The Punch and Judy Murders

by Carr John

Dowry came the hounds, bottles or no; my sanctuary was now one with Nineveh and Tyre; and ahead loomed an imminent prospect of clink. There was no time to argue or explain.

"Excuse me," I said, and cut for it again.

It would have been a simple matter, since I was nearest the door, to have closed the door behind, pulled out the loose spindle, and left my two companions imprisoned there. But I didn't want to do that. The door must be left as wide open as possible, for it was conceivable that the sight of a very unusual corpse would stop my pursuers long enough to give me a few seconds' lead.

Those policemen — there seemed to be two of them, right enough-could cover ground. I was myself no laggard about getting out into the hall, but they were within a step of the back door when I reached the front one. But I did not go out the front door: games like this had been played in the old days. I switched off the lights in the hall, opened the door, and closed it with a slam. Then I ducked across the dark hall into the half-open door of a room on the right-hand side, fronting the street.

It was a dark, stuffy, waxy little room, with the ghosts of antiquated furniture showing in the gleam of a street-lamp through the window. In my hands, carried automatically, was the newspaper in which I had been wrapping up the blottingpad: and it suggested an idea even as the law burst in at the back door. I had not expected Mrs. Antrim to scream, since she did not appear to be of the screaming sort, but it is not to be denied that at the entrance of the law she let out an appalling yip which at least served to direct their attention to the body. As fast as possible I was climbing out of the tunic, the helmet, and the belt. Perhaps they should have been tossed aside altogether, but I was reluctant to do that, having seen how useful a passport they were anywhere. My own coat I had been compelled to leave behind at the police station. So I took off my waistcoat, rolled up my sleeves, and tucked the shirt under at the neck, thus presenting a picture of a suburbanite taking the air en deshabille on a summer night. The rest of the stuff I rolled up in the newspaper, tucking under its edges, just as the sergeant was calling hoarsely out in the hall, and somebody pelted for the front door.

I went to the window and peered out cautiously behind the lace curtain. The street-lamp was feeble enough, and one larch threw a dense shadow at one side of the window. The front door opened. It was not the sergeant who came out; so far as I could make out, when he stopped briefly to flash his light round into the front yard, "Dennis" was one of the men who had been tinkering about with the Austin back at the police station. He had never seen my face. Dennis limped a little, and pressed one hand to the knee of his trousers.

When he twitched round, his face wore a malignancy which is never permitted to members of the Force, but which was justifiable. And he was not to be gulled by any such kid's trick as I had played. He ran out into the street, looked left and right along an empty road, made a brief play with his light into front gardens, and then swung back to the house. He knew I was still inside. You could tell it by the expression on his face under the street-lamp. I ducked back just in time, as the beam from his lamp flashed into my window, then across at the window opposite, and up. He hurried up the walk, and I heard him speaking to the sergeant just inside the front hall.

"Blow your whistle, then," said the sergeant's muffled tones. "Cover the front, and I'll keep the back until we "

It had to be risked. I got the window up as softly as I could manage, and slid across the sill with the paper-bundle in my arms. Dennis appeared to be well inside the door, and the shadow of the tree was strong. I went down flat, keeping well to the ground in some of the soggiest dew ever produced by the suburbs. The noise of the window being raised, and even the creak of a low fence as I got over it on to the pavement, was masked in the squawking of an aitchless uproar put up by Bowers inside the house. I was within an ace of getting away with it, with my feet solidly planted on the pavement, when Dennis swung out of the house not a dozen feet away, and saw me even as he put his police-whistle to his lips.

If I had tried to run away, if I had tried to walk away, or if I had even stood still, he would have been after me. Doubtless it is a question of what fraction of a second exists between the time the eye sees and the time the brain registers; but that split second, that flash of the dark world, is the quarry's only chance. The only chance is to walk straight up to the devil and pull his whiskers.