TWO VERY ORIGINAL CHARACTERS, each quite different from the other, highlight the accomplishments of William Edward Vickers (1889–1965), who wrote under the nom de plume of Roy Vickers. The Exploits of Fidelity Dove (1924) recounts the adventures of the angelic-looking girl whose ethereal beauty has made emotional slaves of many men. She is a fearless and inventive crook, whose “gang” consists of a lawyer, a businessman, a scientist, and other devoted servants. She always wears gray, partly because the color matches well with her violet eyes but also because it reflects her strict, puritanical life. She is committed to righting wrongs, to helping those who cannot help themselves, while also being certain that the endeavor is profitable to herself. Her frustrated adversary, Detective Inspector Rason, finds greater success when he joins the Department of Dead Ends, Vickers’s other memorable series. The Exploits of Fidelity Dove was published under the pseudonym David Durham and is one of the rarest volumes of crime fiction of the twentieth century; it was reissued eleven years later by Roy Vickers.
The Department of Dead Ends is an obscure branch of Scotland Yard that has the unenviable task of trying to solve crimes that have been abandoned as hopeless. The stories in this series are “inverted” detective tales in which the reader witnesses the crime being committed, is aware when the incriminating clue is discovered, and follows the police methods that lead to the arrest. The department’s unusual cases are recorded in several short story collections, beginning with The Department of Dead Ends (1947); the British edition of 1949 has mainly different stories.
Vickers’s novel The Girl in the News (1937) was released on film in 1940 to mostly good reviews. It was directed by Carol Reed, with a screenplay by Sidney Gilliat, and starred Margaret Lockwood, Barry K. Barnes, and Emlyn Williams.
“The Genuine Old Master” was originally published in The Exploits of Fidelity Dove (London, Hodder & Stoughton, 1924).
THE UNFRIENDLY CRITICS of Fidelity Dove have urged that her ingenuity, her courage, and her resource have been grossly exaggerated. They point to the fact that she worked with a company of metallurgists, electricians, mechanics, and artists. They suggest that these men supplied the daring and the originality, and that Fidelity was little more than a competent actress.
In point of fact, as the episode of the Old Master amply proves, Fidelity was a great deal more than a competent actress. She was a shrewd little psychologist with a decided flair for calculating just how the human brain would act in a given set of circumstances—and as she was generally the one to “give” the circumstances, she was nearly always right. Ask Sir Rufus Blatch to tell you about his Old Master.
“Clery’s ‘Sister of Charity,’ ” murmured Fidelity, gazing up at the picture. “You have seen reproductions, of course, Sir Rufus?”
Sir Rufus Blatch, the button-stick baronet—his fortune and title had come to him through the contract to supply the entire Forces of the Crown with button-sticks during the Great War—removed his eyes hastily from Fidelity’s angelic face and, looking up at the Clery, said that of course he had seen many reproductions. He stared at the oval face, enclosed so straitly by the stiff, winged coif of a nun, and the pale hands folded upon a breviary. “Very little life in it,” was his private opinion.
“No reproduction can give those velvet shadows their value or suggest the true beauty of the flesh-tints,” murmured Fidelity, still gazing up at the picture. It hung above the carved mantelpiece in the room she called “the study,” a stately apartment that afforded a rich setting to her own ethereal beauty.
Sir Rufus admired the Clery volubly. He was ready to admire anything that Fidelity admired. He had that day had the privilege of entertaining Fidelity to lunch in his gilded Kensington residence, packed with objets d’art. He had driven her home after lunch in one of his smaller cars, and afterwards, at her request, entered her house to see the “Sister of Charity.”
“I congratulate you on such a valuable possession, my dear,” said Sir Rufus, and hastily added, as Fidelity’s limpid eyes rested upon his—“Miss Dove.”
Fidelity waved a slender hand up at the picture.
“If you really like it so much, Sir Rufus,” she said, “you will only be doing me a kindness by taking it off my hands. I know it would be useless to offer it to you as a present for you would not take it. You may pay me what I gave for it.” There was a tiny pause, and then: “Ten thousand pounds.”
Sir Rufus coughed. It was a nasty shock, and he did not quite know how to deal with it. It was impossible to believe that with those eyes, that voice, that grave naïveté, she had deliberately led him to this point.
“Really, my dear young lady, you’re most generous, but—your proposition is rather sudden, as it were. I would not for a moment dispute the worth of the picture, but ten thousand pounds is a great deal of money, even if I felt—”
“Not to you, Sir Rufus,” said Fidelity. “They say you are one of the richest men in London.”
Sir Rufus beamed. He had not at that moment the smallest intention of buying the picture, but it was pleasant to be regarded as one of the richest men in London. He looked down at Fidelity. If, by purchasing the picture, he could make sure of the fair owner—well, he could afford to do that sort of thing if he wanted to. But he would not be rushed into it. Fidelity must make her intentions clearer first.
“I’ll think it over, Miss Dove,” he said, eyeing her with mingled shrewdness and desire, “and I’ll let you know tomorrow. Dear me! Half-past three! I must be going.”
“Please take ample time for consideration,” said Fidelity with silver sweetness. “You have perhaps friends whose opinion you value. It will be a pleasure to afford them a view of the picture.”
“Ah, thanks. Yes.” Sir Rufus had brightened. Apparently Fidelity’s final suggestion had reminded him of someone. “I’ll let you know later on. Good-bye.”
As the bulky form of the button-stick baronet disappeared, another and much younger man sauntered into the study by way of the conservatory at the far end. He approached the picture, moistened his finger and touched it, then drew back. Fidelity watched him with enigmatic kindliness.
“The frame,” he said slowly, “is not a bad piece of gilding. I value that at about four pounds. For the picture itself, as it is a quite passably good copy, I would allow twelve guineas. H’m! There’s a bit of careful work about the eyes done by a man who is no amateur. Call it twenty pounds. Total twenty-four. What did you pay for it, Fidelity?”
“Forty guineas,” said Fidelity.
“Then you’ve not been too badly swindled,” said Garfield. (You will remember Garfield’s picture in the Academy a few years ago—you see now the reason behind his sensational disappearance.) “The original ‘Sister of Charity,’ by the way, is in the possession of Lord Doucester—unless the poor old dear has been compelled to part with it. It’s a long way from being a national treasure, but it’s worth quite fifteen hundred.”
Fidelity transferred her clear and shining gaze to the shadows of the big room. She appeared to drift into a state of spiritual exaltation. When Garfield spoke again, she came back to herself with a start.
“What is my part in the scheme, Fidelity? For I suppose it is a scheme?”
Fidelity bent her pale-gold head in assent.
“It is a scheme, or will be. The essence of it flashed into my mind when Sir Rufus was driving me back through the Park. A friend of his saluted us. It was Mr. Garstein.”
Garfield stared. It seemed only the other day that they had relieved Mr. Garstein of a considerable sum of money in circumstances that had left him no legal remedy.
“What are my orders, Fidelity?” asked Garfield, repressing his curiosity.
“I have none to give,” returned Fidelity with an upward glance that sent the blood pounding through Garfield’s veins. “You have all done wonders in our recent ventures, my dear friend, and deserve a rest. I shall not ask your assistance on this occasion.”
Sir Rufus Blatch returned to his house to find his friend Garstein awaiting him. Sir Rufus was none too pleased to see Garstein. The Jew had been associated with him more than once in various deals. And Sir Rufus did not wish to think of business just then. He wished to think of Fidelity.
“Hullo! Garstein,” he said somewhat coldly. “What can I do for you?”
“It ithn’t what you can do for me, it’th what I can do for you,” said Mr. Garstein, who could really speak English quite well except in moments of excitement, when he would lisp intermittently. “I can stop you making the biggest mistake of your life.” He lowered his voice and added: “I thaw who wath with you in the car.”
Sir Rufus Blatch bristled.
“If you’ve got a word to say against Miss Dove, Garstein, I trust for the sake of our old friendship it will not be said in my presence,” said Sir Rufus.
“Ah!” said Garstein triumphantly. “You want to marry her, I dare thay.”
“Well—er—in a sense, I do, and—er—in a sense, I don’t mind admitting it,” said Sir Rufus.
“And if she won’t marry you it’th jutht occurred to you in passing that she might conthent to become your adopted daughter,” continued Garstein. Sir Rufus started. Garstein went on: “I know. I’ve been through it. She didn’t marry me in a sense or any other way, and she didn’t be adopted. But I paid twenty thousand pounds for thinking that she would.”
“What!” exploded Sir Rufus. “You mean to tell me——”
“I mean to tell you that she’s the thmartetht crook in London.” There followed an anecdote in support of the charge.
At the end of the anecdote Sir Rufus gasped, but was still only half convinced. He could scarcely believe that Fidelity Dove was the girl in the Garstein case. Then he remembered the rather strange manner in which the Old Master had been sprung upon him. He related that to Garstein.
“Pah! You can bet that picture’th a fake,” said Garstein. “She’ll lead you on to buying it and look goo-goo at you until you don’t mind whether it’th a fake or not, and she’ll cash your cheque and you’ll not thee her again.”
Sir Rufus glared at Garstein as one glares at a man who tells what may prove to be an unpleasant truth.
“It’s all speculation,” said Sir Rufus irritably. “You’re saying that it’s a fake. She says it isn’t. And, after all, Garstein, there is the bare possibility of mistaken identity. She may not be the same.”
“I know a bit about pictureth,” said Garstein. “I’m not an exthpert, but I’ve got a friend who ith. What’th thith picture called?”
Sir Rufus told him and Garstein picked up the receiver of the telephone and presently was talking to his “friend,” a well-known art dealer.
“Know anything about a ‘Thithter of Charity,’ by Clery?” asked Garstein….“You do?…Well, look it up and make sure, ma tear, I’ll wait.” A couple of minutes passed and then the Jew murmured his thanks and banged down the receiver.
“You’ve theen that picture in her houth this afternoon, ain’t it?” asked Garstein. “Well, that picture what you’ve theen in her house this afternoon is in Lord Doucester’s houth at the present moment. Come along and we’ll thee it.”
Throughout the short drive to Bloomsbury Garstein baited Sir Rufus.
The house in Bloomsbury was in need of a coat of paint and suggested that his lordship had seen better days, as indeed was the case.
“If I were you I’d buy the picture—then you’ve got the girl at your merthy,” advised Garstein. “Thay my friend recommended you.”
Lord Doucester, a kindly, faded man, readily consented to showing the picture. It was in a long, high room which held the relics of a great collection.
“That is the Clery,” said Lord Doucester, and Sir Rufus gazed with eyes that were more than a little bloodshot upon the original. To Sir Rufus it was indistinguishable from the copy, for in spite of the objets d’art at home he knew nothing whatsoever about pictures. It came to him that Fidelity must have been laughing immoderately at him as well as planning to rob him.
He wheeled round, his mind made up.
“Would you care to accept fifteen hundred pounds for this picture, Lord Doucester?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not,” said Lord Doucester.
“Two thousand,” said Sir Rufus.
“I regret that I am not in a position to offer it for sale at all,” said Lord Doucester. “If you are making an art collection, however, I have here a vase which may possibly appeal to you. I——”
Sir Rufus and Garstein managed to get out.
“I’ve got her without the picture,” snapped Sir Rufus. “I must say, Garstein, I’m obliged to you for opening my eyes. I——”
“You can liquidate the obligation by letting me help you land her,” said Garstein with relish.
Back at the house the two men put their heads together. As a result of the consultation, Sir Rufus presently picked up a pen and wrote:
“Dear Miss Dove, I have been thinking over your proposition that I should buy your picture ‘The Sister of Charity,’ by Clery, for ten thousand pounds. As it is a considerable sum of money, even to me, I must ask you to give me your written assurance that the picture is genuine. If you will do this, and will bring it to my house tomorrow morning at eleven, I will have pleasure in handing you my cheque. I am, yours very sincerely, Rufus Blatch (Bart.).”
“That’s all right,” said Garstein eagerly. “Now we’ll get off to Scotland Yard. But give her notheth, not a cheque. Thafer. You’ll get ’em back at the polithe thtathion. You mutht pay her or the crime is not complete. Thee?”
Sir Rufus saw, and the two friends set off to Scotland Yard.
At ten-thirty on the following morning—so as to be in good time—Detective-Inspector Rason and Talbot his junior, enclosed themselves in two huge curtains that hung over the bow window in Sir Rufus Blatch’s spacious library. Behind a screen in a corner of the room stood Mr. Garstein in the rôle of entirely independent witness. Astride the hearth stood Sir Rufus Blatch himself, inwardly fuming, but outwardly presenting a very over-acted indifference.
Sir Rufus constantly rehearsed what he would say when Fidelity Dove came in. He had ample time for rehearsal between ten-thirty and eleven, the hour at which Fidelity was expected. At five minutes to eleven he was suffering badly from stage-fright. By five minutes past eleven the stage-fright was less pronounced. By a quarter past eleven it had given way to irritation.
By twenty past eleven Sir Rufus was seized with exasperation.
“The whole thing’s a frost!” he cried out. “She’s got wind of what’s happening and has been frightened off.” He spoke to the room at large. From behind the screen came a thin voice:
“Let’th give it till twelve o’clock. I don’t mind waiting.”
“Quiet, please!” ordered Detective-Inspector Rason from behind the curtains. “There’s a car drawing up outside.”
Sir Rufus Blatch strode to the window. Fidelity Dove’s limousine had stopped in the road below and out of it stepped Fidelity herself. She was, as always, in grey—the grey of cathedral cloisters. While Sir Rufus watched, the chauffeur sprang from his seat and followed his mistress into the house, carrying the picture.
Sir Rufus reported events in a hoarse whisper and waited.
“Miss Dove,” announced the butler.
Sir Rufus Blatch bustled forward, contorting his mouth to a sickly smile while his eyes remained furious.
“Good morning, Miss Dove. I see you’ve brought the picture!” he remarked with quite commendable brightness.
“Of course, Sir Rufus!” said Fidelity. “Did I not promise? And is not the given word the greatest of all pledges? Where shall my man put the Clery?”
“Oh, anywhere, anywhere,” said Sir Rufus airily. “If he’ll put it down against the wall there it will do for the present.”
Sir Rufus offered Fidelity a chair and himself fussed until the chauffeur was out of the room.
“You have not forgotten the guarantee?” asked Sir Rufus, trying to make his voice sound merely conversational.
“Assuredly not,” said Fidelity, and added: “I agree with you that in transactions between friends the very strictest etiquette should prevail. Friendship seems to me like one of those beautiful sunflowers—you may handle it with freedom but you must never lean upon the stem. I beg you to read this guarantee with the utmost particularity. If you can, Sir Rufus, pretend for the moment that I am an entirely unscrupulous person.”
Sir Rufus managed a throaty laugh as with trembling fingers he took the guarantee.
“ ‘To Sir Rufus Blatch,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Sir, I guarantee that the picture “Sister of Charity,” for which you have offered me the sum of ten thousand pounds, is by Josef Clery and is in every respect genuine. (Signed) Fidelity Dove.’
“That is quite satisfactory, Miss Dove,” said Sir Rufus, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. He opened a drawer in his desk. “Here are notes to the value of ten thousand pounds. If you will be good enough to count them you will then perhaps sign this receipt.”
Fidelity took the notes and placed them in her bag.
“You must allow me a woman’s privilege of departing from my own principles,” she said, her voice like the call of birds at evensong. “I am going to trust you where I would not let you trust me. May I have this pen?”
In a rounded, schoolgirlish hand, Fidelity Dove signed the receipt for ten thousand pounds, blotted it, and handed it to Sir Rufus. Then she rose.
“Something in the air, Sir Rufus, tells me that you are busy. It makes me just a little frightened, and I’m going to run away as fast as I can.”
“No, you don’t, ma tear, not this time!”
Fidelity gave a little cry of alarm as the screen was precipitated with a crash and Mr. Julius Garstein thrust himself forward between herself and the door. At the same moment the curtains parted, and Detective-Inspector Rason and his assistant Talbot stepped into the room.
“Sir Rufus!” cried Fidelity in alarm. “What does this mean?”
“It means, Miss Dove,” replied Sir Rufus ponderously, “that in the presence of three witnesses you have sold to me for ten thousand pounds a picture which you know perfectly well to be an impudent fake.”
Fidelity looked from Sir Rufus to Detective-Inspector Rason on the one hand and Garstein on the other. She swayed a little and caught the back of a chair to steady herself.
“I don’t understand!” she said. She looked like a child who has been struck for the first time in its life.
“That’s just it,” snapped Sir Rufus. “You haven’t understood anything from the first. You thought I’d be fool enough to pay ten thousand pounds for a picture without making any inquiries about it—just to see you smile. You thought I could go on swallowing drivel about friendship and sunflowers and what not—”
“There’s no need for this, Sir Rufus,” said Rason stepping forward. “Miss Dove will accompany me to the station, I hope of her own free will.”
“Am I under arrest?” gasped Fidelity.
“Yes,” said Rason. “And I’d take it quietly, if I were you, Miss Dove.”
Fidelity looked at Garstein as if a light were breaking over her.
“Oh, I see it all,” she said. “Mr. Garstein once accused me of robbing him. He has poisoned your mind, Sir Rufus. I beg you for your own sake rather than mine——”
“I always thought you’d take defeat gamely when it came, Miss Dove,” said Rason, disappointment in his voice.
From the bag that contained ten thousand pounds in notes, Fidelity took a handkerchief. Sobbing bitterly, she allowed Detective-Inspector Rason to lead her downstairs and into a waiting taxi.
“All right, you follow on behind,” said Rason to his junior.
As the taxi started, a change came over Fidelity Dove. The handkerchief was whisked back into the deep velvet bag. Detective-Inspector Rason noted with sudden alarm that her eyes were quite dry.
“This is our second little taxi-ride together, Mr. Rason. Last time, if I remember rightly, it was the prelude to a very thrilling little incident.” The detective said nothing, and she added in a confidential whisper in his ear: “There’s going to be just as exciting an incident at the end of this one.”
Rason drew an automatic pistol from his hip pocket and held it on his knee.
“If any of your friends attempt to rescue you, Miss Dove, the law allows me to use this.”
“The law allows you to deal death for the protection of Sir Rufus Blatch’s ill-gotten gains!” murmured Fidelity. She took out the ten thousand pounds and gazed sorrowfully at the notes. “How many of these flimsy scraps of paper, Mr. Rason, must be cast into the scale to balance a human life?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Detective-Inspector Rason, and then as the taxi slowed: “Your pals have missed their chance. Here we are, Miss Dove.”
Fidelity was again sobbing as Detective-Inspector Rason led her into the charge-room.
Sir Rufus stated the charge without reluctance. A relish was added to the proceedings by an occasional broken protest, an intermittent choking sob from Fidelity Dove. Sir Rufus contrived to delay until Fidelity, still sobbing, was led away to the cells. The ten thousand pounds, he noted, was impounded by the sergeant in charge.
Garstein had contributed his quota, and the two friends returned to Sir Rufus’s house for the purpose of taking lunch and each other’s congratulations.
The lunch tended to elongate itself. Sir Rufus made a clean breast of his experiences with Fidelity Dove, and the anecdotes were many if, for the most part, imaginary. It was three o’clock before they had finished their coffee, and then their serenity was disturbed by the reappearance of Detective-Inspector Rason.
The confidence had vanished from the detective’s manner. He looked positively haggard.
“I’d be obliged if you two gentlemen would accompany me to the station,” he said. He kept on saying it, and would say no more, and in the end they went.
In the charge-room they came face to face with Lord Doucester, who bowed distantly. By his side was Mr. Edgar Bloomfield, one of the foremost art authorities in the country. It was the sergeant who explained. Rason retired to a far corner and turned his back upon the scene.
“About this charge you made against Miss Dove of selling you a fake picture, Sir Rufus,” began the sergeant. “This gentleman here—his lordship—says he sold the original picture to Miss Dove this morning; she told him at the time that she wished to sell it to you. This other gentleman, I understand, is an expert. He has examined the picture that was brought here and says there’s no doubt about it.”
Sir Rufus removed his silk hat and mopped his brow. The sergeant had to explain the whole thing over again before he grasped it. Sir Rufus in bewilderment turned to Lord Doucester.
“When I saw you last night, Lord Doucester, you told me that your picture was not for sale.”
“Pardon me,” said Lord Doucester coldly, “I told you I was not at liberty to sell it to you. I was not. I had received the day before one hundred pounds from Miss Fidelity Dove for the option to purchase that picture within three months for two thousand pounds. She had also requested secrecy regarding the arrangement. Miss Dove called this morning and paid me the two thousand pounds, mentioning quite frankly that she intended to sell it to you at a profit.”
Sir Rufus gasped.
“Five hundred per thent!” came the feeble wail from Garstein. “And that letter you wrote wath a contract to purchase. You can’t get out of it.”
A voluble discussion followed. Assurances by Lord Doucester and Mr. Bloomfield were repeated. The sergeant again cut in.
“I presume you drop the charge against Miss Dove, Sir Rufus?” asked the sergeant.
For a moment Sir Rufus hesitated.
“There’s no charge to make,” said Lord Doucester contemptuously. “If you have finished with me, sergeant, I will go.”
“May I wait and speak to Miss Dove?” asked Sir Rufus. It was a mild breach of the regulations but in the tangled circumstances the sergeant consented. A couple of minutes later Fidelity was brought in.
“The charge against you has been dropped, Miss Dove,” said the sergeant while he signed the necessary papers. “I have to return you your property.”
The sergeant handed her the big grey bag. Fidelity counted the notes and gave the sergeant a receipt, glanced at Rason’s immovable back, bade him a soft good-afternoon, and then appeared for the first time to catch sight of Sir Rufus.
Sir Rufus breathed deeply.
“I ask you, Miss Dove, in the presence of the police, whether you are going to return that ten thousand to me,” he said.
“If you are discontented with your bargain you can communicate with my solicitors,” said Fidelity with dignity. She gave him a little bow and cast down her eyes modestly.
“Cut your loss,” muttered Garstein to Sir Rufus.
“That is very good advice, Mr. Garstein,” said Fidelity without looking up. “Sir Rufus, in your hour of tribulation I perceive that you have a good friend to advise you. Would you like to cut your loss, Sir Rufus?”
“Are you offering me a compromise?” demanded Sir Rufus.
“Certainly,” said Fidelity. “I feel that you are more sinned against than sinning, Sir Rufus. Your heart was poisoned and your head confused. I will be generous.”
“Generous?” clamoured Sir Rufus. “Generous?”
“And my generosity,” went on Fidelity, “shall be rewarded by the contemplation of yours. The other day you showed me your pocket cheque-book. If you have it on you, as I am sure you have, I suggest that you write a cheque for a thousand pounds to the Police Orphanage. If you will do that, I will telephone my solicitors to stop the action against you for malicious arrest and imprisonment. The cheque should be handed to Detective-Inspector Rason.”
Rason made a violent movement, which he as violently checked. Garstein looked affronted. Sir Rufus waved his arm foolishly.
The sergeant was seized with a coughing fit. Like every true policeman, he was more than ready to do his bit for the Orphanage.
“Miss Dove has been in touch with her solicitors, I can vouch for that, sir,” he put in to aid Sir Rufus in forming a decision.
“You would have the barefathed impudenth—” began Garstein.
“Sir Rufus has digged a pit for me and fallen into it himself,” said Fidelity, and her voice was exquisitely sad. “He must clamber out of it as best he can. To redeem my good name I would gladly endure the full glare of publicity upon every detail of the affair.”
Sir Rufus leant heavily against the sergeant’s desk. His hand went to his breast-pocket and then he dashed it away again.
“The police often risk their lives in the discharge of their duty,” said Fidelity almost with reverence. “Mr. Rason will tell you that he was once in grave peril from a giant crane. For myself, I would gladly forego my rights if the Orphanage were to benefit. Charity, Sir Rufus, covers a multitude of sins.”
Sir Rufus snatched the sergeant’s pen. Rason, white with fury, accepted the cheque.
Fidelity after ’phoning her solicitors, breathed a benediction upon her foes and went forgivingly away.