This morning my little girl tapped on my door when she came at six o’clock to tell me there was a smell of gas in the house. I didn’t go up. Somehow I knew what had happened.
Latte Pollini found Louie lying with her head in the gas oven for all the world as if she’d gone to sleep.
She loved him, you see. I never knew that, or perhaps I never knew what it meant. Poor dear loving old girl.
Ex-Supt. Cornish, C.I.D. investigates Margery Allingham’s Crime
WHEN I FINISHED READING ‘IT DIDN’T WORK Out,’ I jumped to my feet with one thought—and one thought only—in my mind: to get to Maida Vale as quickly as possible and arrest Margery Allingham, alias Margaret Hawkins, alias Polly Oliver, on a charge of wilful murder.
Then I remembered:
(a) That the address had not been given, and that it might take some little time to trace it.
(b) That I was no longer at Scotland Yard.
(c) That a confession alone cannot be accepted as proof of guilt.
(d) That it was only a story, anyway.
It is the highest compliment that I can pay to Miss Allingham’s skill in the creation of character and atmosphere to say that these eminently practical considerations only occurred to me as I was reaching for my hat—and that they occurred to me in that order.
But was the murder of Frank Springer really a perfect crime?
Frankly, I don’t know. Margaret Hawkins might have brought it off in the way that she describes. On the face of it, there was nothing to suggest foul play, and there was the evidence of Ma Pollini and other people which, at least, indirectly, backed up Hawkins’ story. But the police, without being definitely suspicious, would, I think, have made a rather more thorough investigation than they appear to have done. And they might have found fingerprints which suggested that the landlady’s account of the tragedy was incorrect.
They would certainly have discovered that Hawkins did not like Springer, and her sudden change of attitude, followed by the ‘accident,’ would have put them on the right track.
It is possible, also, that someone witnessed the struggle, or some part of it. Were there no houses overlooking the one in which the murder took place? If there were—and remember, the place is ‘up Maida Vale way, nearly to Kilburn,’ the murderess was taking a big chance. And even if luck were with her, that takes the killing out of the ‘perfect murder’ class. The perfect murder mustn’t depend on luck.
Yet even when we make all these allowances, the crime remains diabolically ingenious. It might, in favourable circumstances, have been completely successful.
I think, however, that Margery Allingham has forgotten one important factor—Louie Lester. She, at least, knew that her husband and Hawkins didn’t get on, and she loved her husband, worthless as he may have been.
She needn’t suspect the truth. It would be quite sufficient that she couldn’t understand what had happened, that she couldn’t fit it in with what she knew of Hawkins and her attitude towards Springer, and that she should communicate her half-formed doubts to a police officer. The police would see the possibilities which she hardly dared put into words—which she hardly dared, perhaps, to acknowledge even to herself—and would follow up the new trail.
Margaret Hawkins wrote her account of the crime on ‘the day that Louie ought to have gone to Manchester,’ the day when she was found ‘lying with her head in the gas oven for all the world as if she’d gone to sleep.’
Artistically, the story ends there, just as Miss Allingham does end it. But there’s a difference between art and life. Things are never so easy—or at least, they are seldom so easy—either for the criminal or for the detective in life. Art falls into a pattern, but life sprawls out beyond the pattern.
So I don’t believe that, assuming this incident were reality, not fiction, it would, in fact, be closed.
Hawkins would find the police back in her boardinghouse, not merely because Louie had committed suicide, but because, before turning on the gas, she had written—and dispatched—a letter to the police which suggested that Springer’s death was due, not to accident, but to murder.
Louie might not have signed the letter. Perhaps she was ashamed of her own suspicions. But all anonymous letters of this kind are considered and investigated. Hundreds of them may lead nowhere, but it is worth while checking up on them all for the sake of the one or two which do contain valuable information. And if it were discovered, as it probably would be discovered, that the anonymous letter was in Louie’s handwriting, it would at once become very important indeed.
The situation is now completely changed. Hawkins was able to produce a convincing story before, to reply to awkward questions, because she wasn’t really suspected, because she was confident that she was getting away with it, because she had a comforting sense of superiority over the police officers whom she was fooling so nicely. Everything was going according to plan. Now, however, the plan has broken down. She is confronting police officers who are no longer inclined to accept her word, who have become sceptical and suspicious.
And she knows what these officers will be able to find out, now that they are on the track, about her hatred of Springer. She knows, too, that somewhere in the house, and certain to be found in the event of a search, is the story of the crime which she has just written. Above all, she has been unnerved by Louie’s death.
Her replies to questions will be lame and halting. She will contradict herself. In the end, whether her written account is found or not, she will probably confess.
That is at least a possible outcome of the situation Miss Allingham has outlined for us. I would even say that it is its probable outcome. You remember how badly the murderess was shaken when the inspector said to her: ‘You know, you killed him, Ma.’ And the very fact that she wrote down the story of her crime suggests a considerable degree of emotional tension, a profound need to unburden herself in some way. In short, on this morning of her friend’s death, she is in a psychological condition in which it would be easy to blurt out a full confession, and it probably requires a real effort of will to keep back the words. The work of a detective would be much simpler than it is if he found every suspect he had to interview in just this mental state.
Yet, I repeat, I’m not sure. Louie Lester might not have written that letter, and there might be no interrogation by the police at this time, beyond questions relative to the suicide. And even if suspicions had been aroused, Hawkins might still have sufficient strength of will—and cunning—not to give herself away. Especially at this stage, when evidence that might have been secured earlier had doubtless disappeared completely, it would be a matter of extreme difficulty to prove Hawkins’ guilt to the satisfaction of a jury so long as she herself kept silence.
There is, however, yet another possibility. The manner in which the crime is committed; the motive, which must seem hopelessly inadequate to any ordinary person; the callous, self-satisfied way in which the murderess writes of her deed, as if it were meritorious, all suggest someone who is not altogether sane, who is hovering on the borderline of madness.
The shock of Louie’s suicide, in these circumstances, might well send her mind toppling over the verge, with the result that she would spend the rest of her life in an institution.
I certainly cannot see Margaret Hawkins living happily and prosperously for the rest of her