The Amazing Test Match Crime Read online

  A stout man in a trilby hat pushed his way forward.

  “Let me see these men. I am a doctor.”

  He bent over the prostrate men, conducted certain tests and presently said,

  “As I thought. These men have been drugged.”

  There was a tense silence. Only Sir Timothy found words to contradict this extraordinary suggestion.

  “Nonsense. You can’t be a proper doctor. This is a Test Match. Men aren’t drugged while playing for England.”

  “Modern wickets are often doped,” said Q. E. D. Marjoribanks, “but not modern batsmen.”

  “Get some more doctors,” said Sir Timothy.

  A second doctor was found who wore an M.C.G. tie, but this obviously more reliable man only confirmed the original diagnosis. Drugged!

  Outside the crowd began to clap ironically. They had paid good money to see cricket and were not to be thwarted. The game must go on. With a determined look on his handsome face Norman Blood buckled on his pads and walked to the professionals’ dressing-room. Here news of further disaster awaited. Little Teddy Trimmer, England’s first wicket batsman, lay curled up in a corner fast asleep.

  “What does this mean?” inquired Norman, staring in amazement at the unconscious man.

  No-one could enlighten him. Norman, having looked around his bewildered men said finally to little Croxton, the wicket-keeper,

  “Feel sleepy?”

  “No, Skipper. I feel fine.”

  “Very well. You and I will hold the fort for England.”

  A great cheer went up as it was seen that Norman Blood himself was prepared to play a captain’s part at this critical moment, a still greater cheer as presently he flicked the ball away for a neat single. First Blood, jested nineteen journalists simultaneously, to England.

  Gallantly for the remainder of the morning Norman and little Croxton, the wicket-keeper, battled. At the luncheon interval the score-sheet read:

  * * *

  The great crowd surged out over the ground to inspect the wicket and observe the spots where Hugh and Crigh had fallen. Meanwhile the news of the morning’s extraordinary happenings went about the country. The lunch-time editions of the evening papers scattered startling news bills. AMAZING SCENE AT THE OVAL screamed the Evening Flagpost, the Evening Messenger had FOUL PLAY IN TEST (which was apt to be misunderstood), while the Evening Planet in more conservative fashion merely remarked NEW RECORD AT THE OVAL The Evening Planet loved records, and here surely, if ever, was an unassailable record; never before in an international cricket match had both opening batsmen been drugged upon the same day.

  In addition to all this the voice of John Beltravers touched upon the affair in his summing up of the morning’s play.

  “Well, I must say we never expected to see England’s opening pair carried off the ground sound asleep. But this cricket is a queer game. You never know quite what is going to happen. There they were being carried off, Hugh just as solid and kingly in his sleep as he is when awake, Crigh, short, dapper, alert, snoring a little, but looking very peaceful. A heavy sleeper, this Crigh …”

  It had been decided that Scotland Yard must be informed of what had happened, and during the luncheon interval Steady as a Rock Posse2 of the Big Six arrived in a police car. The burly bowler-hatted man immediately made his way into the pavilion, followed by a photographer, finger-print expert and others. He was in good spirits, for it was not often that a crime occurred at the Oval during a Test Match. Competition had been strong among the Big Six to be put in charge of the case. Steady as a Rock, however, thanks to his seniority, had won the day; he was determined if possible to make the case last out until the end of the match.

  In a big room in the pavilion, the walls of which were hung with photographs of famous old cricketers, he found Sir Timothy and others surrounding the still prostrate forms of Hugh and Crigh. He shouldered his way through and looked upon the still figures.

  “Rigor mortis,” he said after a rapid glance, “has obviously set in. How long would you say these men had been dead?”

  “They’re not dead,” replied the doctor in the M.C.C. tie. “They’re drugged.”

  Steady as a Rock was not the man to show his mortification. “Drugged?” he said sternly. “I understood this was a murder case. Well, never mind. I shall unravel it. Get busy, boys.”

  This last command was addressed to his subordinates, who at once sprang into activity. The photographer took pictures of Hugh and Crigh from every possible angle, the finger-print expert started hunting about for finger-prints.

  Steady as a Rock meanwhile took out his notebook, and surveyed the ring about the unconscious batsmen.

  “Now then, I want some information.”

  Sir Timothy pointed to the prostrate forms.

  “A foreigner has done this.”

  “Possibly,” agreed R. S. V. P. Hatstock, “though, of course, it might equally well have been a socialist.”

  “That is true,” said Sir Timothy. “I have often said that I would rather see all the pavilions in England burned to the ground than see them containing a foreigner or a socialist. Well, I have been proved right.”

  Steady as a Rock interrupted, addressing Sir Timothy sternly,

  “Who are you?”

  No-one had asked Sir Timothy this question in a cricket pavilion for over fifty years, and he was naturally offended.

  “I am Sir Timothy Blood,” he answered haughtily, “the popular veteran and doyen of the cricketing world.”

  Steady as a Rock wrote this down, and then adopting his fieriest cross-examination manner, barked, “Anything to say?”

  “Only that I shall thank Heaven with my last breath that this did not happen at Lords.”

  Steady as a Rock was on him like a flash.

  “Why not at Lords?”

  “Because, my dear fellow, Lords is the Mecca of cricket-lovers all the world over.”

  Steady as a Rock noted this.

  “What is this Mecca, anyway?” he asked sharply.

  Here was another question that no-one had ever asked Sir Timothy. He answered coldly,

  “Frankly, I do not know. I have always imagined it to be a very large cricket ground somewhere in Asia. Do you know anything about it, R. S. V. P.?”

  R. S. V. P. Hatstock shook his head.

  “Nothing whatever. I expect you’re right, Sir Timothy. Do you know, Q. E. D.?”

  Q. E. D. Marjoribanks shook his head. “No idea. But I don’t very well see what else it can be.”

  Steady as a Rock Posse’s eye passed from one to the other.

  “Who are these other gentlemen?” he asked.

  “These,” Sir Timothy replied, “are popular and genial veterans of the cricket field. They are not, however, doyens. I am the only doyen present.”

  “What is a doyen?”

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Sir Timothy angrily. “I never knew anyone ask so many foolish questions. A doyen is an old and very distinguished cricketer with a white moustache. And now for goodness’ sake stop fiddling about with that notebook and find out who drugged these unfortunate men.”

  Just then a burst of clapping from outside indicated that the Imperians were once again taking the field. Steady as a Rock closed his notebook.

  “Nothing more can be done until these men recover consciousness. Rest content, gentlemen. The Yard has this case in hand.”

  Having uttered these heartening words, he went outside to try and find a good seat.

  The game proceeded normally after luncheon. It was obvious, however, that the English team were unnerved by their unusual experience of the morning. Their batting seemed to lack confidence. Each man seemed to fear that either he or his partner might suddenly topple over and begin to snore. Consequently, despite a fighting innings of 47 by Norman Blood, the total had reached only 97 for 5 wickets at the tea-interval.

  It was during the tea-interval that Hugh stirred and woke. He was evidently under the impression that he was still at the
wicket, for, as he stirred, he uttered the single syllable,

  “No.”

  Almost simultaneously Crigh opened his eyes. Instantly he clutched his bat which lay at his side and springing to his feet adopted his stance, as though about to receive the bowling. Then he stared at those surrounding him in dazed fashion and inquired,

  “Am I out?”

  “You have been,” replied Steady as a Rock Posse, who had been hurriedly summoned, “but you’re all right now.”

  “I don’t remember getting out,” muttered Crigh. “Was it that wretched l.b.w.(n.) again?”

  “My brave fellow,” said Sir Timothy, “you have been the victim of a dastardly trick. Some villain has attempted to tamper with our national pastime.”

  “Lor,” said Crigh. “Who can it have been?”

  “That,” answered Sir Timothy nastily, “is for the police to discover, if they can.”

  Steady as a Rock proceeded to take charge of the case. He took out his notebook again and addressed himself to Hugh and Crigh.

  “Now, you two, have you any idea of how this happened?”

  Neither could offer an explanation.

  “You took nothing to drink of any kind before going in to bat?”

  “Only,” said Hugh, “the special drink that Mr. Blood sent us.”

  “I?” exclaimed Norman. “I sent you no drink.”

  “But the waitress,” persisted Crigh, “told us that you had sent it specially. She said that the drink had special tonic qualities and we were to drink it to the health of England. Isn’t that right, Hugh?”

  “That,” corroborated Hugh, “is right.”

  “See here, boys,” snapped Steady as a Rock. “What was she like—this waitress?”

  Hugh answered, “She was a very pretty but rather fast-looking girl. She had very red hair and violet eyes. And glamour, lots of glamour.”

  “Parade all waitresses here instantly,” barked Steady as a Rock.

  This was done, but among the assembled women was no waitress of the appearance described by Hugh and Crigh. Nor could any of them recall a colleague who could possibly be said to fit the description.

  “We’re getting somewhere, now,” muttered Steady as a Rock. “The drug was in a drink brought by a bogus waitress. I reckon we’ve got to find that girl with the red hair and violet eyes.”

  “Why not,” suggested Sir Timothy, “find out if there are any foreigners on the ground and if so arrest them?”

  “Or socialists,” amended R. S. V. P. Hatstock.

  “Or socialists,” agreed Sir Timothy.

  Just then news was brought that Teddy Trimmer had also regained consciousness.

  “Send him in,” barked Steady as a Rock.

  As soon as the England first-wicket batsman entered, Steady as a Rock shot at him the question,

  “Now, Trimmer, you were brought a drink which was purported to have been sent you by Mr. Blood—is that right?”

  Teddy Trimmer shook his head.

  “No, Inspector.”

  Steady as a Rock frowned.

  “Think carefully, man. The solution of the whole case may depend upon your answer. Are you quite certain that you were not brought a drink by a beautiful waitress with red hair and violet eyes?”

  “No,” Trimmer replied. “But,” he added suddenly, “that just describes the small boy who asked me for my autograph at the back of the pavilion.”

  “Did you give it to him?”

  “Yes.”

  Steady as a Rock paced for a moment silently, his brain racing. Then suddenly he shot the question, “Did you use your own pencil?”

  “No, the boy had one all ready.”

  Steady as a Rock smiled triumphantly.

  “That’s how it was done. The drug was administered through the pencil. You licked it?”

  “Yes. It didn’t write very well.”

  “Ah. We’re getting on. That woman with red hair and violet eyes. First of all she masqueraded as a waitress and then as a small boy autograph-hunting. It’s clear to me that this crime is the work of a clever and resourceful gang.”

  Suddenly he was interrupted.

  “By Gum, Chief! Look at this.”

  It was the finger-print expert who spoke. He was very pale and he pointed, as he spoke, to one of the photographs of old famous cricketers surrounding the room. It was the photograph of the oldest and most famous of all the cricketers and across it were scrawled in red letters the three ominous words,

  “The Bad Men.”

  “Gosh!” said Steady as a Rock Posse. “So that’s it, eh?”

  * * *

  Play continued. The drugged men were accorded an ovation when, as all the journalists wrote simultaneously, they “pluckily resumed”. But despite their efforts, the English total amounted to only one hundred and thirty-one. And then in the evening light the Imperian opening pair, Thrust and Parry, put on fourteen runs without being separated.

  The crowd dispersed at the end of that eventful day, full of foreboding for England’s chances.

  * * *

  “There can be no two opinions about it.

  The Bad Men must be caught.”

  The Leader of the Opposition in week-end speech

  Week-End Tension

  The news that the drugging of members of the English team was the work of the Bad Men spread like wild-fire. It is not too much to say that the country throbbed with indignation. It was felt that a foul blow had been dealt at a cherished national institution.

  At the time of the assassination of the President of Guamelia and also at the blowing up of the National Bank of Gloritana, the Bad Men had been regarded with a certain sympathy as brilliant and daring criminals facing tremendous odds. But this matter of interfering with a Test Match was felt to be in a different category altogether. All over England men and women discussed the outrage with horror and loathing. With a single voice the country demanded that the Bad Men must be brought to book.

  Any suspicion that the Bad Men had been employed by the Imperians themselves was dispelled when Lethbridge issued a statement.

  “I am profoundly shocked by today’s events. All Imperia will feel the same. Everyone is very fit. I still hope the best team will win.”

  The Sunday Press enjoyed the unique situation to the utmost. The Sunday Weight in its sober fashion advocated steadiness to its readers.

  Keep Cool No Immediate Cause for Panic

  The Bad Men, it said, were holding a pistol to the head of the nation. Hitherto their crimes, though regrettable, had been of a minor character and executed at a distance. Now they had struck at the very heart of our empire.

  Although the general tone of the article was moderate and optimistic, it contained the striking warning, “We are only at the beginning of this match. What further incidents may be in store before the last ball is bowled, we cannot see. The future is veiled in obscurity. We must realize, however, that we are faced with a criminal organization of the utmost ruthlessness. They must be shown that we will not for a moment tolerate their gangster methods. There seems, however, no reason why, given general goodwill, we should not emerge from the long-drawn struggle and even find ourselves the victors.”

  Other papers dealt with the affair in their own characteristic fashion. It was represented as a dastardly attempt on the part of capitalist forces working through the Bad Men to wreck the simple pleasures of the working man. Conversely, it was shown to be a particularly sinister effort on the part of the communists to destroy the stately and solemn flow of English life.

  Others again regarded it from a more personal and picturesque angle. The Sunday Photograph produced the arresting headlines:

  Drugged at the Wicket Kept Straight Bats Though Semiconscious

  It contained, too, a photograph of an infant Crigh holding a tiny bat, together with one of his mother, who, on being informed of her son’s misfortune, had uttered the simple words,

  “What, our Bill drugged! What a shame!”

 
Mrs. Hugh, also photographed and interviewed, had observed,

  “I am very proud of our Fred.”

  The Sunday Crime Sheet, on the other hand, with its flair for riveting the attention of readers, concentrated mainly upon the mysterious purveyor of the drug.

  England’s Opening Pair Tampered With By Modern Jezebel. Red-Haired Tool of Bad Men Masquerades as Waitress. The Autograph of Doom.

  “Who is the red-haired mystery-woman who yesterday played havoc with the cream of England’s batting-strength? What story of degradation and shame lies behind the downfall of the poor abandoned creature who could bring herself to commit this despicable act? Mothers of England, guard your daughters well. Save them from such a life of shame.”

  It was learned, as the day wore on, that extraordinary precautions were being taken. A detachment of the Guards had been drafted to the Oval; day and night the pitch was surrounded. Sentries were posted at all the entrances. Tanks, it was said, had been heard rumbling through the streets of Kennington in the early hours of Sunday morning. To each one of the players a plain-clothes man had been allotted with instructions not to leave him by day or night until the match was concluded.

  The great public reacted to the tense situation in normal fashion. Meetings were held in all possible places and heatedly addressed. A large crowd assembled outside the Oval to stare at the sentries; a number of people assembled also in Downing Street. The latter had the satisfaction of seeing the Colonial Secretary, who had hurriedly returned from a shooting holiday in Scotland, arrive and enter Number 10. It was observed that the well-known features wore a smile and a wave of optimism passed over the watchers.

  In the sanctity of the Cabinet Room Prime Minister and Colonial Secretary met and discussed the situation.

  “Morning, P.M.”

  “Morning, C.S.”

  “Cigar?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good of you to hurry back. How’s the shooting?”

  “Fine. Why, yesterday morning, believe it or not—”