Ask a Policeman by The Detection Club

Author:The Detection Club
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2019-10-07T16:00:00+00:00

(V)

“What, a play toward! I’ll be an auditor;

An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.”

The most imposing piece of furniture in the room was a magnificent wireless receiving-set. It was at the side of the room between the door and the fireplace, and, on the opposite side to it, chairs were arranged as though for an audience to watch private theatricals. Beside the receiving-set was a revolving chair of the kind used in business offices.

“But what are you going to do, Johnny? “asked his wife, surveying the transformed drawing-room not with amazement, for she had learned the uselessness of ever being surprised at Sir John’s doings, but with a certain amount of resigned displeasure. “I thought, after that awful affair yesterday afternoon, that we might spend a quiet day.”

“That reminds me,” said her husband. “I wish you would go back to bed. You don’t mind, do you? This is a joke—of a kind. You wouldn’t be interested. It will last less than an hour.”

Martella said again, “Why need you bother?”

“You answered that yourself yesterday,” he reminded her. “I’d rather you went, Martella. Please. I shan’t be very long.” His eyes were smiling, but his chin was purposeful.

She gave in, knowing well enough that he anticipated danger; she was conscious, too, that she would be in his way; would take some part of his mind from his task if she insisted on remaining.

A quarter of an hour later the audience, consisting of Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather, the Assistant Commissioner, the Archbishop of the Midlands, the editor of the Daily Broadcast, the editors of Lord Comstock’s own Daily Bugle and Evening Clarion, a couple of dramatic critics, and a distinguished dramatist, had assembled and were seated. The chief protagonists in the drama looked profoundly uncomfortable. The other guests were agog.

“What’s Johnny up to now?” said one of the dramatic critics to the editor of the Daily Broadcast. The editor looked omniscient, but felt curious. The dramatist smiled slightly. He seemed less excited than the others. An unconscionably late session in this same room on the preceding night—Sir John had let his visitor out of the house at twelve-thirty and had gone to bed himself at five to four, word-perfect, but unutterably weary—had sapped his appetite for sensation.

A manservant entered and began to draw heavy curtains across the windows, excluding every vestige of light. An electric switch clicked somewhere, and a dull glow appeared on the ceiling high above the audience’s heads. Sir John remained invisible, but his voice came across the room, masterful, suave, and soothing:

“Gentlemen, an experiment. Something new in broadcast plays. Scene, the interior of the late Lord Comstock’s study at Hursley Lodge. Time 11.35 a.m. on the day before yesterday.”

There was a disconcerted rustling among the audience. The Archbishop of the Midlands was heard to make inarticulate sounds. There was a moment’s silence. Then, from the direction of the wireless receiving-set, an arresting voice, harsh and resonant, said angrily:

“And to what, sir, am I indebted for this pleasure?”

The editor of

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