Death of a Frightened Editor: A Golden Age Mystery

By E. Radford and M.A. Radford

Alexis Mortensen rose from his chair in the first-class Pullman and walked into the corridor.

None of the remaining occupants noticed that he had left them until after Death, travelling at 60 miles an hour, had reached out for him . . .

Seven men and a woman were in the first-class coach of a train from London to Br

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Release date: Mar 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781913527006

E. Radford

Edwin Isaac Radford (1891-1973) and Mona Augusta Radford (1894-1990) were married in 1939. Edwin worked as a journalist, holding many editorial roles on Fleet Street in London, while Mona was a popular leading lady in musical-comedy and revues until her retirement from the stage. The couple turned to crime fiction when they were both in their early fifties. Edwin described their collaborative formula as: "She kills them off, and I find out how she done it." Their primary series detective was Harry Manson who they introduced in 1944. The Radfords spent their final years living in Worthing on the English South Coast. Dean Street Press have republished three of their classic mysteries: Murder Jigsaw, Murder Isn't Cricket and Who Killed Dick Whittington?

Book preview

1

Alexis Mortensen, Editor and proprietor of Society, which was a scurrilous rag-bag of gossip and pictures, rose from his chair in the first-class Pullman coach of the 5.20 Victoria to Brighton train, and walked through the open doorway into the corridor.

And none of the remaining occupants noticed that he had left them until after Death, travelling at 60 miles an hour, had reached out for him . . .

Until Mrs. Freda Harrison, plump and fifty-ish, with a man’s sense of humour, glanced up at a sudden break in one of Sam Mackie’s nightly tall stories and asked in a startled voice: Where’s Mr. Mortensen?

Only his Maker knew the answer then, and the manner of his going; only after long seeking did Scotland Yard, too, find the way of it: and uncovered a story so incredible as to outrage fiction and produce the most grotesque file ever to be housed in the cabinets of the Yard.

But during those weeks a handful of upright men walked in their pasts: pasts they had thought hidden and done with; walked desperately and in fear.

Death was singularly incongruous in his mise en scène: among eight people, a companionage, lounging at tables set out with silver beneath rose-shaded lights, with convivial drinks of many colours circulating. A scene of bon viveur rather than a coup de la mort. Yet, it was there amid bursts of laughter and light badinage that

Death came prancing . . .

came a’dancing.

with never so much as a hint of his coming.

The eight were a strangely heterogeneous company. In addition to Mortensen who was to die, there was Marriott Edgar, a dreary personality with a boring ‘I’d take a risk’ bon-mot seemingly brought away with him from his occupation; he was general manager of an insurance office. He shared a table with Mortensen. There was William Phillips, stockbroker, wealthy and now ponderous in movement, his prowess on the Rugby field far behind him, and Mrs. Freda Harrison, 56, steel-eyed, with the air of having cleaved a way through her years, and now helping ‘fallen women’ to find a new life. There was Alfred Starmer, manager of the share-buying department of a great bank, a rotund little man known as ‘Robin Redbreast’ not only from the customary red waistcoat which he wore, but because of his habit of laying his head on one side when speaking and twinkling his small beady eyes that were never still. Then, there was Edwin Crispin, crime reporter on a London morning paper, ‘The Sun’, the least prosperous of the eight. Finally, there were the elegant Thomas Betterton with his cravat, tiepin and watch-chain as meticulously arranged as were the instruments before those operations which had gained for him a reputation among Harley Street surgeons, and, as an odd table companion, Sam Mackie, loud-check suited, over-fat and jolly, a Cockney, better known in racing circles as Honest Sam. A bookmaker, of course.

All were known to each other. They had travelled in the same coach, indeed in the same seats five nights a week for many months. The Pullman, in fact assumed proportions of a travelling club in which conversation was mutual and general, and drinks were stood round by round. On occasions when one of the eight had an engagement in Town, or was delayed in getting to the station, the available seat was seized upon by a predatory traveller. But usually there were the same eight, inseparably bound together for the space of one hour every evening from Monday to Friday—as they were on this evening of Friday, October 11.

It was one of those October evenings in which England specialises, a sudden chilly entr’acte between warm, sunshiny days of an Indian Summer, a grim reminder that Winter was only a stone’s throw away. The sky was grey-blue and heavy and a nippy wind chilled the air. The fact was evidenced by a smear of mist on the window-panes as the outside air struck the glass warm inside from the atmosphere of the Pullman. Somebody rubbed a finger over a pane and peeked out. Clapham Junction flashed by; five minutes had been sufficient to cloud the windows.

But there was nothing chilly inside. If anything the atmosphere had more of warmth than customary, a fact which had its genesis, probably from the day—Friday being the last day of the working week to all except Mackie, who usually had three race meetings on a Saturday instead of one. White-jacketed stewards bustled in and out with trays, the butt of good-humoured raillery.

What about Sam’s whisky and soda, Steward? His tongue’s hanging out.

Are you waiting to get to Brighton to catch those sardines?

Coming, sir, at once.

Supposing I bought a thousand Ashanti’s, Starmer . . . ?

You’d lose your money—that was Phillips replying.

Put a tenner on Asterisk, cock—but not with me; this from Mackie. I can’t afford to lose money. A sarcastic laugh greeted the complaint. It’s the tax on me cigars, cock. Afterwards, memory recalled the exact activities of each of the eight at the moment when tragedy began its path.

Betterton was almost through a plate of sardines on toast. Mackie was finishing his first whisky and soda and calling for a second. Edgar had pushed away his plate after a frugal fare of tea and buttered toast. Crispin was toying with a glass of beer. Only Mortensen and Mrs. Harrison had empty covers.

Mortensen had finished his meal of mixed grill before the train started. The plates had been cleared away, and he had placed on the table his bottle of Bismuth tablets, which was a standing joke in the car, but also a free-for-all. Reeves, the chief steward, had turned to Mrs. Harrison.

Your usual pot of tea, ma’am? he asked.

Please, steward. And have you any chicken sandwiches this trip?

At that, Mackie had exploded in a roar of laughter that shook the car.

The train sped on. It was creeping up to sixty miles an hour.

2

Mackie had laughed till the tears ran down his purpled face. It took him a minute or so to regain his composure. He apologised to Mrs. Harrison.

Sorry, lady, he announced. But it was the chicken sangwiches (that is how he pronounced it) as done it. He leaned forward, and eyed his fellow passengers. Chicken sangwiches wuz me speciality during the war, he announced.

The company waited with anticipatory grins. When Sam Mackie roared with mirth there was usually a story in the background; and Sam being what he was the story was bound to be entertaining.

That’s all right, Sam, Mrs Harrison retorted. But I shall insist you tell us the story.

Mackie produced two cigars eight inches long, passed one over to Betterton, bit off the end of his own and with studied deliberation, while he peered at his company from cupped hands, lit and puffed it into a glow. He settled himself comfortably. The four at the further end of the car edged their chairs sideways and leaned forward to hear.

Now, one day, Sam began, "a geezer what’s called Legs Lieman on account of his legs bein’ so short they only just reaches the ground, comes to me and says: ‘Sam, does you want ter make some ghelt?’

Did I want ter make some money? Me? Wot with the war and no racing to speak of, I was dipping into me capital. So I nods. He says as how he’s got a ’orse wots running in blinkers and can’t see proper on account of the lack of a few nicker.

Mackie paused, perhaps to give the company a chance to work out the idiom. He took a couple of puffs at his cigar. It seems, he continued, that this ’ere horse was a hobo name of Enrico Tiberti, him being an Eyetalian losing his job as a waiter on account of bein’ rumbled cookin’ the customers’ bills, and now has a barrer with a lid on it, which same he pushes down to Hammersmith Broadway and sells coffee and sangwidges.

Didn’t seem much in my line, Mackie said, and patted his stomach. Can you see me—ME—shuvvin’ a barrer full of cups and bread? He broke off to acknowledge the chuckles—they couldn’t but they would have liked to. "I says so, but Legs was kinda insistent, so I goes to Hammersmith. Sure enough there was the barrer and little Enrico shuvvin’ orf sangwidges at one and a tanner a time to a starvin’ population faster’n us bookies hands out tickets on the favourite we knows ain’t goin’ to win.

‘For the love of Mike what do you put in ’em—gold?’ I says to Enrico when there was a lull in the queue. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Chicken. It’s me speciality’; and he puts up a scheme which means we’re goin’ to open bars all over London selling chicken sangwiches. He couldn’t do it himself because he reckoned it would cost five hundred nicker capital, and he hadn’t got five hundred shillings. Well, to cut a long story short I goes in with him. We opens up sangwidges bars in the West End and we advertises chicken sangwidges at two bob a time . . .

I remember them well, Starmer broke in. I used to send a messenger for them from the bank for my lunch. A customer of yours you see.

Mackie rumbled in his interior. The reason for the rumble became apparent later. Them sangwidges was the biggest winner I ever had in me life. And I’ve had some in me time. There was Airborne in the Derby, and . . .

Never mind that, Sam? Betterton protested. Stick to the sandwiches.

Well, they gets a name. They becomes famous, see. First restaurants wanted to buy ’em in lots. Then hotels and clubs wanted ’em. No word of a lie we had orders for hundreds and hundreds of them chicken sangwidges. We gets to chargin’ two bob a time wholesale, and we wuz working on £500 a day.

Where the devil did you get the chickens in wartime? Phillips put the question. Dammit, we couldn’t get a chicken for love nor money, and you’d have to pay black market price for them anyway.

Sam laughed again—for a minute. He wiped his streaming tears away with a repulsive-looking red silk handkerchief. Then he paused, and re-lit his cigar. He was a good actor and knew how to time his stories. For no apparent reason he switched his subject. Did you know as you couldn’t sell billygoats during the war? he asked. Nannies, yes. You could sell ’em for four or five quid apiece, cos of the milk. But not billies. You could buy all the billies you liked for five bob a time, and damn glad the owners were to get rid of ’em. Me and me pal has an old stable and a bit o’ ground out Pinner way—that’s in Middlesex. And we starts a bit of farmin’. We ’as a cow and a few pigs. An’ billygoats. We gets a vet to doctor the billies. I reckon you all knows what happens to a tomcat that’s been doctored—askin’ your pardon, lady (this to Mrs. Harrison). They grows twice as big as normal. But, Gawd save us, a billygoat’s ten times worse when he’s treated. If you feeds him well—

Mrs. Harrison waved her hands in front of Sam Mackie’s face. You exasperating man! To the devil with your farm and blasted goats. What about those chicken sandwiches?

Six faces looked at Mackie from the chairs, and three more from the doorway; the two stewards and the cook, a momentary lull in their work, were listening.

And Death had taken his first step.

We killed the ruddy goats and got damn near a hundredweight of chicken orf’n every one. Sam sat back and enjoyed the faces he could see.

What! the ejaculation from six throats sounded like one.

Never had a chicken in the place.

And you got away with it? asked Starmer, who had bought the sandwiches.

Sure enough. Listen. You can’t tell goat from chicken not in a sangwidge, anyway. It looks lovely white meat when it’s cut proper. It looks like chicken, and it tastes like chicken. I’ll lay you ten to one in quids as I’ll serve you with goat and chicken and you don’t pick out the chicken twice running. Any takers? There weren’t.

That wuz Enrico’s idea. He’d known all about it in Eye-tally. It seems as the Eye-talians had served chicken that way to tourists for years and years. Little Enrico’s father ran a restaurant in Naples.

Betterton was eyeing Mackie searchingly. Tell me, Sam, he said, is this just a good story, or a true one?

Cut me throat if I tells a lie, Sam protested. It happened.

I’ll believe you. Only thing that made me wonder is why the deuce you went off a paying racket like that? Two loud bangs from the corridor interrupted any reply from Mackie. The unexpectedness and the thud of them jerked the heads of the Pullman’s passengers and spilled their cigarettes and cigars on the tables. The two stewards vanished from the doorway.

Why the devil do the fools want to bang empty crates about like that? Starmer asked, querulously.

I expect they’re changing them over in the doorway from the side of the train which comes up on the Brighton platform, Crispin said. I don’t know why the devil they have the crates piled in the vestibule at all. Why don’t they keep them in the kitchen or store?

Betterton returned to Mackie’s story. Why on earth did you give up the racket, Sam?

Billygoats ran out, Doc. Besides with the war over there were more chickens about, and more meat, too. He spoke regretfully.

Starmer asked the obvious question for a banker. What did you make out of it?

A second series of bangs, as loud as the earlier ones, drowned Mackie’s answer, if he had had time to give one.

Really, it’s too bad, Mrs. Harrison was angry. I shall complain to the company. Crispin got up.

I’ll go and stop it, he promised and opened the door into the corridor. A steward stood banging on the lavatory door.

What the blazes are you doing, Steward? They’re playing pop in there about the noise. Shut up for heaven’s sake.

Sorry, sir. But it isn’t us. It’s in the lavatory. When the first bangs came my mate knocked on the door and asked if the person inside was all right. We couldn’t get an answer, and then there came more bangs.

Better open the door, I should think. You’ve got a key, haven’t you?

I tried that, sir. But the door seems to be jammed, and I can’t get it open.

Then you’d better get the guard, Crispin advised. He returned to the Pullman with the news. Probably fainted in the place and fallen against the door, he said.

Don’t they know who it is?

Apparently not . . .

It was at this moment that Mrs. Harrison, a frown on her face, looked along the length of the car, and noticed the empty chair.

Where’s Mr. Mortensen? she asked.

3

The seven stared at each other impassively for a few seconds until lingering anxiety found voice.

He couldn’t be the person in the lavatory, could he? Phillips asked.

They got to their feet and, jostling each other, crowded the corridor. The lavatory door was slightly ajar now, and the guard and a steward were pushing on it, getting leverage by pressing their feet against the side of the coach. But the door still stood firm. Sam Mackie elbowed to the front. Let me have a go, he said. His sixteen stone bulk went into a shoulder charge. It shook the door, but didn’t move it though it quivered with the shock.

Have to smash the door, gentlemen, I reckon, the guard said, and taking an axe from the glass-fronted emergency cupboard, hacked a hole through one of the panels. A steward gingerly inserted his head through the narrow, splintered opening and craned downwards. His voice came, muffled and muted, to the waiting passengers behind:

It’s Mr. Mortensen.

Good God, muttered Betterton. What the deuce has happened to him? You’d better hack the other panel out, guard, and we’ll try and lift him until we can push the door open.

The attempt failed; it was found impossible to move Mortensen.

Better to hack the door off. The guard scowled. There’ll be a row about it, he said.

Can’t you take off the hinges? It was the practical voice of a woman—Mrs. Harrison.

No, mum. The guard snorted. Hinges are screwed on the inside of the jamb. He set to work with the axe. The door was chopped and rent until it fell outwards and was lifted and carried into the vestibule, where it was propped against the kitchen. Then it was seen that Mortensen was lying half off and half on the floor, arched. His head and shoulders had been jammed against the door and his feet against the side of the compartment alongside the washing bowl. An odd circumstance was that the body did not relax after the removal of the door, and allow the head to slide forward into the corridor: it remained arched and appeared quite stiff.

Betterton, who had been the last to leave the coach, now pushed forward in his capacity as a doctor. He stared down at Mortensen. A queer look, it seemed of astonishment, passed over his face, but went almost as soon as it appeared. It was almost as though a shadow of something in front of him had passed across a screen.

Looks like tetanus, he said, quietly, and knelt down. He pushed a hand inside Mortensen’s waistcoat, feeling the heart. With some difficulty he turned the man’s head and opening an eyelid peered into the pupil. Then he stood up and turned to the guard.

I don’t like his appearance at all, he said. But I can’t examine him here. Where can we carry him?

Leave him where he is.

The guard turned, inquiringly and belligerently. It was Crispin who had spoken.

Why? he demanded.

I should say he’s dead—Crispin’s eyes sought those of Betterton, and received a slight nod. I know more than a bit about police procedure in the case of sudden death. And this is obviously a police matter.

Betterton stood up. I’d like another medical man to see him, if possible. He spoke to the guard. Can you find out if there is one travelling.

Steward Reeves cocked up his ears. There’s a Doctor Manson in the next first-class coach, he said. He often travels on a Friday. I don’t know him as a doctor—

Manson? A grimace passed over Crispin’s face, Indeed. The very man we want. Sarcasm tinged his voice.

Why? Who’s Manson? Phillips asked.

Scotland Yard superintendent. Their Laboratory chief and pathologist. Crispin turned on the steward. Well, get along, man, and fetch him. Don’t stand staring there.

It was not so easy as that. Passengers, sensing that something was afoot, had poured into the train corridor and were peering on tip-toe, in the direction of the Pullman entrance. It took Reeves and Doctor Manson two or three minutes to force a passage back to the car. Manson, standing by the lavatory entrance glanced sharply at the dozen people gathered in a group, and then turned to the body. He stood stock-still for a moment or two, letting his eyes roam over the remains of Mortensen: from the feet to the head, still stiff on its neck. When his gaze shifted it was in a scrutiny of the compartment itself; taking in the shape and size and the fittings. It rested for a moment on a drinking tumbler still in its holder ring, and a water bottle. The latter was full of water.

Then, he turned to the steward. Get these people to return to their seats, he said. And see they stay there. Then come back.

The tall, thin figure bent over Mortensen. The kindly eyes turned slowly in their trained scrutiny. His examination lasted only a few seconds. Is the guard here? he asked. The man stepped forward.

Have this train stopped at Hayward’s Heath.

Can’t do that, sir, without orders from the company.

The Doctor showed his warrant card. I want this train held at Hayward’s Heath until I have made two telephone calls, he said, curtly. See that it is done.

Muttering to himself, the guard proceeded along the corridor in the direction of the driver’s cabin. Manson turned to Reeves.

Now tell me what you know, Steward.

* * *

The seven passengers so abruptly ordered away strode silently into the Pullman, and sat once more in their accustomed seats. Mackie rang his service bell. I reckon we can all do with a brandy and soda, he said when the steward appeared. How about it? Six nods accepted the