Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 3, No. 4, September 1942
The Mallet
by James Hilton
A new short story by the creator of Mr. Chips and the author of “Lost Horizon” is an event — a new detective short story by James Hilton is even more so, since Mr. Hilton’s work in this field is virtually unknown to the general public... “The Mallet” has never before been published in America.
“Feel the revivifying forces of youth coursing through your veins — see the pink flush of health in your cheeks when you catch sight of yourself in the bedroom mirror first thing in the morning — no more aches and pains — no more vague feelings of depression — no more hard-earned money thrown away on doctors and quack medicines! For this, ladies and gentlemen, is not a quack medicine, nor is it a drug — it is Nature’s Peerless Herbal Remedy, discovered by myself and prepared after a lifetime of trial and experiment! No other man in the world has the secret of it — no other man in the world can offer you the key of this wonderful gateway to Health, Strength, and Life! One shilling a box I ask you — no, I’ll be even more generous than that — ninepence a box! Ninepence, ladies and gentlemen... Is there any private doctor in this town who would charge you less than half-a-crown for a bottle of his worthless coloured water?... See — I’ll tell you what I’ll do — it’s a special offer and I’ll never make it again as long as I live — sixpence! Sixpence!... Who’s going to be the first?... Thank you, sir. Two shillings? Thank you — here’s your box and here’s your one-and-six change. Are you satisfied?... That’s right. You’re quite sure you’re satisfied?... Good. Then permit me to give you your sixpence back as well. Take this little box of Concentrated Health, my dear sir, as a gift from me to the most sensible person in this crowd... now, ladies and gentlemen, who’s going to be the next?... Thank you, madam...”
The loud, far-carrying voice of the cheap-jack echoed across the market square of the little northern town of Finchingfold. The parish clock showed ten minutes to nine; at nine, by order of the municipal authorities, he would have to pack up. Six times already he had gone through his well-worn patter about the marvellous Life-Giving Herb he had discovered years before on the banks of the Orinoco River, in South America. Captured by a fierce tribe of Indians and left by them to die of malaria, he had managed to crawl a few hundred yards into the trackless forest and there had caught sight of a curious unknown plant. Its pleasant aroma had tempted him to taste it, and lo! — within a quarter of an hour the fever had left him and he was a New Man! Prudently gathering an armful of the precious herb, he had escaped with great difficulty to civilization, there to complete his life work by manufacturing the herb in pill form and selling it in the market places of England.
The story went well as a rule; nor had it ever gone better than in Finchingfold on that warm Saturday in July. Was it that the folk of Finchingfold were more than usually “run down” after a broiling week in workshop and factory; or was it that he himself had been particularly eloquent? He could not make up his mind, but the fact remained — and an exceedingly pleasant one — that he had already sold no fewer than ninety-seven boxes that afternoon and evening. Ninety-seven sixpences — two pounds eight-and-six. Cost of boxes, wrappings and pills — say five shillings. Market fee — one shilling. Net profit — two pounds two-and-six. Not bad at all — oh, decidedly not bad.
Doctor Parker Potterson was therefore in a thundering good humour after his day’s labour. His face beamed with joviality as he exchanged his last dozen boxes for the sixpences of the crowd. They were just the sort of people he liked best — quiet, respectable working men and their wives, a few farm labourers from the neighbouring countryside, perhaps a sprinkling, too, of better class artisans. Sometimes in the bigger towns there were hooligans who tried to make trouble, or even that far greater nuisance — the “superior” person, often a doctor, who asked awkward questions. But Finchingfold seemed full of exactly the right kind. And that quiet little fellow in the front row who had been the first to buy in the final round — he was just the kind to whom it paid to be generous. Most likely he would find that the pills did him a world of good, and for the next few months would be busily advertising Doctor Parker Potterson’s Peerless Herbal Remedy at home, at the workshop, and amongst his friends. Yes, undoubtedly, he was well worth his free box.
By the time that the church clock began the chiming of the hour, Potterson had actually sold out — an event that had happened only once or twice before in his entire experience. He hummed cheerfully to himself as he packed his various impedimenta into the small bag. A stethoscope, a highly-coloured chart of the human body, a fragment of the Life-Giving Herb in its natural state — it was quite easy to transport. Feeling about in his pocket he abstracted another herb, which perhaps in his heart he felt even to be more life-giving; he lit it and puffed with satisfaction. Ah, Life was good. A pocketful of sixpences, a fine cigar, the cool twilight of a summer’s day — what could add to the sweetness of such a mixture? Only one thing, and as he thought of it, he licked his lips in anticipation.
Doctor Parker Potterson was a conspicuous figure as he threaded his way amongst the market crowds towards the Crown and Woolpack. To begin with, he was attired in a top-hat and a frock-coat — a costume that is not greatly in favour with Finchingfold on market day. But, apart from that, he was (and well he knew it) a man who would always command attention wherever he went. He was six foot three in height, and correspondingly broad; he really made a splendid advertisement for his Peerless Herbal Pills, which he consumed in public at the rate of a dozen or so a day. Fortunately they were quite harmless. His eyes were a bright and scintillating blue — the kind that rarely failed to fascinate a woman — and his complexion, tanned by years of open-air life, was all that a health vendor could desire.
The private bar of the Crown and Woolpack seemed smaller and more thronged than ever when Potterson’s huge figure stepped in through the swing doors. Instinctively people made way for him as he approached the counter — instinctively people always had made way for him. He was well known, of course; George, the bartender, knew what he liked and had it ready for him without waiting for an order. “Warm night, George,” he said, enjoying the first exquisite sip of the long-anticipated “double.” His deep baritone carried perfectly across the room full of loud conversation. “ ’Evening, boys,” he added, nodding to the room in general, and a confused murmur of salutations returned to him. Everybody was staring at him, thinking about him, admiring him — and suddenly, as he glanced over the top of his glass, he perceived that among the admirers was an extraordinarily pretty young woman.
Now Potterson was extremely susceptible to pretty young women, and to exercise his charm over them was the keenest of all his vanities. Wherefore, with a deliberation and a confidence born of long practice, he smiled at her.
Faintly, yet with undeniable encouragement, she smiled back. His spirits rose even higher. She found him irresistible, of course, as all women did. But, by Jove, she was a good-looker — red-lipped, dark-eyed, oval-faced — an absolute beauty. From her dress and manner and the hand that rested on the edge of the counter, he reckoned to size her up unerringly... working-class woman — not been married long — husband in a poor job — consequently kept short of money — consequently discontented, rebellious, eager to snatch at what life had denied her... Ay, how well he knew the type, and how well he had profited by its existence!