Six Against the Yard

Lying idly in his bath, the instigator of this unique volume contemplated murder. There existed one whom he wished dead, and it occurred to him that most people, however Christian, knew of one for whom they desired a similar fate.

Thus it was that this book, with its brilliant band of contributors, grew into being. We wrote to each of them and suggested, quite casually, that they might like to commit, upon paper, a murder which they felt to be as perfect in its execution as they could conceive. With enthusiasm they entered into the idea, and each of them has produced in the form of a short novel an exact description of the circumstances and perpetration of their crime. From its instigation to its final act they have, in their own way, perfected their plans, lured their victims, dispatched them from life and covered their tracks.

But have their plans been as fool-proof as they believe? Have they made, as so many, criminals do make, that tiny slip which will lead to their detection? Is Dorothy Sayers quite certain that she will not hang from the neck until she is dead? Is Father Knox convinced that the jury will acquit him, if he finds himself in the dock? Is Anthony Berkeley prepared to withstand the searching questions of the police?

And it is here that Ex-Superintendent Cornish of the C.I.D. comes along with his vast experience of crime in real life. At the conclusion of each short novel Mr. Cornish deals with the case from the police point of view. He visits the scene of the crime and, with the facts in his possession which he has culled from the story, sets to work to find that flaw in the execution which will enable him to bring about the arrest of Margery Allingham or Russell Thorndike. Is he successful? Has he found those tell-tale clues, and if he hasn’t, can you?

Margery Allingham

THIS IS A CONFESSION. I WANT TO TELL THE whole truth and to explain how it happened.

In the first place my name is not Margery Allingham. I was born Margaret Hawkins, and later on, when I went on the stage, I changed it to Polly Oliver. I don’t suppose you remember the name now, but your fathers might, although I don’t know … it’s no good me pretending.

I was clever and I had looks when I was younger, but I was never what you might call a top-liner, not like Louie. It’s really because of her that I’m confessing at all. The fair boy, who looked too young to be a policeman when he took his hat off, didn’t suspect me. I don’t think anybody did, not even the coroner, and there was a shrewd old man if ever I saw one.

I suppose you would say that I’ve got clean away with it, but I want to tell about it because of Louie. After all, she was the main cause of it. If it hadn’t been for her, poor old girl, I certainly shouldn’t have ever brought myself to stretch out my hand and–––

But I’m coming to that.

Louie and I were pals, not like girls on the stage are nowadays. I’m not saying anything against them, but they’re not the women we used to be. Little bits of rubbish they look to me, as they come in and out of my house. They don’t look like actresses. That was one thing about me and Louie. In the old days—I’m talking about thirty or forty years ago—if you saw us a mile off you’d know we were in the profession, with our white boots and our bits of fluff, and the boys running along behind.