First Client

Jack Hart has just opened his detective aggency when Hillary Longden appears at his office and hires him to investigate the Death of Alf Tennies.

I was feeling pleased with my life that morning; the sun shone on a cloudless sky, birds sung on Russel Square and the people of London went happily about their business. All in all, everything was fine in the best of all possible worlds. 

There was a good reason for me to feel so pleased with myself when I opened the door to my new office: I was now the master of my own life. The furniture in the outer office was spartan, but suitable to inspire confidence. It was devoid, however, of office boys, clerks or anyone to receive the clients whom I hoped would soon be beating the path to my doorstep. That was just temporary as I hadn’t had time to hire anyone. Still, I couldn’t have better reason to be pleased.

I entered through a door marked ‘PRIVATE’ to the inner office and and surveyed my new domain. A heavy mahogany desk stood in front of the window  Two chairs stood in front of the desk waiting for clients. A filing cabinet in the corner held a few empty folders and the tea things in the bottom drawer so far. A small bookshelf with some reference works completed the furniture.

I sat down in a swivelling chair behind the desk and arranged an elegant writing set in front of me, aligning it just so between a green shaded lamp and a telephone. 

I had brought with me a bunch of the mornings papers and spread them open on the desk and started going through them. From the middle drawer of my desk I took out a pair of scissors and soon had a modest collection of clippings from the days newspapers. They all carried the same simple message: 

“J. Hart, Private Investigator. Accident, theft, blackmail and murder investigations. Discretion and confidentiality guaranteed.” 

This message was followed by my office address and telephone.

My task was interrupted by the sound of the door to the outer office opening and closing. I brushed the newspapers and clippings quickly into the drawer and pushed it shut. In a moment a man’s silhouette was visible through the glass of the connecting door as the visitor knocked. 

“Come in,” I called.

A slim young man exploded into the room. He was dressed in an immaculate grey suit though his tie was awry and his wavy blond hair was dishevelled, giving him a somewhat distraught appearance.

“I need your help, Mr Hart,” he said, skipping any preliminaries.

“That is my business.” I stood up and ushered him to one of the chairs in front of my desk. “Please have a seat.”

I returned to my seat and gave my visitor the once over. He had delicate, almost pretty, features and large dark eyes. From his clothes I had deduced that he either had money or owed a fortune to his tailor. “Now, what can I do for you? I can see it must something urgent.”

“How on earth can you know that?” my visitor exclaimed.

“I notice you have left your home without a hat,” I explained, steepling my fingers under my chin in my most Sherlockian manner, “so I deduce your need for my services arose quite suddenly.”

“You are just like Holmes.” The young man positively bounced on his seat. “It was so fortunate I should happen to see your advertisement in the paper today. A private detective, I said to myself, that’s what I need. So I just rushed here to see you.”  

“Perhaps you should start from the beginning Mr…?” 

“Oh Absolutely! I should introduce myself first, or what?” He stood up and proffered his hand over the desk. ”My name is Hillary Longden.”

I had to act quickly to catch the lamp he upset when he leaned over the desk. He backed away gushing apologies as I placed the lamp upright again.

“Don’t fret yourself, it’s nothing.” 

I took out my notebook and turned out a pristine page in my notebook. “And what is it that you my help with?”

“I want you to find out who murdered my…” Longden had to pause for a moment. I had the impression he was fighting back tears. “…my friend Alf Tennies.”

“Ah.” The name rung a bell. I had surely read about the murder of Alfred Tennies in one of the papers just now. The story hadn’t been more than a short stop-press paragraph. A young man found shot to death in an alley somewhere in Shoreditch, I remembered.

“You had better to tell what you know,” I said. “I have seen the papers, of course, but…”

“Quite, quite,” Longden blustered. “I’ll tell what I know.

“This morning two policemen barged in my home and wanted to know what I had been doing last night. I tried to explain that it was none of their business but they said that Alf Tennies had been found dead. Apparently shot through the heart and left lying on the ground.” His voice cracked. “Poor Alfie! He was so talented.”

“Did they give any reason for asking about your whereabouts?”

“I had been at a night club"the Lenox Club in Soho"with Alf that night. I had been seen; of course I admitted that, nothing wrong about it. We left the club together and apparently I am the last one to have seen him alive.”

“Except for the murderer,” I suggested.

“Quite. I wanted Alf to come to my digs. For a drink you know,” Longden added hastily. “But he said he had to do something. I can’t help thinking that if he’d have come, he would still be alive.”

“Did he say what it was he had to do?”

“He didn’t say.” Longden paused for a moment. “You know, I was a little miffed about it at the time, but I didn’t want to pry.”

“Did you see if Mr Tennies took a cab?”

“No. He said he would take the night tram from Holborn. I assumed he was going to his digs.”

“Where did he live?”

“He had lodgings on Boundary Street. That’s near where he wa…” His voice broke.

I decided to change the subject. “Did you see anyone you knew at the night club?”

“Absolutely! We were with George Burnsworth and Delia Copperton. And Paul Whiteman came too. He is nowadays hanging about anywhere if Mrs Copperton is there, though he must ten years younger if he is a day.” I let Longden keep talking. In my line it is often better way for finding out things than asking questions. “They were dancing together all night, too. I’m afraid she is rather leading him on.”

“And Mr Copperton?” I asked.

“He must be in a hero’s grave somewhere near Somme.” I knew the place.

“How long have you known Mr Tennies?” 

“About six months now. I think it was March when George Burnsworth had this do at his flat. I met him there.”

“Can you tell me more about Mr Tennies? What did he do, who were his friends and so on.”

“He worked as a photographer’s assistant on Covent Garden Street. I think he also sold some of his photographs as postcards. He was very good photographer; he wanted to start a studio of his own, but he needed capital to start. I wanted to lend him the money, you know.” Longden would probably babbled on if I hadn’t interrupted him.

“His friends?”

“He had a lot of friends, I didn’t know them all. There was George Burnsworth, he introduced us, and Sid Perks. George was with us at the Lenox Club, but he left earlier.”

“Do you suspect anyone?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Or know of any reason to kill him?”

“I can’t for the life of me, but there has to be some reason.” He banged his fist on the armrest of his chair. “It stand to reason, he was murdered!”

I was beginning to having doubts about his reason. “In that case, I don’t know what I could do. The Yard has more resources than I have.”

“That’s just it!” Longden’s eyes flashed with indignation. “I don’t think they are doing anything. At least not that I know. The copper who came to see me said that it was virtually impossible to find the killer in cases like this.”

On the other hand it might not do to look a gift horse in the mouth; I hadn’t expected to have a murder case handed to me. There would be a lot of publicity, if I could beat the police and find the killer.

“Do you remember who was the investigating officer?”

“I think he was a chap called Case. Very apt name I must say.”

“I know Inspector Case. He’s very solid in his way, but not blessed with much imagination.”

“Well, he didn’t strike me as a too sharp cove at all.”

“Very good, Mr Longden. If I will undertake the case, my fee will be twenty guineas in advance and four guineas a day, not including expenses.”

“I’ll write you a cheque for the advance.” Longden pulled out his cheque book and an expensive looking fountain pen. 

“I will need a few more details: Can you give me the addresses of Mr Tennies’s friends?”

“Let me see,” Longden gave a worried look at the ceiling. “Burnsworth has a flat on Wimpole Street. I don’t know where Sid Perks lives, but you might find him at the Lenox Club; he is a waiter there.”

I wrote down Mr Burnsworth’s name and address and a few other details at the end of my notes.

“Do you have a picture of Mr Tennies?”

“Oh, absolutely! I mean, I don’t have one with me, but I have one home. I should have thought that you ‘tecs will always need one. You can have it if you call for it later.”

“Thank you, I will. 

I typed out a short agreement and wrote a receipt while Longden wrote his cheque.  

“I will call you as soon as I have anything to report,” I promised as I let Mr Longden out.

#

After Mr Longden had left, I only stopped to take a new manila folder and write the name of Afred Tennies on the cover. In the folder I would collect all the notes and other items, but for now I searched for the short article of Tennies’s death in my paper, cut it out and added it to the file.

Once I had accomplished that, I took my hat and hung a notice saying I was out on the door of the outer office. I locked the office and went out. 

My office is on the corner of Strand and one of the streets that lead to the embankment, so it was only a short walk to the buildings of New Scotland Yard. Within fifteen minutes from the moment I had my hat on I had reached the entrance and asked for Detective Inspector Case. When I was told that he was in, I wandered down the familiar corridors to his office.

 The door to the office was half open and showed Inspector Case at his desk busily working on his report something like that. He was a middle aged man of medium height and build. His hair was neither fair nor dark and his face quite ordinary. All of which were quite enviable characteristics for a detective, as he could pass unremarked almost anywhere. 

He looked up from his work when I knocked on the door.

“Hart! What are you doing here?” he growled when he saw me at his door. “Don’t say you already regret leaving the force.”

“Never fear,” I said with a grin. “I only came in for a friendly chat.”

“A friendly chat my foot. You are after something: What is it?”

“I heard you are in charge of the Tennies case.”

Case gave me a searching glance. “What have you got to do with it?”

“I got a visit from a gentleman by the name of Hillary Longden.” Case had neglected to offer me a seat, but I didn’t let it inconvenience me; I pulled up a chair and planted myself by the corner of his desk. “He wants me to find his friend’s murderer.”

“You are wasting your time and his money,” Inspector Case grunted. “It looks like a robbery gone wrong; Alfred Tennies just happened to be in the wrong place at a wrong time.”

“My client thinks you are not doing enough to find the killer,” I said to goad him.

“That is unfair and you know it. We are doing all we can to find anyone who has seen anything.”

“Any luck?”

“You know as well as I that these cases are difficult to solve. It may take time before we can get a break.”

“How was the lad killed? The papers say he had been shot.”

“That’s right. With a .38 automatic.”

“Let me guess: You haven’t found the gun either.”

“No, but we have the bullet and a cartridge.” Case sounded complacent. “We can identify the gun when we find it.”

“What makes you so sure it was a robbery gone wrong?” I asked.

“You are a civilian now.” Case turned suddenly cagey. “You can’t just barge in and ask details of an ongoing investigation.”

“So what is there that you don’t want to tell me?”

“Very well; the poor had his pockets turned inside out.” Case acted resigned. I might have me fooled, if I hadn’t seen too often him put the same act on with journalists. “Whoever robbed him hadn’t as much as his latch key.”

“Blimey! You wouldn’t think someone could fire a gun in the middle of London and have the time"and the nerve"to go through the pockets of his victim.” I was genuinely surprised. “One would have expected that the sound of a gunshot would have woken the whole neighbourhood.”

“Funnily enough, nobody seems to have heard it.”

“Including the constabulary?”

“A constable remembers having heard a bang, but he was too far away to be sure if it was a gunshot.”

I considered it for a moment. Fair enough, the sound might have sounded like a motor backfiring from a distance.

“Do you mind if I had a decco at Tennies digs?” I changed the subject. This was my real object, though I was glad to have managed to get as much out of him I had.

“Go ahead, but after we have finished with it.” Inspector Case wrote a brief note on the back of his card. “I’ll let you know when we’re finished.” He gave me the card. “But you aren’t going to find anything we haven’t seen.”

“Thanks, gov.” I said out of old habit. After all I had worked three years under him.

“By the way, the dead lad took very interesting snapshots,” Inspector Case said by way of goodbye.

“Blackmail?”

“Salacious, more like.”