Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense (20 page)

“I'm going to ask you a direct question, Mr McCabe, and I require you to give me a direct answer.”

The Baby's bald head wrinkled with disapproval at this proposal. But he said nothing, just stared pointedly upwards at the ornate ceiling-rose over the desk.

“Right, Mr McCabe, was there any cause for dissension between the two partners in Festifunn?”

“Well . . . As you have probably gathered, Inspector, Mr Alcott and Mr Cruikshank were men of very different personalities . . .”

“I had gathered that, yes.”

“And so, inevitably, they did not always see eye to eye on the daily minutiae of the business.”

“There were arguments?”

“Yes, there were.”

“Threats?”

“Occasionally.”

“What form did the threats take?”

“Well, they—” The Baby stopped short and coloured. The flush spread from his head to just above the navel. “Inspector, are you suggesting that
Mr Alcott
. . .”

“We have to consider every possibility, Mr McCabe. In our experience, people are most commonly murdered by their loved ones. Since, in this case, Mr Cruikshank had no immediate family, we are forced to consider those who worked closely with him.”

“If you're making accusations against Mr Alcott, I don't think I can answer any further questions without a solicitor present.”

The Baby sat back complacently after this repetition of something he'd heard on television. Then Inspector Walsh spoiled it by asking, “Whose solicitor?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Whose? Yours? Mr Alcott's?”

“Oh. Um . . .”

“Anyway, I'm not making accusations at the moment, so just answer the questions!”

The Baby was suitably cowed.

“Right, was there any recent cause for more serious disagreement between the two partners of Festifunn?”

“Well . . .”

“Answer!”

“Yes, right, fine.” The words came out quickly. “There has recently been an offer to take over the firm. An offer from the Jollijests Corporation.”

“And the partners disagreed about the advisability of accepting the offer?”

“Precisely. Mr Alcott recognized it for the good business proposition it was. Mr Cruikshank opposed it on the somewhat whimsical grounds that he didn't want Festifunn's output limited to the manufacture of party hats and squeakers.”

“Sounds a reasonable objection.”

The Baby gave a patronizing smile. “When you've been in the novelty business as long as I have, Inspector, you will understand that it is not an area where sentiment should be allowed to overrule common sense.”

“I see. So the argument about the proposed take-over was quite violent?”

“Certainly. At the last board meeting, Mr Cruikshank's behaviour was most unseemly. He used language that was distinctly unparliamentary.” Then, after a pause, “He drank, you know.”

“Yes, I did know. But he wouldn't accept the deal?”

“Under no circumstances. In fact he said, if it were to take place, it would be
over his dead body
.”

The words were out before the Baby realized their significance and coloured again.

At first, Walsh restricted himself to another “I see.” Then, piecing his question together slowly, he asked, “So, from the point of view of Mr Alcott's plans for the future of Festifunn, Mr Cruikshank's death couldn't have come at a more convenient time?”

Mr McCabe rose with all the dignity that a fifty-year-old accountant in a nappy can muster. “I don't see that I have to answer any further questions, Inspector. You can't make me. I suggest that you carry on the rest of your investigation without my assistance.”

“Fair enough.” Walsh didn't bother to argue. “Thank you, anyway, for all the invaluable help you've already given me.”

The Baby, moving away, turned his head to flash a venomous look at his interrogator.

“Hey, watch out! That Yorkshire terrier's misbehaved.” The Inspector pointed to where the Baby's knobbly-veined foot was about to land. Neatly on the carpet, like a pointed cottage loaf, lay the brown, glistening lump of a dog's mess.

The Baby sneered openly. “When you've been in the novelty business as long as I have, Inspector, you will learn to recognize the product. That, if I'm not very much mistaken, is an AR88—Naughty Puppy—All Plastic, Made In Taiwan.” He bent down to pick it up. “Oh.”

He was very much mistaken.

Sergeant Trooper broke into Mr Brickett, the Sales Manager's, disquisition on the boom in Revolving Bow-ties in the Tyneside area. “I put it down to unemployment,” he was saying. “People got time on their hands, that's when they need a laugh and we—”

“Sorry to butt in, sir, but it's important. Got the preliminary medical report, Inspector.” The Sergeant handed over a buff envelope.

“Oh, thank you. Mr Brickett, if you'd mind just stepping outside, and we'll continue when . . .”

“Fine, fine.” Mr Brickett, who was dressed as the Tin Man from
The Wizard of Oz
, obligingly squeaked his way out of the door.

“This is very interesting,” commented Inspector Walsh, as he scanned the report.

“Yes. Looks like he would have died of the overdose of sleeping pills without the custard pie. Mogadon, they reckon.”

The Inspector looked sternly at his underling. “You aren't meant to read this.”

“No, well, I—” Trooper tried to get off the hook by changing the subject. “I've checked. Mrs Alcott uses Mogadon. What's more, there are twenty-five tablets missing from her supply. She knows, because she started a new bottle last night.”

“Hmm. That's very good, Trooper, but it doesn't change the fact that you shouldn't have looked at—”

“And, on top of that, the boys were looking round Mr Alcott's workshop and, shoved under a couple of old sacks, they found—this.”

On the word, the Sergeant dramatically produced an old paint-pot lid, to which clung the powdery traces of a thick pinkish substance.

“Polyfilla, sir,” he announced with a dramatic efficiency which he then weakened by lapsing into another of his jokes. “What they stuff dead parrots with.”

Receiving not the slightest encouragement to further humour, he hurried on. “And exactly, according to the forensic boys, what the custard pie was made of.”

“Hmm. Prospect doesn't look too promising for Mr Alcott, does it, Trooper?”

“No, sir. Interesting thing is, though, this bit of the report suggests he needn't have gone to all that trouble.”

Inspector Walsh didn't even bother to remonstrate as he followed his Sergeant's stubby finger to the relevant paragraph.

“My investigation,” the Inspector began, “is now nearly complete, and I have gathered you all here because I wish to piece together the murder, and some of you may be able to confirm as facts details which at the moment are mere supposition.”

He paused impressively, and looked around the crowded study. Towering over the assembly were the built-up shoulders of Charles I, whose head dangled nonchalantly from its owner's fingers. The Teapot, which had resumed its lid, sat primly behind its desk, with the Pillar-box, equally prim, at its side. A Salt Cellar and a Pepper Mill leant sleepily against each other. A Nun had her hand inside Julius Caesar's toga. A large cigar protruded from the Gorilla's bared teeth. A Rolling Pin, whose year at secretarial college hadn't prepared her for the effects of gin on an empty stomach, swayed gently. The Front Half of the Pantomime Horse had collapsed in a heap on the floor, while the Back Half had its arm lasciviously round The-Princess-Of-Wales-On-Her-Wedding-Day. Hereward the Wake snored contentedly in the corner, and Attila the Hun ate a jelly with a plastic spoon.

There was little movement, except from the Orange, which kept slipping off the Sheep's knee, and from the Baby, who kept sniffing his hands apprehensively.

“Right, now,” the Inspector continued, “what has happened here this evening has been a crime of vicious premeditation. There is one person in this room who has always borne a grudge against the deceased, Mr Cruikshank, and seen him as an obstacle to the advance of his own career.

“That person planned this crime with great—but, alas, insufficient—care. That person appropriated some of Mrs Alcott's sleeping pills and, probably by crushing them into his drinks, forced Mr Cruikshank to take a fatal overdose.

“Then, not content to let the old man slip quietly away to oblivion, that person made assurance doubly sure by mixing a cruel custard pie of Polyfilla—and with that he asphyxiated his already incapable victim.”

The Inspector allowed another impressive pause. This time there was no movement. The Orange defied gravity on the Sheep's knee. The Baby ceased momentarily to worry about the smell of his hands. Even the Rolling Pin stopped swaying.

“There is only one person in this room who had the motivation and the opportunity to commit this despicable crime. And that person is . . .”

Long experience of denouements had taught him how to extend this pause almost interminably.

It had also taught him how suddenly to swing round, point his finger at the Teapot and boom in the voice of the Avenging Angel, “Mr Alcott!”

All colour drained from the face framed by pot and lid. The pale mouth twitched, unable to form sounds. You could have heard a pin drop. The Rolling Pin, deserted by all faculties but a sense of timing, dropped.

“What? It's not true!” the Teapot finally managed to gasp.

“But it is, Mr Alcott,” Inspector Walsh continued implacably. “All the evidence points to you. There is no question about it.”

“No!”

“Yes. And the sad irony of the whole crime, Mr Alcott, is that it was unnecessary. Our medical report reveals that Mr Cruikshank was suffering from terminal cancer. Had you only waited a couple of months, nature would have removed the obstacle to your plans.”

“What?” the Teapot hissed.

“I am afraid I am obliged to put you under arrest, Mr Alcott. And I would advise you not to make any trouble.”

“No!” the Teapot screamed. “You will not arrest me!” And its handle shot out to a desk drawer, only to reappear holding a small, black automatic.

Inspector Walsh checked his advance for a second, but then continued forward. “You're being very foolish, Mr Alcott. Threatening a police officer is a very serious—”

“Stop or I'll shoot!”

“
Shooting
a police officer is an even more serious—”

“I'll fire!”

The room was silent. Except that she hadn't recovered from the last time, you could have heard a Pin drop again.

And still the Inspector advanced on the Teapot behind the desk.

“I will fire! One—two—three. Right, you've asked for it!”

The entire room winced as the Teapot pulled the trigger.

There was a click and a flash of movement at the end of the gun.

When they opened their eyes, they all saw the little banner hanging from the barrel. BANG! it said in red letters.

The Orange began to giggle. Others would have followed her example but for the sudden movement behind the desk. The Teapot's spout had reached into the other drawer and emerged with a gleaming knife appended.

“Out of my way, Inspector!”

Walsh stood his ground. The Teapot came lunging at him, knife upraised.

Suddenly, Joan of Arc interposed her body between the Inspector and certain death. The knife plunged up to its hilt into her chest.

The room winced again, waiting for the spurt of blood and her collapse.

But neither came. Joan of Arc pulled the knife from the Teapot's nerveless spout. “NH257,” she said contemptuously. “Retractable-Blade-Dagger. Recognize it anywhere.”

This second failure (and the accompanying laugh) was too much for the Teapot. Clasping its handle to its lid, it collapsed backwards into the chair behind the desk. Then it slumped forward and, with cries of “Damn! Damn! Damn!” began to beat clenched handle and spout against the desk-top.

It must have been this which animated the biscuit-barrel. With a shrieking whistle, the lid flew off and a model clown on a long spring leapt into the air.

Then, over the screams and giggles, a disembodied voice sounded. It was an old voice, a tired voice, but a voice warmed by a sense of mischief.

“Hello, everyone,” it said, and the reaction showed that everyone recognized it. “If all's gone according to plan, Rodney Alcott should by now have been arrested for my murder. And I will have pulled off the greatest practical joke of my career.

“The fact is, I'm afraid, that Rodney didn't kill me. I, Hamish Cruikshank, killed myself. I heard from my doctor last week that my body is riddled with cancer. I had at best three months to live and, rather than waste away, I decided it was better to choose my own manner of departure. About which you all, I'm sure, will now know. I have prepared the custard pie, will shortly take the overdose of Mogadon and, as I feel drowsiness creep over me, will bury my face in the soft blanket of Polyfilla. Oh, Mr Cruikshank, I heard you all saying—plastered again.

“But, by my death, I will take my revenge on Rodney Alcott for what I have always regarded as his unpardonable crime. No, not his meanness. Nor his selfishness. What I refer to is his total lack of sense of humour, his inability ever to laugh at any joke—whether mine or someone else's—and the fact that he has never in his life provided anyone with that most precious of worldly commodities—laughter.

“Well, it may have taken my death to do it, but let me tell you—Rodney Alcott's going to give you a good laugh now!”

The recorded voice stopped with a click. Whether it was that or some other invention of the old man's fertile mind that triggered the device, Hamish Cruickshank's timing, to the end, remained perfect.

The ceiling-rose above the swivel chair opened, and a deluge of bilious yellow custard descended on the Teapot below.