Murder Is Easy

‘The look on a person’s face …’

Luke stared at her. She was trembling a little, and her nice pink cheeks had lost some of their colour.

‘I saw it first with Amy Gibbs—and she died. And then it was Carter. And Tommy Pierce. But now—yesterday—it was Dr Humbleby—and he’s such a good man—a really good man. Carter, of course, drank, and Tommy Pierce was a dreadfully cheeky impertinent little boy, and bullied the tiny boys, twisting their arms and pinching them. I didn’t feel quite so badly about them, but Dr Humbleby’s different. He must be saved. And the terrible thing is that if I went to him and told him about it he wouldn’t believe me! He’d only laugh! And John Reed wouldn’t believe me either. But at Scotland Yard it will be different. Because, naturally, they’re used to crime there!’

She glanced out of the window.

‘Oh, dear, we shall be in in a minute.’ She fussed a little, opening and shutting her bag, collecting her umbrella.

‘Thank you—thank you so much.’ This to Luke as he picked the umbrella up for the second time. ‘It’s been such a relief talking to you—most kind of you, I’m sure—so glad you think I’m doing the right thing.’

Luke said kindly:

‘I’m sure they’ll give you good advice at Scotland Yard.’

‘I really am most grateful.’ She fumbled in her bag. ‘My card—oh, dear, I only have one—I must keep that—for Scotland Yard—’

‘Of course, of course—’

‘But my name is Pinkerton.’

‘Very suitable name, too, Miss Pinkerton,’ said Luke, smiling, adding hastily as she looked a little bewildered, ‘My name is Luke Fitzwilliam.’

As the train drew in to the platform he added:

‘Can I get you a taxi?’

‘Oh, no, thank you.’ Miss Pinkerton seemed quite shocked at the idea. ‘I shall take the tube. That will take me to Trafalgar Square, and I shall walk down Whitehall.’

‘Well, good luck,’ said Luke.

Miss Pinkerton shook him warmly by the hand.

‘So kind,’ she murmured again. ‘You know, just at first I thought you didn’t believe me.’

Luke had the grace to blush.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘So many murders! Rather hard to do a lot of murders and get away with it, eh?’

Miss Pinkerton shook her head.

She said earnestly:

‘No, no, my dear boy, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s very easy to kill—so long as no one suspects you. And you see, the person in question is just the last person anyone would suspect!’

‘Well, anyway, good luck,’ said Luke.

Miss Pinkerton was swallowed up in the crowd. He himself went off in search of his luggage, thinking as he did so:

‘Just a little bit batty? No, I don’t think so. A vivid imagination, that’s all. Hope they let her down lightly. Rather an old dear.’

CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_4de8b7a8-9540-5256-b973-751da077d806)

Obituary Notice (#ulink_4de8b7a8-9540-5256-b973-751da077d806)

Jimmy Lorrimer was one of Luke’s oldest friends. As a matter of course, Luke stayed with Jimmy as soon as he got to London. It was with Jimmy that he sallied forth on the evening of his arrival in search of amusement. It was Jimmy’s coffee that he drank with an aching head the morning after, and it was Jimmy’s voice that went unanswered while he read twice over a small insignificant paragraph in the morning paper.

‘Sorry, Jimmy,’ he said, coming to himself with a start.

‘What were you absorbed in—the political situation?’

Luke grinned.

‘No fear. No, it’s rather queer—old pussy I travelled up with in the train yesterday got run over.’

‘Probably trusted to a Belisha Beacon,’ said Jimmy. ‘How do you know it’s her?’

‘Of course, it mayn’t be. But it’s the same name—Pinkerton—she was knocked down and killed by a car as she was crossing Whitehall. The car didn’t stop.’

‘Nasty business,’ said Jimmy.

‘Yes, poor old bean. I’m sorry. She reminded me of my Aunt Mildred.’

‘Whoever was driving that car will be for it. Bring it in manslaughter as likely as not. I tell you, I’m scared stiff of driving a car nowadays.’

‘What have you got at present in the way of a car?’

‘Ford V 8. I tell you, my boy—’

The conversation became severely mechanical.

Jimmy broke it off to ask:

‘What the devil are you humming?’

Luke was humming to himself:

‘Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee, the fly has married the bumble bee.’

He apologized.

‘Nursery rhyme remembered from my childhood. Can’t think what put it into my head.’

It was over a week later that Luke, carelessly scanning the front page of The Times, gave a sudden startled exclamation.

‘Well, I’m damned!’

Jimmy Lorrimer looked up.