The Body on the Pavement Read online

  Gordon Meyrick

  The Body on the Pavement

  “Murder’s an ugly thing!” Detective Inspector Haig said. “Maybe you’ll not want to attend the funeral.”

  As the door closed, Thelma said, “I know one funeral I wouldn’t mind attending.”

  With a million-dollar secret in his possession, a mysterious stranger travels from Australia to London to meet violent death just before he can accomplish his mission. And it is up to Rex Haig, of Scotland Yard, to find not only the stranger’s murderer but to fathom his generation-dead reason for this most bizarre of visits.

  Rex Haig uses a minor villain as bait to catch the killers—only to be led deeper into a baffling puzzle involving beautiful heiress Joan Hamilton; Tony Miller and his jealous mistress; operators of a confidence swindle of staggering proportions; and most bizarre of all, the mad occupant of the gloomy, castle-like Towers—an old man whose passion is playing with dolls!

  The Body on the Pavement was originally published in 1942. This new edition includes an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page/About the Book

  Contents

  Introduction by Curtis Evans

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  About the Author

  Titles by Gordon Meyrick

  Danger at my Heels – Title Page

  Danger at my Heels – Chapter I

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Gordon Meyrick’s corpus of crime fiction appeared in the few short years between 1941 and 1943, the year of his tragic untimely demise at the age of 34. While the book for which he is best known is his posthumously published The Ghost Hunters (1947), a collection of short stories about the exploits of Arnold Perry, a most percipient paranormal investigator, which the author completed shortly before his death (though it was not published until four years later), his entertaining crime novels--The Green Phantom, The Body on the Pavement, Pennyworth of Murder, and Danger at My Heels--merit reprinting. Decidedly in the thriller vein, Meyrick’s mysteries concern gangs of crooks and master criminals in the style of such masters of the form as Edgar Wallace, John Buchan and E. Phillips Oppenheim. This milieu was one with which Meyrick had at least passing acquaintance, for he was the tall, dapper son of Kate Meyrick, England’s notorious between-the-wars “Queen of the Nightclubs” and one of the country’s most notable cultural figures in the two decades between the First and Second World Wars.

  Kate Meyrick was born Kate Evelyn Nason in Ireland in 1875. Having lost her birth parents by the age of seven, Kate with her sister was sent to live with a grandmother and two great-aunts in a sprawling mansion in Dublin (now a five-star Radisson hotel). “Here everything was of a bygone age,” she later dryly recalled. “There were three servants who had been in the family for more than half a century, the gardener was eighty-four, the coachman only a year or two his junior. The governesses set to educate my sister and myself were also of an age to harmonise with the surroundings.”

  To the disappointment of her relations, Kate rejected matrimony with a wealthy man in order to wed a young doctor, Ferdinand Richard Holmes Merrick. After their marriage in 1899 the couple moved to southern England, residing successively at Southsea and Brighton. There Dr. Meyrick, as he now styled himself (this spelling of the surname struck the young couple as posher) treated a clientele of well-off mental patients. Kate meanwhile bore eight children, six daughters and two sons, during the years of her marriage. These were Mary Ethel Isobel (1900-1938), Dorothy Evelyn (1902-1987), Henry Lyster (1903-1968), Kathleen Holmes (1907-1978), Gordon Holmes (1909-1943), Eileen Margaret Nason (1910-1959), Lilian Agnes (1912-1987) and Gwendoline Irene (1914-2002).

  Kate’s marriage, which had long been troubled, finally broke down irretrievably after the First World War, when she sued Ferdinand for divorce and he counter-sued her, damningly citing a co-respondent. With this standoff achieved, no divorce actually materialized; yet the couple permanently separated, with Kate being left custody of the minor children, including younger son Gordon, who was only ten at the time. Now in her forties, Kate moved with her brood to London and launched a colorful midlife career as a nightclub proprietor. (The partner in her first venture was the man who had been named as the co-respondent in Dr. Merrick’s divorce suit.) The middle-aged mother of eight soon became a fixture of city nightlife, as well as, in the stern eyes of legal authority, “the most inveterate lawbreaker in London”—all on account of her grave crime of selling liquor after hours.

  The nature of London nightlife had greatly changed after the Great War, as hard-pressed aristocrats sold their regal townhouses, which had become much too expensive to maintain. As one authority has put it, the venue for posh entertaining in the city shifted “from private ballrooms to public nightclubs.” For example, Grosvenor House, the splendid townhouse of the Dukes of Westminster, was sold and demolished in 1927 and replaced by a grand hotel (named, appropriately enough, the Grosvenor House Hotel). Detective novelist E.R. Punshon (reprinted by Dean Street Press) referenced the decline of London townhouses in his 1936 novel The Bath Mysteries, where we learn that police sergeant Bobby Owen’s aristocratic uncle is saddled with a monstrous white elephant of a dilapidated city mansion.

  While flagging aristocrats fled from their townhouses, the energetic “Ma Meyrick” (as she was familiarly known to society) stuck her finger into many a boozy pie. Her most famous--or infamous in the eyes of the law--establishment was the “43,” so named for its location in the basement at 43 Gerrard Street, Soho. In his novel Brideshead Revisited, author Evelyn Waugh referenced both Kate Meyrick and 43, slightly disguised as “Ma Mayfield” and the “Old Hundredth.” Additionally, the detective novelist A. Fielding must have had an approximation of Kate in mind when in her mystery The Case of the Two Pearl Necklaces (1936) she devised the character of a notorious female nightclub proprietor, “Mrs. Finch,” who is determined to have her daughter, Violet, marry into the aristocracy. Quite contrastingly with Ma Meyrick, however, Fielding’s crass and mercenary Mrs. Finch is singularly charmless.

  Unfortunately for Kate, her popularity in the City attracted an empowered legal nemesis in the stern form of Sir William Joynson-Hicks, home secretary in the Conservative government of Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin. After taking office Joynson-Hicks vowed “to stamp out the evil of drinking after hours.” Under wartime Great Britain’s Defence of the Realm Act [DORA], passed in 1914, the government possessed, an authority has noted, “extraordinary powers of interference in public events and private lives.” Originally DORA was justified “as a measure to keep munition workers out of the pubs during factory hours,” but it was retained in place even after its original justification had vanished. By the end of 1928 the vigilant Sir William had prosecuted sixty-five clubs, including Kate Meyrick’s 43.

  Kate’s legal troubles culminated in her being charged in 1928 with bribing a police sergeant to warn her when her premises were being surveilled. For committing the crime of bribery (which for the remainder of her life she vociferously denied), Kate was sentenced in January 1929 to fifteen months hard labor at Holloway Prison. After her release in 1930 (the year Dorothy L. Sayers’s fictional mystery writer Harriet Vane, on trial for murder, was locked up in Holloway in the detective novel Strong Poison), the bloodied but unbowed Kate, undeterred from her vocational ways, would serve two briefer stints of incarceration. Increasingly frail after her myriad legal battles and terms of imprisonment, Kate succumbed in an influenza pandemic in 1933. At the time of her death she was only 57.


  The censorious Joynson-Hicks had expected to find London’s nightclubs “filled with whores” but instead discovered, to his consternation, that they were “crammed with ‘society.’” Kate herself was a “lady” who made a great deal of money as a nightclub owner (though she had very little of it left at her death). This lucre she spent lavishly to educate her eight children at elite schools (Rodean and Harrow). Three of her daughters married aristocrats: “May,” the 14th Earl of Kinnoull; “Dolly,” the 26th Baron de Clifford; and Gwendoline, the youngest, the 6th Earl of Craven. Another daughter, Nancy, wed wealthy Edward FitzRoy St. Aubyn, a kinsman of Baron St. Levan.

  Gordon, who unlike his siblings never married, trained as a solicitor, like his elder brother Henry, but in 1935, two years after his mother died, he scored a success on stage at London’s Q. Theater with the mystery thriller The Green Phantom. Two years later he followed Phantom was another criminous Q. Theatre production, The Second Shot. After his thirtieth birthday he turned to crime fiction writing as a fulltime avocation. Throughout the 1930s Gordon resided with his unmarried sisters on Marylebone Road at 3 Park Square West, part of an elegant row of stuccoed Regency houses designed by famed architect John Nash and completed in 1824. (Before her death Kate Meyrick had lived there too.) By 1941, however, he was living on his own in tony Kensington at 16e Kensington Court, in a flat in a charming nookish Victorian-era structure modestly tucked beneath its taller neighbors. (A one-bedroom flat in this building recently was offered for sale for one and a quarter million pounds.) It may have been at Kensington Court that Gordon mysteriously fell from a window to his death on the pavement in November 1943. A modern relation of Gordon observes, “whether he threw himself or fell purely by accident or because he was drunk is unknown.” Of course as an inveterate reader of detective novels, when I first read of Gordon’s death I thought not merely of accident or suicide, but also of murder. In an odd coincidence (or was it?), Gordon’s second detective novel, The Body on the Pavement (originally published in 1942, not too long before Gordon’s death), concerns, as the title suggests, the mysterious death of a man who falls from--or is he pushed?--the roof of a posh block of flats.

  Thus in The Body on the Pavement is another strange murder case presented to ace Scotland Yard detective Rex Haig, who is handsome, expensively educated, relentlessly humorous and rather smug. (Whether the humor or the smugness wins out will depend on the reader.) Perhaps reflecting the author’s own social insecurities--Gordon was educated at Harrow, but his doting mama naturally had a notorious reputation as a nightclub owner arrested several times for selling liquor after hours in violation of DORA--many of the characters in the novel (Rex of course excepted) seem to be consumed with public school envy.

  It soon becomes apparent to the reader that The Body on the Pavement is less a tale of austere detection than a breezy mystery thriller in the manner of the late bestselling English Crime King Edgar Wallace. In the classic Wallace manner, Inspector Haig realizes he is up against a dastardly conspiracy by a criminal gang. To entertain his readers Gordon presents a colorful and frequently quirky cast of characters, including pretty Joan Hamilton, imperiled country heiress; a small-time con named (distractingly for modern American readers) Larry King; a handsome crooked couple, representatives of “the more dubious section of London’s West End population,” Tony Miller and Millicent Thorpe (“And don’t call me Millicent. The name is Thelma.”); Oscar Pendleton, a pansyish bachelor (“I was sitting in that chair. . . . reading a book by Marcel Proust.”); and Mr. Mander, a prim lawyer with a passion for peroxide blondes. These characters, as well as the author’s rapid pace and lightly humorous writing style, elevate The Body on the Pavement above the usual period British thriller. These same qualities are present as well in Gordon’s Danger at My Heels, rather a pastiche of John Buchan’s classic thriller The Thirty-Nine Steps (1915). Danger also benefits from its wartime detail (the London Blitz) and the author’s obvious familiarity with London.

  Why did Gordon, a single man in his early thirties, apparently not serve in the Second World War? I have no definite answers, though one can make surmises. In Danger, which is set in the spring of 1941, Michael Stephen, the narrator of the novel, who is the age of the author at the time the novel takes place, has returned to England after eight years in a foreign country, with the hope of serving in the navy. Certainly aspects of the novel must have been drawn from Gordon’s life:

  I . . . found there was a good chance for the R.N.V.R. [Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve]—only it meant a wait of two or three months. So I took a quarterly tenancy of a flat in Kensington Court, on the top floor, and went into immediate possession.

  At Kensington Town Hall I got a gas-mask, and from the Food Office a ration card; this entitled me to a quarter of a pound of butter, half a pound of sugar, two ounces of tea, and one and tuppence worth of meat a week. I dumped this lot in my new flat, and went out to get some lunch. I remember worrying lest a period of boredom and inactivity lay before me. It makes me smile to think of that now.

  At the local pub the narrator, in rather an amazing coincidence (this sort of thing happens in John Buchan too, not to mention Edgar Wallace), is taken for a near double of his, someone who had an appointment at the pub at the very same time. And of course this near double is up to no good at all. Soon not only the police, but enemy spies, are after our hero. The only thing for him to do is, to quote the title of a Patricia Wentworth thriller, Run!

  As mentioned at the top of this introduction, Gordon Meyrick wrote two other crime novels, The Green Phantom (an Edgar Wallace title if ever there were one) and Pennyworth of Murder, both of which it would be jolly to see reprinted, both for their intrinsic entertainment value and as testaments to a tragically foreshortened life of promise left unfulfilled. One cannot help but feel that the Meyricks, mother and son, got rather a raw deal from life. When he died at 34 after publishing his four crime novels Gordon Meyrick left an estate of just £131 (today about £5300, or USD7100), which he loyally left to his elder brother Henry—a pennyworth of murder indeed! Today Gordon lies forgotten in a humble plot in Kensal Green cemetery in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, rather overgrown with grass, together with his beloved mother, Kate, the deposed Queen of the Nightclubs. If Edgar Wallace was the King of Thrillers and E. Phillips Oppenheim the Prince of Storytellers, perhaps we can at least posthumously crown Gordon Meyrick one of the genre’s royal princelings.

  Curtis Evans

  Chapter One

  Larry King sauntered down Greek Street, Soho, fingering his old Etonian tie.

  The tie was classy, he told himself, not like the awful stuff that most of the boys wore. For the two and six he had given for it, it was a bargain.

  Despite this insignia of class, Larry was properly down on his luck. His gold watch he could pawn, of course. But was pawning safe? It had been acquired quite honestly, off Big Boy Joe for keeping his trap shut. But suppose it was on the police list?

  He wandered aimlessly into one of the entrances to the Leicester Square Underground Station, and then down the stairs to a row of telephone booths, where a man was telephoning. Outside was a suitcase, evidently too big to get into the booth.

  There was no one else about. It was a gift. But Larry hesitated.

  An underground station. That was a bit off. Too many cops around. Still, he needed something desperately.

  He went to the booth and picked up the suitcase. Out of the corner of his eye he looked at the man. The fellow’s face was hidden by the turned-up collar of his overcoat; he was talking intently.

  Larry took a few steps. Then came a sound that made him sweat. A faint click. The fellow had hung up. He’d be coming out. No time to get away now.

  The telephone booths formed a rough U, in the centre of which was a supporting pillar. Quick as thought, Larry hid behind this, hugging the marble column, listening.

  If the fellow began searching the place, Larry would run for it. But if he went off for a
policeman, Larry would be able to slip away before the policeman arrived.

  Then came the sound of soft footsteps. Which way were they going? . . . That was funny! They were going away—up the stairs.

  The next moment Larry had dropped the suitcase and was following the man up the stairs. There was the fellow some way in front of him, the collar of his overcoat still turned up. He was in a hurry, too. Hello! He’d taken a taxi and been driven off.

  Well, would you believe it! What a mug! Larry had not seen his face, but he guessed that he must look a proper fool.

  The thief went back and collected the suitcase. He took a quick look inside. There was a wallet and a lot of papers. Good! Quite a little in the wallet. He put it in his pocket.

  But it was silly to hang about. Crossing the station, he came out on the other side, and began walking toward Long Acre. What a bit of luck, eh!

  Then his face fell. His legs suddenly felt as if they were no longer part of him. For standing at the corner was a Scotland Yard man he knew very well.

  The detective was gazing meditatively skyward. Larry checked and turned abruptly. Perhaps he hadn’t been spotted. He began walking quickly in the other direction—toward Leicester Square.

  He was all right. No, he wasn’t. There, reflected in a shop window, was the detective, following him.

  Larry cursed and hurried on. Of all the cops in London, this one would have to be Detective Inspector Rex Haig, and everyone knew he was dangerous. Haig didn’t mind what he did. He broke, smiling that silly smile of his, any police regulation that might thwart his purpose.

  How to shake him off? Larry thought quickly.

  There was a short alleyway running past a theatre. If he dashed up here, he’d be in Lisle Street before Haig got to the corner. Then he’d be smart. Instead of going straight on, he’d walk around the block, go back in the direction from which he had started.