Paul Halter
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.’