The Freedom Fighter:
Murder in Albemarle Street

"Inspector Aphid," he cried, "Billy Bustard has been found dead in Albemarle Street. The Superintendent wants yer at the Yard right away."

"The Devil, you say! Did the old sod finally get himself murdered?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. Beaten to death, and not a soul to witness it."

After telling my wife not to wait up for me, Reynolds and I took a cab to the Embankment. I was soon in conference with my superior officer. (Jonas Garboil, he was -- a man touchy and foolish as his name. He resigned in 1906 as a result of the Beau Guest Corporation scandal and died shortly thereafter in penury and disgrace.)

"I have decided," he said, "in consultation with the Assistant Commissioner, to place you in charge of this investigation, as you have shown yourself to be rather effective in dealing with political crimes. Sergeant Simmons will, harrumph, assist you. This is a serious matter, and we must have a prompt resolution of it. Heads will roll, Aphid, if by chance---" He broke off.

I absorbed the veiled threat calmly, for appearance's sake, but I was deeply worried all the same, not for lack of confidence in myself but for the lack of same in others. "Yes, it is serious," I said. "Is it likely, sir, he was attacked by a common footpad?"

He smiled ruefully. "He might very well have been. This kind of murder, as you know, is often incapable of solution without the help of an informer. One creeps up on one's victim in a dark and empty street, clubs him down -- and scuttles away like a silverfish. I should think spreading the word among your 'grasses' -- discreetly, mind you -- is your first step. But I mustn't tell you how to conduct your investigation, must I, Aphid?"

"No, sir," I chuckled (not very sincerely). "Was Bustard robbed?"

"Yes, he was. That could very well be a red herring, you know. It smells, my boy. And yet one can't help but hope that this killing will turn out to be non-political."

There would, I mused on the way to the scene of the murder, be scandal indeed if it was a crime of politics. William Bustard, Honourable Member for the constituency of Doople-on-the-Marsh, was referred to in the newspapers as the Scourge of the Anarchists. To thwart their schemes and expose the perfidy of sworn enemies of law, order, and decency was the declared aim of this self-appointed crusader. He was not an attractive character: a self-righteous man, rather vulgar, and obsessed with his work; hardly a true gentleman, although sufficiently at home in exalted circles. Nonetheless, he and his kind were a useful counterpoise to the anarchists and nihilists gathered like ticks on the fundament of the Metropolis. Most of them were harmless. Some were not.

If it should transpire that his political enemies had assassinated him -- and there had been threats against him from such people as the crippled arsonist Kokhrotchkov and the mad intellectual Bubonés -- the result would be a terrible popular outcry. Scotland Yard would be the first to suffer blame, and there would have to be a scapegoat...

Unless there came a speedy termination of the case, combined with prompt and efficient detective work. The responsibility was crushing.

Chitchat (Part I)

"It's quite remarkable, don't you know," said the police surgeon. "I've never seen a more self-satisfied looking corpse."

"He almost looks smug," said Sergeant Simmons, taking up the irreverent manner.

"I should think he was a most detestable fellow. I've never liked these chaps who prosecute their work with such unseemly zeal. Hardly gentlemanly, you know."

"My sentiments exactly, doctor. It's all right for us officials of the police, but hardly proper for a Member of Parliament."

I burst out laughing. Simmons was always a sulky fellow, a protege of Garboil's, but I found that preferable to his asinine attempts at geniality and social commentary. The man totally lacked humour. The hushed inactivity broke forthwith, and we got to work. I spoke with the porter, who had been first at the scene of the crime. Unfortunately, he had not witnessed the attack. Having shown Mr Bustard out, he had gone back into the club to attend to Lord Meekhuddle, an exceedingly infirm old gentleman who often had trouble with his coat and umbrella and spectacles (and other things, I've been told). When the porter went out to hail a cab for Lord Meekhuddle he saw Mr Bustard lying on the pavement about fifty yards down the street from the entrance porch. Bustard was not quite dead at that time.

"I raised up his head," the porter said, carefully emphasizing his aitches. "It twas all soft at the back, like a bad melon, if you'll excuse the expression, sir. He flickered his heyelids, and he said" -- the porter fluttered his own eyelids theatrically and continued in a gasping voice -- "'M-muh-murdered me...kuk-kuk-club!' That's all, becose then the blood came out of his mouth and nose with a great gush, so as to choke the words in his throat. And he made a horrid huffing noise, like this: Whoofff!"

A constable snickered. "Go on," I said, "be quick. We can't wait here all night while you embellish your lines."

"Sorry, sir. It was like a leaking pneumatic. I said, 'RIght, sir, you rest easy now.' His face was like a waxen image -- cerebrial hemorrhoid, the doctor said -- as good as dead when he spoke. I said, 'You was clubbed down, yes. Did you see who done it?' Mr Bustard like frowned, rose up on his helbow, 'eels drumming the pavement all the while, and pointed at the house on the corner -- then he fell back limp. He was out cold, and never woke again to see the light of day."

The Clubman's Clubman

I discovered that Bustard invariably walked from the club to his house in Berkeley Square (except during inclement weather), and that eight o'clock was his habitual hour of departure. These obsessive people with their rigid habits often expedite police investigations into their affairs by their very regularity; they are also rather easier to murder according to a preset plan than ordinary people. I am straying from my story.

The building at the corner, at which Bustard had pointed, was in fact part of the club itself, two houses adjoining the original premises having been absorbed into it by bricking up their entrances and placing new doors in the internal party-walls. Bustard had been lying under the street sign just beyond one of the disused porches. His murderer might have skulked there in the shadows; from this vantage point he could have seen that the street was clear and run down to attack Bustard as he passed by. I had Simmons and a constable act it out to verify its plausibility.

I turned to Sergeant Simmons after we had finished our business. "There is no evidence of any value for identifying the murderer. This is a nightmare. Are all of these clubmen so oblivious to what goes on about them?"

"I don't know, sir. That Sir Ethelbert was a one, wasn't he?" Simmons puffed up his face constipatedly. "'How the devil should I know or care who slew the bounder, eh? Serves him right for dabbling in the affairs of those cursed socialists.'"

"Sir Ethelbert is one of England's greatest capitalists."

"He's an Albanian, Inspector. Naturalised subject."

"Is he really? Ha. There may be hope for my knighthood, after all!"

"Yes, sir. If a Balkan dago can do it, why so can a Scotland Yard inspector. --Well now, sir what do you make of Mr Bustard's dying gestures?"

"Meaningless," I said. "Struck down leaving his club was what he tried to say. Or struck down by a club. Or struck down by a man from the club or hiding on club property. Well, we know nobody left the building at that time except for Lord Meekhuddle and the porter. Perhaps you could run along now to Stepney and have a word with Alf the Rat. Have him spread the word; offer a reward. I have a call to make."

Chitchat (Part II)

He was smoking a pipe when the landlady showed me into his chambers. His friend and biographer was there too, on a visit.

"You have come to me at an opportune time, Inspector Aphid," said the detective. He pushed toward me a slipper full of tobacco, which I refused, as it looked rather stale. "In a few weeks I shall have retired to the country to keep bees and to write the magnum opus I have intended to produce on the subject. Perhaps you will have a brandy to settle your nerves, for I observe you have come in some haste."

I accepted his offer, as I was feeling rather nervous about my dereliction of duty. I think he sensed my fears; he was certainly very polite and helpful.

"Now, then, Inspector, what is your problem? --No, I should not ask. It is evidently the Bustard affair."

"How on earth did you guess that? It only occurred a few hours ago, and it has certainly not yet been made public."

"Elementary, my dear sir, and no credit to my methods I assure you. My associate here is a close friend of one of your police surgeons." The detective chuckled. "I must say, W-----, that you came here tonight absolutely bursting with the news."

"You are hardly being fair, H----," the latter said. "Such a matter is well within your province and can scarcely be regarded as mere gossip."

"I am fairly rebuked, my dear W-----. A self-satisfied corpse is indeed a rara avis and no matter of idle chitchat."

"Dr Dougal!" I cried. "Well, I'm damned. So, Mr H-----, you can see my problem now. The culprit must be caught within a matter of hours, or Scotland Yard will have to weather such a storm as has not been seen since the Jack the Ripper affair."

"You have my sympathy and interest, Inspector Aphid. But if I am to help you, I must have all the facts of the case. Spare me no detail, no matter how trivial it might appear."

So I gave him all the facts I had gathered over the past two hours. He sat back in his armchair with his feet up on the fender of the fireplace and his fingertips together in a judicial manner. His friend the gossiping doctor listened raptly to every word; I am sure he could have reproduced the narrative verbatim. (I regret, having read his memoirs, that he did not. Surely this adventure reflects credit on all concerned -- far more so than many of the published tales.)

When I had finished, the detective sat up and looked me in the face with a faint smile. "Your problem is quite a simple one, after all, Inspector. You have not taken the time to analyse the facts. Perhaps in the immediacy of the chase you have not been able to achieve the necessary detachment. But I shan't go into the deductive process, as I'm sure you will be able to do so yourself, ex post facto, once you have heard my conclusions.

"Look for a tall bearded man of Russian descent, anarchistic in his persuasions. He walks with a stick, and on his right foot he wears a built-up shoe. The beard is an inference."

"Really, H-----!" said the doctor, shaking his head and chuckling.

"You are describing the man Kokhrotchkov," I said.

"Indeed I am. You will find him in my index volume -- not under the letter K, to be sure, but under the letter R. When first I encountered the man, he used an Italian alias. I think it is about time his activities were halted, as I once put a stop to those of his abominable wife. Given a certain fact, which can be deduced from the victim's final actions, there is little doubt that he and your murderous footpad are one and the same man.

"And now, I see, you are eager to go. Will you not have another brandy before you leave? No? Well, good night then, Inspector Aphid. It was a pleasure for me to meet one of the younger officials of Scotland Yard. A new generation L-------. Alas, tempora mutantur. I trust I have been of service to you?"

I thanked him heartily, bowed to the doctor, and departed in all decent haste.

Dead Man's Clue

My wife had not gone to bed. I went to her in her workroom, where she was knitting mittens for the poor.

She looked up, and I spoke two words. "Albemarle Street."

"?!" Her eyebrows lifted.

"Albemarle Street. Quick, quick!"

"John Murray. Lord Byron."

"Right, my dear. Street signs on the corner buildings."

She harrumphed indignantly as I bid her goodnight. When I arrived at the Yard, I left instructions and went straight to the Superintendent, who was reading reports of the investigation. I explained to him, when he queried my absence, that I had put out a call for the arrest of Kokhrotchkov. I did not mention my visit to Baker Street, of course.

"Kokhrotchkov is almost certainly our man," I said. "Bustard accused him in his death throes."

"How? What accusation?"

"Kokhrotchkov is afflicted with a club-foot. That is what Bustard was trying to get across -- he couldn't get his tongue round the name of his attacker, so he chose the next best thing, the most outstanding characteristic of the man."

"Yes, I see that now."

"He choked before he could finish the word. What did he do then?"

"He pointed to the club."

"More than that, Superintendent. He pointed at the street sign on the wall. Albemarle Street, associations with Lord Byron and his publisher Murray. Byron suffered from a club-foot."

[Coincidentally, a John Murray descendent was also Conan Doyle's publisher. Byron did not have a club-foot, just a minor deformity, but everybody thinks he did. --ed.]

"That sounds a bit far-fetched, Aphid, but clever enough. Was this Bustard person that literate?"

I pshawed modestly at what, for him, was great praise. There was some advantage, of course, in having an educated wife. I doubted whether S------ H----- himself had thought of the Albemarle Street association.

Finale

"We have him," Sergeant Simmons said softly, his eyes rheumy from lack of sleep, but now glowing with revived light. "In a warehouse near Tower Hill."

We raced along the Embankment in a police hansom, through Blackfriars and Thames Street and past the grim fortress; in less than half an hour we were there. A cordon of constables and firemen surrounded the great dark warehouse, except on the river side, where in the drifting mist a police boat fought to remain stationary against the outgoing tide.

Simmons called out with a speaking trumpet. "Kokhrotchkov! You are surrounded. Surrender now!"

After a tense silence, a distant voice cried out: "I will not be taken alive. I have struck a blow for human freedom. Let my death be a bugle call to the oppressed masses!"

I murmured to Simmons. "A pity he should escape justice. Shall we take him?"

"Yes! Crikey, he's caused trouble enough."

The two of us broke out of the small crowd and hurried away into the shadows. Ahead of us was a door. It was locked.

I ran back a few steps and took a running leap at an overhanging loading boom. My fingers clutched a cable -- I dangled from it. Hand over hand I drew myself up to the dark hatchway.

"Throw me your lantern," I whispered down to Simmons. "I must go in alone." It came whirling up. Kokhrotchkov was cursing and bellowing from an upper window, damning us all for tyrants. On the left I saw a stairway; my revolver was in my right hand. Be damned to the consequences!

Cautiously, ever so slowly, I crept up the stairs. My shadow loomed at my side, slightly behind me, and the temptation to keep glancing back at it was irresistible. Of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed a movement.

Fwit! the stick came whistling down on my left arm -- the same stick that had brained a Member of Parliament. The lantern went flying, its flame extinguished in the fall. Down came the stick again, before I could move, and my revolver clattered on the stairs. The nihilist's face was gleaming in the pale light of street lamps filtering through a grimy window. Kokhrotchkov had shaved off his beard. My arm throbbed and flamed with pain.

"You!" said a hissing voice. "I might have known. Capitalist toady! Moved up in the world, ain't you? How do you like it up there? You sodding renegade." (Did I mention that we had gone to school together?)

"No," I said in a whisper strained by pain and fear, "'tis you have betrayed your fellow man, you with your small-minded murders and mean little revenges."

"Hear the lisping hypocrite! Small-minded murders. Mudlov, Limax, and Göpelsdörfer -- all hanged with that devil Bustard's connivance. Lamprey and a score of revolutionary leaders rotting in your prisons -- those are your mean little revenges. Society must be protected, eh? From what? You and Bustard and your kind, Mr Julius George Aphid, Esquire."

"You're mad, Ivan. You'd beshit the entire world to cleanse it."

"Yes, I would do. Die, traitor!"

I tried to parry with my good arm; pain made me weak, and the blow was too swift. Unconscious, I fell to the floor. And at this, my final humiliation, let me sum up the rest of the story.

Sergeant Simmons and another policeman captured Kokhrotchkov alive and received great praise in the newspapers. I, too, got some praise, for my deductions (which were not mine), but there was no official commendation, as my actions had been considered impulsive and irresponsible, and I had been armed without special permission. I was mortified. And I came out of it all with concussion and two broken arms.

Superintendent Julius Aphid (Retired), Bognor Regis 1937