Murder by Chance

  Peter Drax

  Murder by Chance

  The knife with the carved sheath inlaid with silver, had been driven up to its haft between the shoulders of Captain Geoffrey Hunt.

  Johannis Kudorfer, master mariner, is a fraudster and a rogue. But that suits Sam Hartford just fine, because he is a scoundrel himself. When Sam devises a scheme to wreck a ship for the insurance money, Kudorfer is a key collaborator, along with a small gang of other miscreants and dupes, plus Lena the languid cigarette-smoking girl. But Sam is unaware that some of his trusted cohort are playing games of their own—games so treacherous they will end in murder. Detective-Sergeant Woods, suspicious of the con game from the start, will need to call in Chief Inspector Thompson of Scotland Yard to solve this gritty and absorbing case.

  Murder by Chance was first published in 1936, and has remained out of print for many decades until this new edition. It includes an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  ‘A thriller of great merit ... all extremely convincing’ The Times

  ‘Recommended as a most exciting and full-blooded crime story’ Morning Post

  ‘I have not for a good many months enjoyed a thriller as much as I have enjoyed Murder by Chance’ Observer

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page/About the Book

  Contents

  Introduction by Curtis Evans

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  About the Author

  Titles by Peter Drax

  He Shot to Kill – Title Page

  He Shot to Kill – Chapter One

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Eric Elrington Addis, aka “Peter Drax,” one of the major between-the-wars exponents and practitioners of realism in the British crime novel, was born near the end of the Victorian era in Edinburgh, Scotland on 19 May 1899, the youngest child of David Foulis Addis, a retired Indian civil servant, and Emily Malcolm, daughter of an officer in the British Indian Army. Drax died during the Second World War on 31 August 1941, having been mortally wounded in a German air raid on the British Royal Navy base at Alexandria, Egypt, officially known as HMS Nile. During his brief life of 42 years, Drax between the short span from 1936 to 1939 published six crime novels: Murder by Chance (1936), He Shot to Kill (1936), Murder by Proxy (1937), Death by Two Hands (1937), Tune to a Corpse (1938) and High Seas Murder (1939). An additional crime novel, Sing a Song of Murder, having been left unfinished by Drax at his death in 1941 and completed by his novelist wife, was published in 1944. Together the Peter Drax novels constitute one of the most important bodies of realistic crime fiction published in the 1930s, part of the period commonly dubbed the “Golden Age of detective fiction.” Rather than the artificial and outsize master sleuths and super crooks found in so many classic mysteries from this era, Drax’s novels concern, as publicity material for the books put it, “police who are not endowed with supernatural powers and crooks who are also human.” In doing so they offered crime fiction fans from those years some of the period’s most compelling reading. The reissuing of these gripping tales of criminal mayhem and murder, unaccountably out-of-print for more than seven decades, by Dean Street Press marks a signal event in recent mystery publishing history.

  Peter Drax’s career background gave the future crime writer constant exposure to the often grim rigors of life, experience which he most effectively incorporated into his fiction. A graduate of Edinburgh Academy, the teenaged Drax served during the First World War as a Midshipman on HMS Dreadnought and Marlborough. (Two of his three brothers died in the war, the elder, David Malcolm Addis, at Ypres, where his body was never found.) After the signing of the armistice and his graduation from the Royal Naval College, Drax remained in the Navy for nearly a decade, retiring in 1929 with the rank of Lieutenant-Commander, in which capacity he supervised training with the New Zealand Navy, residing with his English wife, Hazel Iris (Wilson) Addis, daughter of an electrical engineer, in Auckland. In the 1930s he returned with Hazel to England and began practicing as a barrister, specializing, predictably enough, in the division of Admiralty, as well as that of Divorce. Recalled to the Navy upon the outbreak of the Second World War, Drax served as Commander (second-in-command) on HMS Warspite and was mentioned in dispatches at the Second Battle of Narvik, a naval affray which took place during the 1940 Norwegian campaign. At his death in Egypt in 1941 Drax left behind Hazel--herself an accomplished writer, under the pen name Hazel Adair, of so-called middlebrow “women’s fiction”--and two children, including Jeremy Cecil Addis, the late editor and founder of Books Ireland.

  Commuting to his London office daily in the 1930s on the 9.16, Drax’s hobby became, according to his own account, the “reading and dissecting of thrillers,” ubiquitous in station book stalls. Concluding that the vast majority of them were lamentably unlikely affairs, Drax set out over six months to spin his own tale, “inspired by the desire to tell a story that was credible.” (More prosaically the neophyte author also wanted to show his wife, who had recently published her first novel, Wanted a Son, that he too could publish a novel.) The result was Murder by Chance, the first of the author’s seven crime novels. In the United States during the late 1920s and early 1930s, recalled Raymond Chandler in his essay “The Simple Art of Murder” (originally published in 1944), the celebrated American crime writer Dashiell Hammett had given “murder back to the kind of people who commit it for reasons, not just to provide a corpse; and with the means at hand, not with hand-wrought dueling pistols, curare and tropical fish.” Drax’s debut crime novel, which followed on the heels of Hammett’s books, made something of a similar impression in the United Kingdom, with mystery writer and founding Detection Club member Milward Kennedy in the Sunday Times pronouncing the novel a “thriller of great merit” that was “extremely convincing” and the influential Observer crime fiction critic Torquemada avowing, “I have not for a good many months enjoyed a thriller as much as I have enjoyed Murder by Chance.”

  What so impressed these and other critics about Murder by Chance and Drax’s successive novels was their simultaneous plausibility and readability, a combination seen as a tough feat to pull off in an era of colorful though not always entirely credible crime writers like S. S. Van Dine, Edgar Wallace and John Dickson Carr. Certainly in the 1930s the crime novelists Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham and Anthony Berkeley, among others (including Milward Kennedy himself), had elevated the presence of psychological realism in the crime novel; yet the criminal milieus that these authors presented to readers were mostly resolutely occupied by the respectable middle and upper classes. Drax offered British readers what was then an especially bracing change of atmosphere (one wherein mean streets replaced country mansions and quips were exchanged for coshes, if you will)—as indicated in this resoundingly positive Milward Kennedy review of Drax’s fifth crime novel, Tune to a Corpse (1938):

  I have the highest opinion of Peter Drax’s murder stories….Mainly his picture is of low life in London, where crime and poverty meet and merge. He draws characters who shift uneasily from shabby to disreputable associations….and he can win our sudden liking, almost our respect, for creatures in whom little virtue is to be found. To show how a drab crime was committed and then to show the slow detection of the truth, and to keep the reader absorbed all the time—thi
s is a real achievement. The secret of Peter Drax’s success is his ability to make the circumstances as plausible as the characters are real….

  Two of Peter Drax’s crime novels, the superb Death by Two Hands and Tune to a Corpse, were published in the United States, under the titles, respectively, Crime within Crime and Crime to Music, to very strong notices. The Saturday Review of Literature, for example, pronounced of Crime within Crime that “as a straightforward eventful yarn of little people in [the] grip of tragic destiny it’s brilliantly done” and of Crime to Music that “London underworld life is described with color and realism. The steps in the weakling killer’s descent to Avernus [see Virgil] are thrillingly traced.” That the country which gave the world Dashiell Hammett could be so impressed with the crime fiction of Peter Drax surely is strong recommendation indeed. Today seedily realistic urban British crime fiction of the 1930s is perhaps most strongly associated with two authors who dabbled in crime fiction: Graham Greene (Brighton Rock, 1938, and others) and Gerald Kersh (Night and the City, 1938). If not belonging on quite that exalted level, the novels of Peter Drax nevertheless grace this gritty roster, one that forever changed the face of British crime fiction.

  Curtis Evans

  CHAPTER I

  Johannis Kudorfer was a native of an eastern Mediterranean state. By profession he was a master mariner, and he might have made a success of it had not greed led him into certain ventures which even the most charitable had characterized as shady. The agents of a certain firm of underwriters had suggested to Johannis that it might be in the interests of all concerned, and most certainly of the underwriters, if he were to transfer his energies to some other profession.

  Ships which Johannis commanded acquired a most unfortunate tendency to leave their natural element and try conclusions with rocks. Sometimes the accident was attributed to the presence of fog and at other times to malevolent and hitherto unknown currents. But whatever the reason might be the result was usually the same, and the owners of the vessel concerned experienced the pleasure of learning that she had become a total loss. The crews, it may have been supposed, were invariably gifted with second sight, for they never failed to leave the sinking ship clad in their newest suits and carrying their belongings in waterproof bags.

  The true value of the ship and the amount for which she had been insured could never under any circumstances be made to agree. The difference was invariably in favour of the owners, who profited by the disaster to the tune of several thousands of pounds. Johannis was cunning. He had never actually been bowled out. Occasionally the underwriters fought the claims in the English courts and in that event Johannis and his brother wreckers attended. The story they recounted had been carefully rehearsed and the ship’s log had been written up in accordance with this prearranged version.

  Now you may wreck a ship once and get away with it. You may even be successful at the second attempt, but to make a habit of such a dangerous pastime is to ask for trouble. People are apt to become suspicious. The brokers and underwriters concerned became more than suspicious. They were morally certain that Johannis was a thorough bad lot, and, in order to protect their interest, those who had suffered through the vagaries of the ships which Johannis had commanded called a meeting. At that gathering it was decided that not one of those present would underwrite any risk to a ship which had the doubtful honour of carrying Captain Johannis Kudorfer.

  This was very unfortunate for that hardy and resourceful mariner, but he, being of a saving disposition as well as of a philosophical turn of mind, had accumulated a sufficient sum of money to purchase the Island of Posnik. There he settled down to the life of a wealthy landed proprietor. He enjoyed collecting rents from the fishermen who constituted almost the entire population of the island, and there were times when he even carried out the duties of bartender in the only public house of which the island boasted. Such shops as there were came under his sole control, and Johannis in the course of time grew fat and, it would appear, lazy and contented. But once a seaman always a rover. He tired of unaccustomed ease and safety, and when a cable addressed to Captain Kudorfer was brought to his house one day by a ragged, bare-footed boy, his heart began to thump. Perhaps it was from one of his old ship-owning, swindling friends who had need of his services? Maybe it was. . . . He slit open the flimsy envelope and read the brief message.

  If disengaged and wishing employment cable Hartford Neeles London.

  Hartford. Hartford. He was sure he had heard the name somewhere before. It was fortunate for Hartford’s chances of receiving a favourable reply from Kudorfer that the latter had not heard of that very private meeting in the City of London at which the confidence of those present had been unreservedly withdrawn from Johannis. Mr. Hartford, in the role of a broker, had been present, and as the story of Kudorfer’s life had been laid bare he began to entertain a certain respect for this Levantine scoundrel. Hartford himself was a scoundrel, and was therefore in a position to appraise Johannis’ worth at its true valuation.

  Sam Hartford should, if appearances went for anything, have been a farmer or a country parson. He was fat and possessed an engaging manner which at one time or another had caused the unwary to repose in Sam a confidence as ill-deserved as it was misplaced. He would, one might have thought, have done very well as a commercial traveller, and in point of fact he had tried his hand at that profession among many others with a monotonous lack of success.

  At the age of thirty-five Sam had graduated in the hard school of confidence tricksters, and if there had been such a thing would no doubt have taken an honours degree. The police, unfortunately for Sam and luckily for the public, had suggested that he should really give the West End a rest, and it was in the role of a broker that he transferred his attention to the City, where one fine day he attended the meeting at which Johannis Kudorfer was discussed with such charming candour and complete disregard for the law of libel. A couple of months after this meeting Sam was unlucky enough to be discovered making some totally inaccurate entries in the petty cash book.

  Then followed two lean months and Sam had to tighten his belt, while Johannis, in his position as the king of the Island of Posnik, let his belt out at the rate of one hole per week.

  A few weeks before the murder of Geoffrey Hunt Sam was riding eastwards on a bus bound for a doss-house in the Mile End Road which, for the time being, he called home. He had spent one penny on a fish-cake and one on an evening paper. Eightpence remained, and the further financial outlook was so unsettled that Sam’s usually benign expression had given place to one of rueful despair. Lack of good food and a sufficiency of beer to wash it down had taken all the stuffing out of him. A man sitting behind him leaned forward and clapped Sam on the shoulder.

  “What cheer, mate, you don’t look so good.”

  “Why, if it ain’t Dusty! Where are you bound, pal?”

  “Home, but come on and have a wet first,” Dusty suggested. “I’ll stand treat. I took thirty bob this morning. How are you fixed, Sam?”

  “Cleaned right out, and that would be my luck on the very day that I lit on a job that would make my blooming fortune just as easy as kiss your hand.”

  At Aldgate station Dusty and Sam got off the bus. Dusty led the way into a saloon bar and ordered two pints of bitter.

  “Come over to this table in the corner. We’ll be able to chin there without any bloke busting in.”

  Sam drank deeply from his glass and then set it down with a sigh of content.

  “Nothing ain’t so bad as beer can’t make it better. Wonderful things, hops. Have you ever thought of—”

  “I know all about hops,” Dusty interrupted. “What I wants to hear about is this swell job of yours. I’m about fed up with jawing my head off at a lot of half-baked mugs and I’m ripe for a little flutter.”

  “How much dough have you got, Dusty?” asked Sam, but Dusty only winked in reply and laid a finger to his nose.

  “You’re not trying to con me, are you, Sam? ’Cause if y
ou are, you’re out of luck this time, old cock. I’ve got a little cash for an investment, but none to give away.”

  “Investment’s the word for this little idea of mine, Dusty. And it’s watertight. You couldn’t help clearing eight thousand quid, but it would have to be cut three ways. You see, there’s the bloke what put me on to it. He would want his share The exes won’t run to more than a thousand, or say twelve hundred at the outside, so we ought to have more than eight thousand between the three of us.”

  “Expenses twelve hundred? Look here, Sam, you don’t think I can raise that? Twelve hundred pounds! Make it shillings and I might be able to help a bit.”

  “Now there ain’t no need to get excited, Dusty. I know it wouldn’t be likely for you to have twelve hundred pounds, but all I should want would be enough to start the show. Something to bait the trap with. I could do it with fifty, but a century would be better. I don’t want to take no risks.”

  “Fifty! Now you’re talking! But I don’t say I’ve got it. Anyway, you go on and spill the beans and I’ll tell you what I can do.”

  “Righto. That’s fair enough, but it’s a long story.”

  Sam glanced at his empty glass and Dusty took the hint.

  “I’ve been working in the City,” Sam began, “in an insurance broker’s office, and while I was there I heard a lot about the swindles that are worked by blokes that get a ship insured for double her value and then sink her and collect the insurance money from the underwriters. I palled up with a chap in another office and as soon as I laid eyes on him I knew him for a shyster. He seemed to think I was the same as him, but how he could tell beat me. Anyway, he told me of a job he was hoping to pull off if he could get anybody to put up the dough. He asked me to go in with him and I said I would. His story sounded good to me, so I did a bit of nosying around and I found that what he said was true enough. At least most of it was. His name’s Brown, but everyone calls him Alfred. He’s a little feller. Not the sort you’d take any notice of if you saw him in the street, but he’s as smart as a whip. He’s sandy-haired and wears glasses. Doesn’t speak much, in fact—”