Inspector Higgins Hurries

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

INSPECTOR HIGGINS HURRIES

(Being a day in his life)

By

CECIL FREEMAN GREGG

Inspector Higgins Hurries was originally published in 1932 by the Dial Press Inc., New York.

In this edition of Inspector Higgins Hurries, the UK English spellings have been changed, in nearly all cases, to those used in the United States.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

CHAPTER I — 10.30 P.M. 6

CHAPTER II — 12.10 A.M. 11

CHAPTER III — 12.50 A.M. 16

CHAPTER IV — 2.05 A.M. 21

CHAPTER V — 2.25 A.M. 28

CHAPTER VI — 2.35 A.M. 32

CHAPTER VII — 2.50 A.M. 38

CHAPTER VIII — 3.03 A.M. 43

CHAPTER IX — 3.20 A.M. 49

CHAPTER X — 3.55 A.M. 54

CHAPTER XI — 4.20 A.M. 59

CHAPTER XII — 4.30 A.M. 64

CHAPTER XIII — 4.45 A.M. 69

CHAPTER XIV — 5 A.M. 73

CHAPTER XV — 5.50 A.M. 77

CHAPTER XVI — 6.10 A.M. 82

CHAPTER XVII — 7.40 A.M. 87

CHAPTER XVIII — 8.15 A.M. 93

CHAPTER XIX — 9.30 A.M. 99

CHAPTER XX — 9.45 A.M. 105

CHAPTER XXI — 10.15 A.M. 110

CHAPTER XXII — 10.46 A.M. 115

CHAPTER XXIII — NOON 120

CHAPTER XXIV — 12.20 P.M. 125

CHAPTER XXV — 12-45 P.M. 130

CHAPTER XXVI — 2.35 P.M. 135

CHAPTER XXVII — 2.50 P.M. 140

CHAPTER XXVIII — 3.06 P.M. 146

CHAPTER XXIX — 3.45 P.M. 152

CHAPTER XXX — 4.20 P.M. 158

CHAPTER XXXI — 4.50 P.M. 163

CHAPTER XXXII — 5.30 P.M. 168

CHAPTER XXXIII — 6.10 P.M. 174

CHAPTER XXXIV — 7 P.M. 179

CHAPTER XXXV — 9.30 P.M. 185

CHAPTER XXXVI — 10.30 P.M. 191

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 196

DEDICATION

To

EDITH and CHARLES FREEMAN

of Hartford, Huntingdon

CHAPTER I — 10.30 P.M.

The clinking of glasses, the rattle of cutlery and crockery—and a volume of sound from two hundred voices! The twenty-first annual dinner of the Society of Writers bade fair to be a pronounced success. For the first time in its history the Society had hired the famous blue room of the Gargantuan Hotel, with its lofty ceiling and beautiful pendant chandeliers, its mirrored walls and mural paintings executed by a world-famous artist, its magnificent dance-floor, now covered with tables...above all, its suggestion of perfection: perfect service, perfect cuisine (the secretary of the Entertainment Committee had wisely left these matters in the hands of the chef), and perfect cellar.

The decision to take the famous blue room having been made, the secretary had since been in a state bordering upon despair, being firmly convinced in his own mind that the whole affair would be a frost both socially and financially. The expense would not be justified, the members did not want it...needless ostentation...blue funk!

Now, as he gazed round the room from his seat of honour to the right of the chairman, he felt that perhaps, after all, the coming-of-age dinner wasn’t going to flop! If only the speakers lived up to their reputations. The secretary had taken great trouble over the speeches. The chairman he knew he could rely upon: a world-famous writer and playwright, a week seldom passed without him taking the chair at some function or other, and the wonder was that he was able to attend so many dinners and yet retain his digestion.

Pity about Chief-Inspector Dryan! The secretary had considered it a great stunt to get a high official from Scotland Yard to speak at this dinner—a practical man to the theorists as it were!—and then at the last moment he had failed. True he had sent a substitute, but...The secretary cast a jaundiced eye at the substitute, seated but a few feet away to his right.

A large man, with clean-cut profile and prize-fighting jaw, whose attention at the moment seemed to be concentrated on a spot a few inches in front of his untouched plate of soup. The man’s lips were muttering soundlessly, and he frequently passed his tongue round his lips. The secretary knew the symptoms, and shuddered to think of the reply to the toast of the visitors which this substitute was to give. Dryan ought to be pole-axed! Even as he watched, the large man refused the entree.

An impatient rapping of a hard-wood hammer.

The toast to the King was honored standing.

Once more the subdued sound of voices increased in volume, and again the gavel was brought into play.

A short man in knee-breeches and a wonderful red coat, standing behind the chairman, once more raised his voice.

My lords, ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for your chairman.

The chairman rose and beamed upon the assembly. He fingered the microphone in front of him whilst, good-humoredly, he waited for silence.

The secretary breathed a sigh of relief. At last he could give his serious attention to a surreptitious sandwich. The cares of his duties had prevented him from doing justice to the meal before, and a whispered request to. his waiter had met with a knowing response. In any case he knew the chairman’s speech by heart. A judicious mixture of self-advertisement, gesture and jest—the chairman knew his job. For ten minutes, at least, the secretary felt he could relax. Although he made no attempt to listen, sundry phrases thrust themselves through the blank wall of his indifference. This Society has now reached man’s estate..."My last novel’

...Distinguished visitors...Literary attainments...Novels...Hovels...Gentlemen of the Press.

A climactic peroration—a round of applause.

The chairman resumed, his seat, pulled down the points of his waistcoat, and took a long pull from the glass in front of him.

Another speech. Thank goodness things were going with a swing. The secretary essayed another glance at the substitute. Fine figure of a man! Looked a bit uncomfortable in his dress clothes...a shade nervous!

...the visitors—coupled with the name of Chief-Inspector Dryan of New Scotland Yard!

The secretary sat up with a start. Hell! He’d forgotten to tell the fool who was proposing the toast to the visitors that the chief inspector was indisposed! Hastily he signaled to the diminutive toastmaster. A hurried whispered explanation.

The polite applause gradually subsided and finally died away.

The toastmaster raised his mighty voice.

My lords, ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for Detective-Inspector Cuthbert Higgins, of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police Force.

The microphone was deftly moved and placed in front of the huge substitute, who rose slowly to his feet, whilst the secretary squirmed in his seat and hoped devoutly for the best.

Inspector Higgins gazed blankly round at the sea of faces and then emitted a nervous cough which was spontaneously amplified by the microphone and flung to the far corners of the room, increasing, if that were possible, his nervousness.

The secretary thought hard thoughts of the Metropolitan Police, and realized why there were so many unsolved mysteries.

Er—my lords, ladies and gentlemen, I—er—must apologize to you all for the absence of my Chief from this momentous gathering, and can only assume that he felt about half as nervous as I do, and consequently threw in his hand. He assured me, however, that it is a touch of lumbago which has prevented him from coming here this evening, which explanation I must be charitable enough to believe. I feel sure, though, that had he known the nice things you were going to say about our Police Force in general, and himself in particular, nothing could have kept him away. It is a privilege always to be a guest at one of your functions, but more so when one is invited to speak—even though the invitation, as in my case, comes second-hand. I don’t know the proportion of mystery-mongers there are amongst us to-night—your esteemed secretary could doubtless tell me—but I would like you to know how much I enjoy your works. But I really must take you to task for some of your methods. You know, gentlemen—Inspector Higgins shook his head sadly from side to side—"there is no rivalry between the professional detective and the amateur, between the regular policeman and the private detective, because in real life the private sleuth does not exist. I mean, of course, in criminal cases.

"Naturally the private detective has his uses in commercial or domestic cases. I can conceive his usefulness to a commercial magnate who wishes to know how a rival spends his time and where he goes, or to collect facts with regard to erring wives and foolish husbands. But in criminal cases he has no locus standi. If, in a criminal case, the officer in charge found, a private detective on the job, he’d haul him in front of the beak the following morning for interference with an officer in the execution of his duty, and the private sleuth would be lucky if he got off with a caution. Again, you are occasionally apt to paint the criminal in glowing colors, as though he were a hero instead of a blackguard, and I have yet to meet such an one. Furthermore, you would have us believe that there is money to be made out of crime. Believe me, gentlemen, the only people who make money out of crime are your very good selves who write about it."

And we don’t make much. A lugubrious voice from a further table raised a titter of amusement. The secretary began to sit up and take a little notice. This man Higgins was making good.

The inspector grinned his approval of the interruption. It gave him a moment to consolidate his position. Now that he was on his feet he did not feel nearly so nervous, although he cursed himself for refusing each course of the dinner. He sipped the glass in front of him, then continued:

"You must forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, if I seem to be abusing your hospitality in thus setting forth my views, but one doesn’t often get so unique an opportunity. The last charge in my indictment is this: you would have us believe that a detective, by the very reason of his profession, is a harbinger of trouble. How many times have you made a detective, official or private, go away for a long-earned rest, merely to stumble upon some hideous crime the moment he arrives at that little backwater where he had hoped to take his holiday?

How many times has the detective been asked home to dinner only for one of the guests to be killed? A fictional detective goes home from the Yard or his office in (say) Baker Street and finds a dead body on his front doorstep! Ladies and gentlemen, in real life such things don’t happen! There is no romance. The sheer monotony of his existence kills all romance. The endless questionings which lead nowhere! The hours of shadowing an innocent man! Disguises at Scotland Yard are unheard of! Were it not for your very romantic stories I’m afraid my life as a detective-inspector would be very dull! It is brightened, however, by such evenings as this. On behalf of my fellow-guests, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your kind hospitality.

Inspector Higgins sat down. A storm of applause.

Higgins immediately thought of a host of things which he had intended to say but had omitted, and suddenly wondered whether he had not said a great deal which he ought to have omitted. The secretary left his seat and sidled over.

Congratulations, Inspector. May I give you a lift home?

That’s very kind. I shall be delighted.

A friendly nod, and then the stentorian tones once more praying silence.

Inspector Higgins listened with much interest to the remaining speeches, and wondered why they seemed so much more intelligent and amusing than those which had preceded his own effort. At last a scraping of chairs and an undignified stampede to the cloak-room.

Where do you live, Inspector?

Wembley.

Good. It’s on my way. I live at Harrow. Jump in.

A long drive homewards.

You gave it to us pretty hot and strong, sir.

I know. I’m sorry.

No need to be sorry. We all enjoyed it, I’m sure.

Very kind of you to say so.

Is your life really so monotonous?

Oh yes.

Disillusioned!

The secretary shook his head, as though in infinite regret. Higgins, whose eye was on the road ahead, issued directions:

First on the right, sir. That’s right. Now left. Here we are.

A detached villa set well back in its own grounds. A pleasing garden with a graveled path from the gate to the front door, with a branch to the garage doors. The house was in darkness.

I’m much obliged to you, sir. Coming in for a final drink?

No, thanks. I’ve had more than enough already.

I assure you my wife won’t mind.

No, but mine would!

Higgins grinned.

Righto, sir. If you won’t, you won’t! Many thanks.

They shook hands.

So long, old man.

Cheerio.

Inspector Higgins watched the red tail-lamp until it disappeared in the distance, waving his hand in adieu in case the secretary’ chanced to look back. Then he turned, opened the gate, and strode up the graveled path.

On his front doorstep was a dead body.

CHAPTER II — 12.10 A.M.

Inspector Higgins stared for a moment, unbelievingly, at the recumbent figure. That the man was dead seemed certain, yet the inspector had to make sure. Protruding from the left shoulder-blade was the hilt of a dagger, and, if Higgins were any judge, the point of the weapon must have pierced the man’s heart, in which case the poor devil...Higgins leaned over. Yes. The man was dead right enough, his head resting on his left arm and his right hand in his trouser-pocket—the grotesque attitude suggesting that death had been instantaneous, and seemed to prove the inspector’s contention as to the point of the weapon. Even the man’s hat was still upon his head.

The inspector’s first thought was one of thankfulness that his wife, now sleeping peacefully within the house, had not been awakened to discover such a tragedy as this. Thank goodness he had asked her not to wait up for him whilst he deputized for his chief! But he would have to wake her...unless he could telephone from the hall without her hearing him.

A ray of a torch from the pavement, a gasp, the hurried opening of the gate, and a uniformed constable ran up the graveled path, in his excitement giving a most slovenly salute.

‘Strewth, sir. What’s this?

Stand by, Constable. Just found it. I’m going to phone for an ambulance. Don’t let anyone in the gate, though if we keep quiet we shouldn’t have many spectators at this time o’ night.

Right, sir.

And don’t touch anything yourself.

O’ course not, sir. The constable’s voice sounded pained. Higgins carefully opened the front door and crept to the telephone instrument in the hall. Of course, it was out of order—it always was when one was in a hurry! He tiptoed out again.

Here, Constable, knock up somebody close by and ask to use their telephone—mine’s on strike. Try Brewster across the way—there’s a light in his bedroom. That house with the newly felled tree.

The constable crossed the road and Higgins gave his attention once more to the body. Gently he turned it over. Not a nice face. Vicious. A typical criminal’s physiognomy, which, the inspector cynically admitted to himself, probably meant he was a blameless shop-walker! Big fellow, too. Probably deaf, otherwise he couldn’t have been taken unawares by his assassin. Ordinary lounge suit of quiet cut and material, black tie, black boots, grey cotton gloves...at least glove, the other was on the hand in the trouser-pocket. A little manipulation and the hand was removed. It clasped a bunch of keys. Systematically Inspector Higgins searched the pockets. In the breast-pocket of the jacket was a colored handkerchief—for show, not for use. Further exploration. Amazing! Barring the bunch of keys, there was nothing. Had the man been robbed after death? If so, there was no sign of it, save the absence of valuables.

And what was the man doing on Inspector Higgins’s doorstep at the time he was killed? Or had the man been killed elsewhere and dumped here? If so, why? Whoever had dumped him could hardly have chosen a better means of getting Scotland Yard promptly upon the trail. Of course, they couldn’t have known that a detective-inspector lived here...

I’ve rung up the station, sir, announced the constable from the gate. I’ve also asked for a squad to comb the district and interrogate anyone found abroad at this time o’ night, sir.

Inspector Higgins looked up. Good. Quite good. Constable. What is your name?

Thomson, sir.

Right. I’ll remember that. Brewster inquisitive?

Not very, sir. More annoyed at getting called to the door.

I see. What time do they put out the street lamps, Thomson. I’m generally in bed when that happens.

About half-past twelve, sir.

Inspector Higgins pulled out a huge gunmetal watch which bulged from the pocket of his dress-waistcoat and consulted the dial.

We’ve got about ten minutes, then. Forlorn sort of hope, Thomson, but you might scout around. Footprints are useless. Probably used a car, although how the devil he came up with this chap here without him hearing him I can’t make out. You don’t know him, I suppose?

The constable leaned closer.

Dunno as I do, sir.

There was a sound of an approaching car; for one brief instant the pair were almost blinded by the glare of the headlights as the machine turned the corner; and then the police ambulance drew to the curb outside the house and two uniformed attendants alighted. With clockwork precision the doors at the end of the ambulance were opened and a stretcher taken out. The gate was opened and the pair crunched down the graveled path bearing the stretcher between them.

Nasty business this, sir, commented the sergeant in charge as the stretcher was slowly lowered to the ground.

You’re right. When you get him to the mortuary send his fingerprints to Merrier at the Yard—I seem to know his dial.

Very good, sir. Now then—steady! Give us a hand, Constable. Easy! Easy does it...

With gentle hands and infinite care the murdered man was lifted from the step to the stretcher, and then, with funereal tread, the attendants marched to the ambulance. A minute later the car was on its way. Higgins watched it go—the illuminated red cross showing up well in the darkness.

Now what?

On the topmost step, hitherto hidden by the body, was a burglar’s jemmy.

Don’t touch it, Thomson. Fingerprints.

He was wearing cotton gloves, sir—in explanation.

Quite. But we don’t know that he brought this with him. Higgins was half-ashamed of his excuse. In any case he might have made...no, that won’t do. The inspector was about to suggest that the man might have made prints before donning the gloves, but, considering the man was dead, the point was immaterial!

A burglar’s jemmy! The man had evidently been stabbed when about to break into the inspector’s house. Rum business!

Look here, Thomson. You’d better trouble Brewster again and anyone else with lights showing to see whether they’ve noticed anything funny about my house here. I’ll attend to the wife, although I guess she wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly if she’d noticed anything. Push off and do your stuff.

Once more the inspector opened the door of his house and proceeded stealthily to his bedroom. Carefully he opened the door, announcing cheerily: It’s only me, me dear.

The room was empty—and his wife’s bed had not been slept in.

Higgins frowned, feeling a contraction of his heartstrings as he realized that his wife was not at home.

Muriel! Muriel!

Nothing doing. Somehow he didn’t think there would be! What on earth...

Higgins cast a hasty glance round the room. Everything in order save the unruffled bedclothes. Not like Muriel to push off somewhere without leaving a note. The wardrobe. Although he, like most husbands, had not the faintest idea of the extent of his wife’s clothing, he was immediately conscious that a particularly hideous jumper was missing. He hurried from the bedroom, then down the stairs, to glare at the hall-stand.

A raincoat, umbrella and pull-on hat were missing.

Muriel had gone out. Nothing to worry about in that. Might have told him, though. In any case she ought to have been back long before this. Perhaps she had taken the car.

Inspector Higgins opened the front door and made his way to the garage. Good guess! His little car was gone. But there was no message in the garage. Curse it! Why the deuce hadn’t Muriel left some indication of her whereabouts? He had quite enough to think about at the present time without any added worries! Bit o’ luck he’d arrived home first, else Muriel would have had the shock of her life had she arrived here to discover that poor chap lying on the front door-step!

Inspector Higgins switched off the electric light of the garage and returned once more to the house, wondering whether he had not missed the note from his wife.

No! There was his supper laid out in the dining-room. If he were not so worried he could just about go a meal. A drink would be better than nothing, however.

A large whisky—a little soda.