his ordering a firing squad had been a joke. I told them to get hold of an English officer’s uniform and give it to Captain Gluck. I said that we were sending him over into the British lines to see what he could find out. His English was so good, I said, that it would certainly fool the enemy. He could say that he had just escaped from a German prison camp. My captains thought it a great idea.
“ ‘You are a very brave man to take such a risk,’ Kreutzer said to Eric.
“Eric looked at me and said: ‘If you have music in your heart and in your mind and in your soul you do not need to be brave.’ ”
Von Genthner stood up.
“Is the story finished to your satisfaction now?” he asked. “I think I have omitted nothing... Oh, about those church bells which bothered you. It is the custom in Germany to ring the church bells from 2 o’clock until 4 — one day a year. It is to remind us of the three hours of agony which Our Lord spent in the Garden of Gethsemane.”
Unbreakable alibi
by Freeman Wills Crofts
The trouble with Herbert rich was that he was too clever. Always he would reject the simple for something more ingenious and complex. When he murdered Jack Fleet it was this trait which cost him his life — this and an admitted bit of bad luck.
Herbert and his young wife Joan lived alone in a hamlet on the slopes of the Sussex Downs. Herbert was a market gardener, but his real interest lay in photography, at which he was supremely good.
He was deeply in love with Joan, but feared for her the dullness of country life. His fear grew when his handsome and well-to-do friend, Fleet, began to show signs of interest in her. Fleet was the owner of a works at Shoreham and had been a brother officer during the war. He and Joan were acting in a charity play, and this gave him opportunities.
As the intimacy grew, Herbert felt more and more that if he did not get rid of Fleet he would lose Joan. Then, his fear clouding his judgment he decided that nothing less than Fleet’s death would suffice. The idea revolted him, but for Joan he would do anything.
His ingenious mind soon worked out a plan. It involved two preliminaries. First, at exactly 8:53 on a dull morning, he took a photograph from his drive, showing the side of his house and behind it, the church tower with its clock. Next, Joan must be out of the way while the crime was being committed. He dared not arrange this, so had to await her initiative. As it happened, within a month she was invited to York to a wedding. While she was away, a Mrs. Tolley, who normally came in to clean from 9:00 to 11:00, would return in the evening to cook supper. She could not come in time to make breakfast owing to getting her children out to school, but each night she would leave everything ready for Herbert to heat up in the morning.
When the day came, Herbert ran Joan into Brighton and saw her off. He then lunched at a club of which both he and Fleet were members. As he had every reason to hope, Fleet came in.
“Joan’s going north tomorrow for a few days,” he told Fleet. “Come and spend the night with us. She’ll miss some rehearsals and wants to talk to you about it.”
When Fleet turned up that evening, Herbert greeted him with a long face. “Sorry to say Joan has gone,” he declared. “There was a phone call this afternoon. The girl whose wedding she was asked to has met with an accident. Joan’s catching the night train out to stay with her.”
Fleet obviously accepted the tale, but said that in that ease he could not trouble Herbert to put him up and would run back to Brighton.
“Well,” Herbert answered, “I admit the house is not the same without Joan. But Mrs. Tolley has prepared supper and she’s not too bad a cook. At least, have a bite with me.”
It was clear that Fleet would have preferred to leave, but he could not well refuse Herbert’s invitation.
“That your new car?” Herbert went on. “They’re great buses. And that gives me an excuse,” he grinned, “a subject for a photograph. Just move round the corner of the house. If you stand at the car door, I won’t keep you more than a sec.”
Fleet agreed good-humoredly and the picture was taken. It recorded the time as shown on the clock in the background. Unhappily, it also included an admirable view of the steps to Herbert’s back door, but artistry was not Herbert’s aim.
Mrs. Tolley had achieved an excellent meal and during it Herbert took the crucial step. Into Fleet’s whiskey he slipped two powdered sleeping tablets.
After supper he led the way to the lounge. “Sit down a moment,” he invited. “I’d like your advice on a business matter. I’m thinking of giving up the market garden and opening a studio in Brighton. What do you think of the idea?”
By this Herbert achieved two ends: first. Fleet would remain in the lounge till he fell asleep, and second, Mrs. Tolley would afterwards say that when she left the guest was still there.
With Fleet asleep and Mrs. Tolley gone. Herbert had the house to himself. He immediately got busy. Going to his dark room, a shed in the yard, he developed and quickly dried his two negatives. Then very carefully he blacked out a part of each. On that showing the car, the face of the clock became a black spot; on the other, everything but the face of the clock was taken out. Printing from each in turn, he produced a composite view showing Fleet standing by his car at 8:53.
Having removed the vital prints to safety, he deliberately set fire to the dark room, seeing that both telltale negatives were destroyed. He had some buckets of water ready, and before too much damage was done he extingusished the fire.
He now put on rubber gloves, and going to Fleet’s car, screwed onto the wheel, handbrake, and gear lever, clamps which he had previously constructed. These would enable him to drive without smudging Fleet’s fingerprints. This took some time — adjustments had to be made — and it was getting on to 2:00 a.m. before Herbert was finished.
Then came the part of the affair which he most dreaded. He returned to the lounge and with blows of a sandbag deliberately murdered the sleeping man. Round the body he fixed a chain to provide a weight.
By this time Herbert was trembling in every limb, but a stiff pull from his flask steadied him. Using all his strength, he carried Fleet to the car, managing with immense difficulty to lift him into the back. Having thrown a rug over the body, he drove off.
Herbert drove as fast as he could with safety, keeping to the more unfrequented roads. His objective was 40 miles away, a bridge over the deep and sluggish Brender River. Before reaching it he switched off his lights, and driving by the faint glow from the stars reached the centre span. Once again putting forth his entire strength, he dragged Fleet’s body from the back seat, levered it up on to the parapet, and pushed it over. It fell with a hollow splash. Because of the chair, Herbert was sure it would immediately sink to the bottom and never again be seen.