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The Cask
Freeman Wills Crofts
From the Collins Crime Club archive, the seminal first novel by Freeman Wills Crofts, once dubbed ‘The King of Detective Story Writers’ and recognised as one of the ‘big four’ Golden Age crime authors.The unloading of a consignment of French wine from the steamship Bullfinch is interrupted by a gruesome discovery in a broken cask leaking sawdust and gold sovereigns. But when the shipping clerk returns with the police, the cask and its macabre contents have gone. Following the clues to Paris, Inspector Burnley of Scotland Yard enlists the help of the genial French detective M. Lefarge to check motives and alibis in their hunt for evidence of a particularly fiendish murder.This Detective Story Club classic is introduced by Freeman Wills Crofts himself in a unique preface from 1946 about The Cask’s origins.
Copyright (#u3807f2c1-88a7-5ec7-b1ca-caba78043e10)
Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by The Crime Club by W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1921
Copyright © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1921
Introduction © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1946
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1921, 2016
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008190521
Ebook Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780008190538
Version: 2016-08-09
Dedication (#u3807f2c1-88a7-5ec7-b1ca-caba78043e10)
TO
DR ADAM A. C. MATHERS,
IN APPRECIATION OF HIS KINDLY
CRITICISM AND HELP
Table of Contents
Cover (#ud977c632-227f-5b8f-a7f5-f58038c8c997)
Title Page (#uc0f3ed3b-7d89-5a77-98fd-11ea05a06768)
Copyright (#u1a0937c6-477c-5312-aedb-2fef5e96bc5b)
Dedication (#u0c5f0140-77c2-551c-be30-56dae654de4c)
Introduction (#ubd3f05ff-66cd-5da1-8782-d3de5b5aa795)
Part I: London (#u61cfd378-f879-5c8f-b5e4-d5f80863d8fa)
Chapter I: A STRANGE CONSIGNMENT (#u0e747740-814d-5fa5-83fb-81227bf1db66)
Chapter II: Inspector Burnley on the Track (#uf034e499-2aed-56c8-a1ac-1bfac6f680d0)
Chapter III: The Watcher on the Wall (#uc3fa3692-366c-5fe2-a36f-002d7b0009ee)
Chapter IV: A Midnight Interview (#uad443926-d5fd-5f46-ad15-a62fcc1ef5f0)
Chapter V: Felix Tells a Story (#ud4575bc9-0752-50c3-a86d-e8f35c06a648)
Chapter VI: The Art of Detection (#ufc6717d4-9fb5-50af-9dd2-f047b5e82f40)
Chapter VII: The Cask at Last (#ua5cfb302-9df8-513d-9c1e-1986533d465d)
Chapter VIII: The Opening of the Cask (#litres_trial_promo)
Part II: Paris (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter IX: M. le Chef de la Sûreté (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter X: Who Wrote the Letter? (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XI: Mm. Dupierre et Cie (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XII: At the Gare St Lazare (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XIII: The Owner of the Dress (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XIV: M. Boirac Makes a Statement (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XV: The House in the Avenue de l’Alma (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XVI: Inspector Burnley Up Against It (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XVII: A Council of War (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XVIII: Lefarge Hunts Alone (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XIX: The Testing of an Alibi (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XX: Some Damning Evidence (#litres_trial_promo)
Part III: London and Paris (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXI: A New Point of View (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXII: Felix Tells a Second Story (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXIII: Clifford Gets to Work (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXIV: Mr Georges La Touche (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXV: Disappointment (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXVI: A Clue at Last (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXVII: La Touche’s Dilemma (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXVIII: The Unravelling of the Web (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXIX: A Dramatic Dénouement (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XXX: Conclusion (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Book (#litres_trial_promo)
The Detective Story Club (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
INTRODUCTION (#u3807f2c1-88a7-5ec7-b1ca-caba78043e10)
MESSRS COLLINS have done many things which have delighted me—notably their acceptance of the MS of The Cask in the first instance—but few have given me greater pleasure than their decision to include this book in their Pocket Classics Series. It is a great honour to confer on a detective story.
They have asked me to write a foreword, describing briefly how the book came into being, and this is it.
Well, unhappily for the foreword, nothing could have been more prosaic and uninteresting. I did not retire from the world, and with a plentiful supply of wet towels for my head and strong coffee at two-hourly intervals, cover the floor of my room with sheet after sheet of closely-written manuscript. Instead, I got ill and had a period of convalescence. During this period I became so bored that I didn’t know what to do, and to try to fill the time I asked for a pencil and a few sheets of notepaper. I began to write down what seemed the most absurd and improbable things I could think of. Before I knew what was happening, a whole morning was gone.
This was eminently satisfactory, and I was even more pleased when the second morning passed equally quickly. At last a chapter was finished. As a sort of joke I read it to my wife. She expressed delight (unhappily, mingled with amazement). I remember so well finishing up: ‘Harkness and the cask were gone!’ and her enthusiastic approval. However, her praise made me persevere, and I continued writing till I was well enough to take up again my normal job of railway engineering.
The manuscript was put away and almost forgotten, but some time later I re-read it. Rather to my surprise it seemed as if something might be made of it and I began to revise and re-write. In this a kindly neighbour (to whom I dedicated the book) gave me immense help. I read each chapter to him as it was finished, and he would stop me and say: ‘I don’t like that. No one but a complete idiot would have done any such thing. You’ll have to alter it.’ Most salutary: it made the book a deal better than it would otherwise have been.
At last it was finished, and in fear and trembling, yet with a thrill, I sent it to Messrs A. P. Watt, the literary agents. Then ensued a breathless period of waiting. Eventually there came a letter—one of the kindest I have ever received—from Mr J. D. Beresford, the distinguished novelist and critic, who had read the story on behalf of Messrs Collins. He said that he and Messrs Collins liked Parts I and II, but they didn’t think that Part III was so satisfactory. Would I consider rewriting this last part on a different basis?
I should have explained that the original Part III was the account of the actual trial for murder. The truth was reached by the breaking down of the real criminal in the witness box, with his subsequent confession and suicide. Having recently re-read that old Part III, I can see how completely justified Mr Beresford was. I don’t know a great deal about murder trials now, but I have learnt enough to appreciate that no trial like that I described has ever taken place, either in this or any other country.
Needless to say, I jumped at the idea of doing a new Part III, and I suppose there was no more amazed and delighted person in existence, when some time later Mr Watt wrote that Messrs Collins had accepted the book and were going to publish it immediately.
With Dickens in my mind I had called the great work A Mystery of Two Cities. My publishers didn’t care much for this title, and with their help, The Cask was eventually evolved.
The whole episode represented such a thrill that, as may be imagined, it was not long before I was at work on a second book, The Ponson Case. This also ‘went,’ and from then the die was cast. I would continue writing books, even if I had to give up railway work to do it—as eventually I had. And here I am glad of the opportunity of trying to express my great debt to my publishers, Collins, for their unfailing kindness and encouragement.
I’m afraid I cannot claim for The Cask any scientific construction whatever. Nowadays I begin a new book by working out the plot in fairly complete detail, noting (a) the method of the murder, (b) what steps the criminal takes to avoid suspicion, and (c) how the detectives eventually detect him—usually the most difficult of the three. Also, I prepare a list of the main incidents, details and histories of the necessary characters, and a chronology giving the order of the happenings. All this really amounts to a detailed synopsis, and it is pretty complete before I begin to write a word. But The Cask was built up, as it were, from hand to mouth. Each new ‘good notion’ was incorporated as it occurred to me, with the not infrequent result that it came out again next day, being found to conflict hopelessly with something else. The book must have been written at least five times before the final draft was reached. A truly intelligent way of getting to work! And another fatal mistake. The Cask runs to something like 120,000 words. I have since discovered that the same royalties are obtainable for 80,000. Bitterly have I regretted those 40,000 wasted words!
Were I writing The Cask today, it would probably turn out a very different book. All the stuff about the journeyings of the cask through London is irrelevant padding, and really ought to come out. On the other hand a much greater attempt should be made to interest the reader in the actors through their characters. Would this spoil it? I really don’t know. Fortunately, my publishers haven’t asked me to try the experiment. I’m sure, however, we can both agree in hoping the old unaltered Cask will again ‘go’ as a result of the new lease of life it is now getting.
FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS
1946
PART I (#u3807f2c1-88a7-5ec7-b1ca-caba78043e10)
CHAPTER I (#u3807f2c1-88a7-5ec7-b1ca-caba78043e10)
A STRANGE CONSIGNMENT (#u3807f2c1-88a7-5ec7-b1ca-caba78043e10)
MR AVERY, managing director of the Insular and Continental Steam Navigation Company, had just arrived at his office. He glanced at his inward letters, ran his eye over his list of engagements for the day, and inspected the return of the movements of his Company’s steamers. Then, after spending a few moments in thought, he called his chief clerk, Wilcox.
‘I see the Bullfinch is in this morning from Rouen,’ he said. ‘I take it she’ll have that consignment of wines for Norton and Banks?’
‘She has,’ replied the chief clerk, ‘I’ve just rung up the dock office to inquire.’
‘I think we ought to have it specially checked from here. You remember all the trouble they gave us about the last lot. Will you send some reliable man down? Whom can you spare?’
‘Broughton could go. He has done it before.’
‘Well, see to it, will you, and then send in Miss Johnson, and I shall go through the mail.’
The office was the headquarters of the Insular and Continental Steam Navigation Company, colloquially known as the I. and C., and occupied the second floor of a large block of buildings at the western end of Fenchurch Street. The Company was an important concern, and owned a fleet of some thirty steamers ranging from 300 to 1000 tons burden, which traded between London and the smaller Continental ports. Low freights was their speciality, but they did not drive their boats, and no attempt was made to compete with the more expensive routes in the matter of speed. Under these circumstances they did a large trade in all kinds of goods other than perishables.
Mr Wilcox picked up some papers and stepped over to the desk at which Tom Broughton was working.
‘Broughton,’ he said, ‘Mr Avery wants you to go down at once to the docks and check a consignment of wines for Norton and Banks. It came in last night from Rouen in the Bullfinch. These people gave us a lot of trouble about their last lot, disputing our figures, so you will have to be very careful. Here are the invoices, and don’t take the men’s figures but see each cask yourself.’
‘Right, sir,’ replied Broughton, a young fellow of three-and-twenty, with a frank, boyish face and an alert manner. Nothing loath to exchange the monotony of the office for the life and bustle of the quays, he put away his books, stowed the invoices carefully in his pocket, took his hat and went quickly down the stairs and out into Fenchurch Street.
It was a brilliant morning in early April. After a spell of cold, showery weather, there was at last a foretaste of summer in the air, and the contrast made it seem good to be alive. The sun shone with that clear freshness seen only after rain. Broughton’s spirits rose as he hurried through the busy streets, and watched the ceaseless flow of traffic pouring along the arteries leading to the shipping.
His goal was St Katherine’s Docks, where the Bullfinch was berthed, and, passing across Tower Hill and round two sides of the grim old fortress, he pushed on till he reached the basin in which the steamer was lying. She was a long and rather low vessel of some 800 tons burden, with engines amidships, and a single black funnel ornamented with the two green bands that marked the Company’s boats. Recently out from her annual overhaul, she looked trim and clean in her new coat of black paint. Unloading was in progress, and Broughton hurried on board, anxious to be present before any of the consignment of wine was set ashore.
He was just in time, for the hatches of the lower forehold, in which the casks were stowed, had been cleared and were being lifted off as he arrived. As he stood on the bridge deck waiting for the work to be completed he looked around.
Several steamers were lying in the basin. Immediately behind, with her high bluff bows showing over the Bullfinch’s counter, was the Thrush, his Company’s largest vessel, due to sail that afternoon for Corunna and Vigo. In the berth in front lay a Clyde Shipping Company’s boat bound for Belfast and Glasgow and also due out that afternoon, the smoke from her black funnel circling lazily up into the clear sky. Opposite was the Arcturus, belonging to the I. and C.’s rivals, Messrs Babcock and Millman, and commanded by ‘Black Mac’, so called to distinguish him from the Captain McTavish of differently coloured hair, ‘Red Mac’, who was master of the same Company’s Sirius. To Broughton these boats represented links with the mysterious, far-off world of romance, and he never saw one put to sea without longing to go with her to Copenhagen, Bordeaux, Lisbon, Spezzia, or to whatever other delightful-sounding place she was bound.
The fore-hatch being open, Broughton climbed down into the hold armed with his notebook, and the unloading of the casks began. They were swung out in lots of four fastened together by rope slings. As each lot was dealt with, the clerk noted the contents in his book, from which he would afterwards check the invoices.
The work progressed rapidly, the men straining and pushing to get the heavy barrels in place for the slings. Gradually the space under and around the hatch was cleared, the casks then having to be rolled forward from the farther parts of the hold.
A quartet of casks had just been hoisted and Broughton was turning to examine the next lot when he heard a sudden shout of ‘Look out, there! Look out!’ and felt himself seized roughly and pulled backwards. He swung round and was in time to see the four casks turning over out of the sling and falling heavily to the floor of the hold. Fortunately they had only been lifted some four or five feet, but they were heavy things and came down solidly. The two under were damaged slightly and the wine began to ooze out between the staves. The others had had their fall broken and neither seemed the worse. The men had all jumped clear and no one was hurt.
