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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Felo de Se?", R. Austin Freeman delves into the intricacies of moral dilemmas and the exploration of suicide within the framework of a captivating detective narrative. The novel is characterized by its meticulous attention to forensic detail and the innovative use of the inverted detective story, a hallmark of Freeman'Äôs literary style. Set against the backdrop of early 20th-century Britain, it provocatively addresses social attitudes towards mental health and culpability, offering readers a nuanced commentary on the human condition through the lens of an enthralling mystery. R. Austin Freeman, a pioneering figure in the realm of detective fiction, draws upon his background in medicine and forensics to craft narratives that seamlessly intertwine scientific methodology with literary artistry. His expertise not only enriches the authenticity of the plot but also reflects his philosophical inquiries into human behavior and morality. Freeman's personal experiences and the socio-cultural environment of his time likely fueled his exploration of such profound themes in this work. "Felo de Se?" is an essential read for enthusiasts of classic detective fiction and those intrigued by the psychological dimensions of crime. Freeman's synthesis of ethical inquiries and narrative ingenuity invites readers to reconsider preconceptions about justice, making this novel a thought-provoking addition to any literary collection. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Felo de Se?
Table of Contents
Introduction
A death that appears to close a story can, in the hands of a careful observer, become the opening of a more troubling inquiry.
R. Austin Freeman’s Felo de Se belongs to the early twentieth-century tradition of British detective fiction that favors method, inference, and the disciplined weighing of physical facts. Freeman is best known for his scientifically minded approach to crime narratives, and this novel reflects that interest through its emphasis on analysis over melodrama. The setting is recognizably English in social texture and investigative procedure, and the book participates in an era when the detective story was consolidating its rules and experimenting with how much of the work could be shown on the page rather than concealed until the end.
The novel begins from a case that seems, at first glance, straightforward: a death interpreted as self-inflicted. From that starting point, the narrative invites the reader to watch how a well-trained mind tests appearances against material traces and human behavior, gradually determining what can be known with confidence and what must remain provisional until corroborated. The pleasure of the reading experience lies less in sudden reversals than in the accumulation of small certainties, where each observation narrows the field of possibility. The book encourages attentive, patient reading, rewarding those who follow its reasoning.
Freeman’s style is characteristically measured and procedural, with a voice that treats detection as an intellectual craft. The tone is serious without being heavy, and the prose tends toward clarity rather than flourish, prioritizing the intelligibility of evidence and the steps by which conclusions are reached. As the investigation advances, the narrative sustains interest through incremental problem-solving and the controlled release of information, allowing the reader to keep pace with the logic rather than feel pushed past it. The result is a novel that feels like an argument conducted in story form, persuasive when it is precise and compelling when it is restrained.
At the core of Felo de Se is a concern with the difference between what is assumed and what is demonstrated. The book continually returns to questions of agency and intention, asking how confidently one can interpret a final act, and how easily social expectations can harden into verdicts. It also explores the ethical weight of inference: the investigator’s responsibility not merely to be clever, but to be accurate, because conclusions alter reputations and reorder lives. In this way, the novel treats the detective’s work as a moral practice, governed by standards of proof as much as by curiosity.
The novel still matters because it models a way of thinking that contemporary readers recognize as urgently relevant: skepticism disciplined by method. In an environment saturated with rapid judgments and partial information, Freeman’s insistence on traceable reasoning feels newly pointed. The story’s focus on the interpretation of evidence anticipates modern conversations about forensics and expert testimony, not by offering technical detail for its own sake, but by dramatizing how facts become narratives. It also demonstrates how the detective genre can function as a critique of certainty, reminding readers that plausibility is not the same as truth.
Read today, Felo de Se offers both a historical window into a formative moment in detective fiction and a durable lesson in careful attention. Its satisfactions are those of precision: the steady alignment of observation, inference, and verification. Without relying on sensationalism, the novel draws tension from the gap between outward explanation and underlying reality, and from the painstaking effort required to close that gap responsibly. For readers who enjoy mysteries that respect logic, foreground process, and treat the search for truth as consequential, Freeman’s work remains a quietly compelling companion.
Synopsis
R. Austin Freeman’s “Felo de Se?” is a mystery structured around a suspicious death that initially appears to be self-inflicted, but quickly raises questions about intent, opportunity, and the reliability of appearances. The narrative sets a measured, investigative tone, foregrounding the legal and moral implications suggested by the title’s reference to self-destruction as a category of culpability. From the outset, the story frames its central problem as one of classification: whether the event should be accepted as straightforward or treated as a potentially staged outcome requiring careful reconstruction and impartial scrutiny.
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The early movement of the plot introduces the circumstances of the death and the immediate inferences drawn by those closest to the scene. Freeman emphasizes procedural caution by showing how small practical details—what is found, what is missing, and what seems too neatly arranged—can push an inquiry away from assumptions. Attention shifts from broad conjecture to specific observations, encouraging the reader to weigh material facts over social narrative. The resulting tension is not only about what happened, but about how readily institutions and witnesses settle on an explanation when an event resembles a familiar pattern.
As the investigation proceeds, the story develops a network of relationships, motives, and potential misunderstandings surrounding the deceased. Freeman’s method is to let competing interpretations accumulate: one view favoring an uncomplicated verdict, another insisting that the physical and personal context does not comfortably align with it. The inquiry therefore becomes both forensic and psychological, testing alibis, habits, and sequences of action against the stubborn constraints of time and place. The conflict is sustained by the possibility that an apparently private act may have public causes and consequences.
Freeman advances the narrative through incremental reasoning rather than dramatic disclosure, stressing how an investigator must reconcile testimony with tangible traces. Apparent certainties are repeatedly checked against the environment in which the event occurred, and the story’s momentum comes from the narrowing of plausible scenarios. Along the way, the reader is invited to consider how easily language—labels like “suicide” or “accident”—can harden into verdicts before the full evidentiary picture is assembled. The case also probes the ethical stakes of assigning responsibility when the facts are ambiguous or strategically obscured.
Midway, the inquiry turns on re-examining earlier assumptions, as details once treated as incidental acquire greater weight. Freeman uses this phase to show the discipline of revisiting the scene, re-timing movements, and correlating statements with objective constraints. The investigation’s line of questioning tightens around how the death could have been carried out, what preparations would have been required, and who would have had the capacity to manage such preparations without raising alarm. Suspicion and skepticism are balanced with a formal commitment to proof, keeping the narrative grounded in method rather than melodrama.
As the final stretch approaches, the case converges on a limited set of explanations, each carrying different implications for culpability and for the reputations of those involved. Freeman sustains suspense by emphasizing what remains uncertain and by allowing the reader to feel the pressure of concluding an inquiry where a wrong classification would either conceal wrongdoing or unjustly stain a memory. The story’s resolution is approached as a logical endpoint of accumulated observations rather than a sudden reversal, yet it preserves key uncertainties until late, minimizing premature closure and keeping the stakes focused on truth and fairness.
Historical Context
R. Austin Freeman’s “Felo de Se?” belongs to the late Victorian and early Edwardian period, when Britain’s commercial press supported a wide readership for crime and “problem” fiction. The story is associated with the metropolitan world of London, where rapid urban growth and mass literacy created a large market for popular magazines and short stories. Detective narratives drew authority from professional expertise, including law, medicine, and policing. The title itself uses a legal Latin phrase, signaling an era in which older legal concepts still circulated in educated public discourse even as criminal justice and social policy were modernizing.
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Freeman (1862–1943) trained and worked as a physician before turning to full-time writing. His medical background mattered in a culture that increasingly trusted scientific methods and specialized knowledge. The late nineteenth century saw advances in laboratory medicine and pathology, and the rise of the “medical expert” in courts and the press. Freeman became known for Dr. John Evelyn Thorndyke, a detective who uses scientific reasoning and forensic detail. In this context, “Felo de Se?” reflects contemporary interest in rational explanation, professional testimony, and the careful observation of physical evidence rather than purely intuitive detection.
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Policing and criminal investigation in Britain were being reshaped by bureaucratic reforms and new identification practices. The Metropolitan Police had been founded in 1829, and by the late nineteenth century it had developed specialized investigative capacities. Fingerprinting, first systematized in British India and adopted by the Metropolitan Police in 1901, exemplified the period’s shift toward measurable identity and evidential certainty. Courts relied increasingly on expert witnesses, while newspapers reported trials closely, familiarizing the public with procedures and technical language. Freeman’s fiction draws on this environment, in which credibility often turned on methodical reconstruction and the disciplined handling of clues.
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The phrase “felo de se” refers to the common-law classification of self-killing as a felony, historically carrying severe consequences, including forfeiture of property and denial of Christian burial. By the nineteenth century, such penalties had been eased in practice, and the law itself was changing. In England and Wales, the Forfeiture Act 1870 abolished forfeiture of property for felony, affecting the material consequences of many crimes, including older doctrines tied to suicide. Yet suicide remained a crime until the Suicide Act 1961. Freeman’s use of the term points to enduring legal and moral frameworks surrounding death, intent, and responsibility.
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Felo de Se?
PART I. — THE GAMBLER: NARRATED BY ROBERT MORTIMER
I. — THE MAN IN THE PORCH
THERE is something almost uncanny in the transformation which falls upon the City of London when all the offices are closed and their denizens have departed to their suburban homes. Throughout the working hours of the working days, the streets resound with the roar of traffic and the pavements are packed with a seething, hurrying multitude. But when the evening closes in, a strange quiet descends upon the streets, and the silent, deserted by-ways take on the semblance of thoroughfares in some city of the dead.
The mention of by-ways reminds me of another characteristic of this part of London. Modern, commonplace, and dull as is the aspect of the main streets, in the areas behind and between them are hidden innumerable quaint and curious survivals from the past; antique taverns lurking in queer, crooked alleys and little scraps of ancient churchyards, green with the grass that sprang up afresh amidst the ashes of the Great Fire[2].
With one of these curious "hinterlands"—an area bounded by Cornhill, Gracechurch Street, Lombard Street, and Birchin Lane, and intersected by a maze of courts and alleys—I became intimately acquainted, since I usually crossed it at least twice a day going to and from the branch of Perkins's Bank[1] at which I was employed as a cashier. For the sake of change and interest, I varied my route from day to day—all the alleys communicated and one served as well as another—but the one that I favoured most was the very unfrequented passage which took me through the tiny churchyard of St. Michael's. I think the place appealed to me specially because somewhere under the turf reposes old Thomas Stow, grandfather of the famous John, laid here in the year 1527 according to his wish "to be buried in the litell Grene Churchyard of the Parysshe Church of Seynt Myghel in Cornehyll, betwene the Crosse and the Church Wall, nigh the wall as may be." Many a time, as I passed along the paved walk, had I tried to locate his grave; but the Great Fire must have made an end of both Cross and wall.
I have referred thus particularly to this "haunt of ancient peace" because it was there, on an autumn even in the year 1929, that there befell the adventure that has set me to the writing of this narrative; an adventure which, for me, changed the scene in a mom from a haunt of peace to a place of gruesome and tragic memories.
It was close upon eight o'clock when I emerged from the bank and started rather wearily on my way homeward[1q]. It had been a long day, for there had been various arrears to dispose of which had kept us hard at work hours after the bank had closed its doors; and it had been a dull, depressing day, for the sky had been so densely overcast that no single gleam of sunlight had been able to break through, and we had perforce kept the lamps alight all day. Even now, as I came out and shut the door behind me, twilight seemed to have descended on the City, though the sun had barely set and it was not yet time for the street lamps to be lit.
I stood for a moment looking up the gloomy, twilit street, hesitating as to which way to go. Our branch was in Gracechurch Street close to the corner of Lombard Street, and both thoroughfares were equally convenient. Eventually, I chose Gracechurch Street, and, crossing to the west side, walked up it until I came to the little opening of Bell Yard. Turning into the dark entry, I trudged up the narrow passage, cogitating rather vaguely and wishing that I had provided some thing better than the scanty cold supper that I knew awaited me at my lodgings. But I was tired and chilly and empty; I had not had enough food during the day, owing to the pressure of work; so that the needs of the body tended to assert themselves to the exclusion of more elevated thoughts.
At the top of the yard I turned into the little tunnel-like covered passage that led through into Castle Court and brought me out by the railings of the churchyard. Skirting them, I went on to the entrance to the paved walk and passed in up a couple of steps and through the open gateway, noting that even "the litell Grene Churchyard" looked dull and drab under the lowering sky and that lights were twinkling in the office windows beyond the grass plot and in those of the tavern at the side.
At the end of the paved walk is a long flower-bed against the wall of St. Michael's Church, and, just short of this, the arched entrance to another tunnel-like covered passage into which, near its middle, the deep south porch of the church opens. I was about to step down into the passage—which is below the level of the churchyard—when I noticed a hatlying on the flower-bed close up in the corner. It lay crown downwards with its silk lining exposed, and, as it appeared to be in perfectly good condition, I picked it up to examine it. It was quite a good hat; a grey soft felt, nearly new, and the initials A. W., legibly written on the white lining, suggested that the owner had set some value on it. But where was the owner? And how on earth came this hat to belying abandoned by the wayside? A man may drop a glove or a handkerchief or a tobacco pouch and be unaware of his loss; but surely the most absent-minded of men could hardly lose his hat without noticing the fact. And then the further question arose: what does one do with a derelict hat? Of course, I could have dropped it where I had found it; but from this my natural thriftiness and responsibility revolted. It was too good a hat to have been casually flung away by its owner, and, since Fate had appointed me its custodian, the duty seemed to devolve on me to restore it.
I stood for a few moments holding the hat and looking through the dark passage at the shape of light at the farther end, but no one was in sight; and I now recalled that I had not met a soul since I entered Bell Yard from Gracechurch Street. Still wondering how I should set about discovering the owner of the hat, I stepped down into the passage and began to walk along it; but when I reached the middle and came opposite the church porch, my problem seemed to solve itself in a rather startling fashion; for, glancing into the porch, I saw, dimly but quite distinctly in its shadowy depths, a man sitting on the lowest of the three steps that lead up to the church door. He was leaning back against the jamb limply and helplessly as if he were asleep or, more probably, drunk, the latter probability being rather confirmed by a stout walking-stick with a large ivory knob, which had fallen beside him, and what looked like a rimless eyeglass which lay on the stone floor between his feet. But what was more to my present purpose was the fact that not only was he bare-headed, but that no hat was visible. This, then, was doubtless the owner of the derelict.
Holding the latter conspicuously, I stepped into the cavern-like porch, and, addressing the man in a rather loud tone, enquired whether he had lost a hat. As he made no reply or any sign of having heard me, I was disposed to lay the hat down by his side and retire, when it occurred to me that he might possibly have had some kind of fit or seizure. On this I approached closer, and, stooping over him, listened for the sound of his breathing. But I could hear nothing nor could I make out any movement of his chest.
As he was sitting, or sprawling, with his legs spread out, his shoulders supported by the jamb of the door and his head drooping forward on his chest, his face was almost hidden from me. But I now knelt down beside him, and, taking my petrol lighter from my pocket, held it close to his face. And then, as the gleam of the flame fell on him, I sprang up with a gasp of horror. The man's eyes were wide open, staring before him with an intensity that was in hideous contrast to his limp and passive posture. And the face was unmistakably the face of a dead man.
Dropping the hat by his side, I ran through the passage into St. Michael's Alley and down this to Cornhill. At the entrance to the alley I stood for a moment looking up and down the street. In the distance, near the Royal Exchange, I could see a white-sleeved policeman directing the traffic, and I was about to start off towards him when, glancing eastward, I saw a constable approaching along the pavement. At once I hurried away in his direction and we met nearly opposite St. Peter's Church. A few words conveyed my information and secured his very complete attention. "A dead man, you say. Whereabouts did you see him?"
"He islying in the south porch of St. Michael's Church, just up the alley."
"Well," said he, "you had better come along and show me"; and without further parley he started forward with long, swinging strides that gave me some trouble to keep up with him. Back along Cornhill we went and up the alley until we came to the arched entrance to the passage, and here the constable produced his lantern and switched on the light. As we came opposite the porch and my companion threw a beam of light into it, the cave-like interior was rendered clearly visible with the dead man sitting, or reclining, just as I had left him.
"Yes," said the constable, "there don't seem to be much doubt about his being dead." Nevertheless, he put his ear close to the man's face, raising the head gently, and felt for the pulse at the wrist. Then he stood up and looked at me.
"I'd better get on the phone," said he, "and report to the station. They'll have to send an ambulance to take him to the mortuary. Will you stay here until I come back? I shan't be more than a minute or two."
Without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the passage and disappeared down the alley, leaving me to pace up and down in the gathering gloom or to stand and gaze out on the darkening churchyard. It was a dismal business, and very disturbing to the nerves I found it; for I am rather sensitive to horrors of any kind, and, being now tired and physically exhausted, I was more than ordinarily susceptible. I had suffered a severe shock, and its effect was still with me as I kept my vigil, now glancing with horrid fascination at the shadowy figure in the dark porch, and now stealing away to the entrance to be out of sight of it. Once, a man came in from the offices across the churchyard, but he hurried through into the alley, brushing past me and all unaware of that dim and ghostly presence.
After the lapse of two or three incredibly long minutes the constable reappeared, and, almost at the moment of his arrival, the lights were switched on and a lamp in the vault of the passage exactly opposite the porch threw a bright light on the dead man.
"Ah!" the officer commented cheerfully, "that's better. Now we can see what we are about." He stepped up to the body, and, stooping over it, cast the light from his lantern on the step behind it.
"There's something there on the stone step," he remarked; "some broken glass and some metal things. I can't quite see what they are, but we'd better not meddle with them until the people from the station arrive. But while we are waiting for the ambulance I'll just jot down a few particulars." He produced a large note-book, and, taking an attentive look at me, added: "We'll begin with your name, address and occupation."
I gave him these, and he then enquired how I came to discover the body. I had not much to tell, but, such as my story was, he wrote it down verbatim in his note book and made me show him the exact spot where I had found the hat; of which spot he entered a description in his book. When he had completed his notes, he read out to me what he had written; and on my confirming its correctness, he handed me his pencil and asked me to add my signature.
He had just returned the note-book to his pocket when an inspector appeared at the alley entrance of the passage, closely followed by two constables carrying a stretcher and one or two idlers who had probably been attracted by the ambulance. The inspector walked briskly up to the porch, and, having cast a quick glance at the dead man, turned to the constable.
"I suppose," said he, "you have got all the particulars. Which is the man who discovered the body?"
"This is the gentlemen, sir," the constable replied, introducing me; "Mr. Robert Mortimer; and this is his statement."
He produced his note-book and presented it, open, to his superior; who stood under the lamp and ran his eye over the statement.
"Yes," he when he had finished reading and returned the book to its owner, "that's all right. Not much in it except the hat. Just show me where you found it."
I conducted him up into the churchyard and pointed out the corner of the flower-bed where the hat had beenlying. He looked at it attentively and then glanced down the passage, remarking that the dead man had apparently come down from Castle Court. "By the way," he added, "I suppose you don't recognise him?"
"No," I replied, "he is a total stranger to me."
"Ah, well," said he, "I expect we shall be able to find out who he is in time for the inquest."
His reference to the inquest prompted mc to ask if I should be wanted to give evidence.
"Certainly," he replied. "You haven't much to tell, but the little that you have may be important."
We were now back at the porch, on the floor of which the stretcher had been placed. At a word from the inspector the two bearers lifted the corpse on to it, and, having laid the hat on the body and covered it with a waterproof sheet, grasped the handles of the stretcher, stood up, and marched away with their burden, followed by the spectators.
The raising of the body had brought into view the objects which the constable had observed and which now appeared to be the fragments of a broken hypodermic syringe. These the inspector collected with scrupulous care, spreading his handkerchief on the upper step to receive them and picking up even the minute splinters of glass that had scattered when the syringe was dropped. When he had gathered up every particle that was visible, and taken up some drops of moisture with a piece of blotting-paper, he made his collection into a neat parcel and put it in his pocket. Then he cast a rapid but searching glance over the floor and walls of the porch, and, apparently observing nothing worth noting, began to walk towards the alley.
"I wonder," he said as we turned into it and came in sight of the waiting ambulance, "how long that poor fellow had beenlying there when you first saw him. Not very long, I should say. Couldn't have been. Somebody must have noticed him. However, I expect the doctor will be able to tell us how long he has been dead. And you had better note down all that you can remember of the circumstances so that you can be clear about it at the inquest."
Here we came out into Cornhill, where the ambulance had been drawn up opposite the church, and the inspector, having wished me "good night," pushed his way through the considerable crowd that had collected and took his place in the ambulance beside the driver. Just as the vehicle was moving away and I was about to do the same, a voice from behind me enquired:
"What's the excitement? Motor accident?"
I seemed to recognise the voice, which had a slight Scottish intonation, and when I turned to answer I recognised the speaker. He was a Mr. Gillum, one of the bank's customers with whom I had often done business.
"No," I replied, "I don't know what it was, but the dead man looked perfectly horrible. I can't get his face out of my mind."
"Oh, but that won't do," said Gillum. "It has given you a bad shake up, but you've got to try to forget it."
"I know," said I, "but just now I'm rather upset. This affair caught me at the wrong time, after a long, tiring day."
"Yes," he agreed, "you do look a bit pale and shaky. Better come along with me and have a drink. That will steady your nerves."
"I am rather afraid of drinks at the moment," said I. "You see, I have had a long day and not very much in the way of food."
"Ah!" said he, "there you are. Horrors on an empty stomach. That's all wrong, you know. Now I'm going to prescribe for you. You will just come and have a bit of dinner and a bottle of wine with me. That will set you up and will give me the great pleasure of your society."
Now I must admit that a bit of dinner and a bottle of wine sounded gratefully in my ears, but I was reluct ant to accept hospitality which my means did not admit conveniently of my returning. A somewhat extravagant taste in books absorbed the surplus of my modest income and left me rather short of pocket-money. However, Gillum would take no denial. Probably he grasped the position completely. At any rate, he brushed aside my half-hearted refusal without ceremony and, even while I was protesting, he hailed a prowling taxi, opened the door and bundled me in. I heard him give the address of a restaurant in Old Compton Street. Then he got in beside me and slammed the door.
"Now," said he, as the taxi trundled off, "for 'the gay and festive scenes and halls of dazzling light'; and oblivion to the demmed unpleasant body."
II. — JOHN GILLUM
AS the taxi pursued its unimpeded way westward through the half-populated streets, I reflected on the curious circumstances that had made me the guest of a man who was virtually a stranger to me, and I was disposed to consider what I knew of him. I use the word "disposed" advisedly, for, in fact, my mind was principally occupied by my late experiences, and the considerations which I here set down for the reader's information are those that might have occurred to me rather than those that actually did.
I had now been acquainted with John Gillum for some six months; ever since, in fact, I had been transferred to the Gracechurch Street[3] branch of the bank. But our acquaintance was of the slightest. He was one of the bank's customers and I was a cashier. His visits to the bank were rather more frequent than those of most of our customers and on slack days he would linger to exchange a few words or even to chat for a while. Nevertheless, our relations hardly tended to grow in intimacy; for though he was a bright, gay, and rather humorous man, quite amusing to talk to, his conversation persistently concerned itself with racing matters and the odds on, or against, particular horses, a subject in which I was profoundly uninterested. In truth, despite our rather frequent meetings, his personality made so little impression on me that, if I had been asked to describe him, I could have said no more than that he was a tallish, rather good-looking man with black hair and beard which contrasted rather noticeably with his blue eyes, that he spoke with a slight Scotch accent and that two of his upper front teeth had been rather extensively filled with gold. This latter characteristic did, indeed, attract my notice rather unduly; for, though gold is a beautiful material (and one that a banker might be expected to regard with respectful appreciation), these golden teeth rather jarred on me and I found it difficult to avoid looking at them as we talked.
Yet even in those days I felt a certain interest in our customer; but it was a purely professional interest. As cashier, I naturally knew all about his account and his ways of dealing with his money, and on both, and especially his financial habits, I occasionally speculated with mild curiosity. For his habits were not quite normal, or at least were not like those of most other private customers. The latter usually make most of their payments by cheque. But Gillum seemed to make most of his in cash. It is true that he appeared to pay most of his tradespeople by cheque, but from time to time, and at pretty frequent intervals, he would present a "self" cheque[4] for a really considerable sum—one, or even two or three hundred pounds, and occasionally a bigger sum still—and take the whole of it away in pound notes.
It was rather remarkable, in fact very much so when I came to look over the ledger and note the fluctuations of his account. For at fairly regular intervals he paid in really large cheques—up to a thousand pounds—mostly drawn upon an Australian bank, which for a time swelled his account to very substantial proportions. But, by degrees, and not very small degrees, his balance dwindled until he seemed on the verge of an overdraft, and then another big cheque would be paid in and give him a fresh start.
Now there is nothing remarkable in the fluctuation of an account when the customer receives payment periodically in large sums and pays out steadily in the small amounts which represent the ordinary expenses of living. But when I came to cast up Gillum's account, it was evident that the great bulk of his expenditure was in the form of cash. And it seemed additional to the ordinary domestic payments, as I have said; and I found myself wondering what on earth he could be doing with his money. He could not be making investments, or even "operating" on the Stock Exchange, for those transactions would have been settled by cheque. Apparently he was making some sort of payments which had to be made in cash.
Of course it was no business of mine. Still, it was a curious and interesting problem. What sort of payments were these that he was making? Now when a man pays away at pretty regular intervals considerable sums in cash, the inference is that he is having some sort of dealings with someone who either will not accept a cheque or is not a safe person to be trusted with one. But a person who will not accept payment by an undoubtedly sound cheque is a person who is anxious to avoid evidence that a payment has been made. Such anxiety suggests a secret and probably unlawful transaction; and in practice, such a transaction is usually connected with the offence known as "demanding money with menaces." So, as I cast up the very large amounts that Gillum had drawn out in cash, I asked myself, "Is he a gambler, or has he fallen into the clutches of a blackmailer?" The probability of the latter explanation was suggested by certain large withdrawals at approximately quarterly periods, and also by the fact that Gillum not only took payment almost exclusively in pound notes, but also showed a marked preference for notes that had been in circulation as compared with new notes, of the serial numbers of which the bank would have a record. Still, the two possibilities were not mutually exclusive. A gambler is by no means an unlikely person to be the subject of blackmail.
Such, then, were the reflections that might have occupied my mind had it not been fully engaged with my recent adventure. As it was, the short journey was beguiled by brief spells of scrappy and disjointed conversation which lasted until the taxi drew up opposite the brilliantly lighted entrance of the restaurant and a majestic person in the uniform of a Liberian admiral hurried forward to open the door. We both stepped out, and when Gillum had paid the taxi-driver—extravagantly, as I gathered from the man's demeanour—we followed the admiral into a wide hail where we were transferred to the custody of other and less gorgeous myrmidons.
Giamborini's Restaurant was an establishment of a kind that was beyond my experience, as it was certainly beyond my means. It oozed luxury and splendour at every pore. The basin of precious marble in which I purged myself of the by-products of the London atmosphere was of a magnificence that almost called for an apology for washing in it; the floor of delicate Florentine mosaic seemed too precious to stand upon in common boots; while as to the dining-saloon, I can recall it only as a bewildering vision of marble and gilding, of vast mirrors, fretted ceilings and stately columns—apparently composed of gold and polished gorgonzola—and multitudinous chandeliers of a brilliancy that justified Dick Swiveller's description, lately quoted by Gillum. I found it a little oppressive and was disposed to compare it (not entirely to its advantage) with the homely Soho restaurants that I remembered in the far-off pre-war days.
A good many of the tables were unoccupied, though the company was larger than I should have expected, for the hour was rather late for dinner but not late enough for theatre suppers. Of the guests present, the men were mostly in evening dress, and so, I suppose, were the women, judging by the considerable areas of their persons that were uncovered by clothing. As to their social status I could form no definite opinion, but the general impression conveyed by their appearance was that they hardly represented the cream of the British aristocracy. But perhaps I was prejudiced by the prevailing magnificence.
"What are you going to have, Mortimer?" my host asked as we took our seats at the table to which we had been conducted. "Gin and It, cocktail, or sherry? You prefer sherry. Good. So do I. It is wine that maketh glad the heart of man, not these chemical concoctions[2q]."
He selected from the wine list the particular brand of sherry that commended itself to him and then gave a few general directions which were duly noted. As the waiter was turning away, he added: "I suppose you haven't got such a thing as an evening paper about you?"
The waiter had not. But there was no difficulty. He would get one immediately. Was there any particular paper that would be preferred?
"No," replied Gillum, "any evening paper will do." Thereupon the waiter bustled away with the peculiar quick, mincing gait characteristic of his craft; a gait specially and admirably adapted to the rapid conveyance of loaded trays. In a minute or two he came skating back with a newspaper under his arm and a tray of hors-d'oeuvres and two brimming glasses of sherry miraculously balanced on his free hand. Gillum at once opened the paper, while I fixed a ravenous eye on the various and lurid contents of the tray. As I had expected, he turned immediately to the racing news. But he did not read the column. After a single brief glance, he folded up the paper and laid it aside with the remark, uttered quite impassively: "No luck."
"I hope you haven't dropped any money," said I, searching for the least inedible contents of the tray.
"Nothing to write home about," he replied. "Fifty."
"Fifty!" I repeated. "You don't mean fifty pounds?"
"Yes," he replied calmly. "Why not? You can't expect to bring it off every time."
"But fifty pounds!" I exclaimed, appalled by this horrid waste of money. "Why, it would furnish a small library."
He laughed indulgently. "That's the bookworm's view of the case but it isn't mine. I've had my little flutter and I'm not complaining; and let me tell you, Mortimer, that I have just barely missed winning a thousand pounds."
I was on the point of remarking that a miss is as good as a mile, but, as that truth has been propounded on some previous occasions, I refrained and asked: "When you say that you have just barely missed winning a thousand pounds, what exactly do you mean? How do you know that you nearly won that amount?"
"It is perfectly simple, my dear fellow," said he. "I laid fifty pounds on the double event at twenty to one against. That is to say, I backed two particular horses to win two particular races. Now, one of my horses won his race all right. The other ought to have done the same. But he didn't. He came in second. So I lost. But you see how near a thing it was."
"Then," said I, "if you had backed the two horses separately, I suppose you would have won on the whole transaction?"
"I suppose I should," he admitted, "but there would have been nothing in it. The horse that won was the favourite. But the double event was a real sporting chance. Twenty to one against. And you see how near I was to bringing it off."
"Nevertheless," I objected, "you lost. And you went into the business with the knowledge, not only that you might lose, but that the chances that you would lose were estimated at twenty to one. I should have supposed that no sane man would have taken such a chance as that."
He looked at me with a broad smile that displayed his golden teeth to great disadvantage.
