Free Appleby Talks Again by Michael Innes

“But they have vitality. For what it is worth, then, your specimen does attract me. Was he a great criminal?”
    Appleby considered. “Do you know, I didn’t find it at all easy to say? But I suspected the answer to be in the negative. You never heard of Leonard Morton?”
    “Never. Is this his photograph?”
    Appleby smiled. “Sit down, my dear chap, and I’ll tell you the tale.”
     
    “It’s sometimes said that if the whole population was fingerprinted the police and the law-courts would be saved some pretty large headaches. And Morton is a case in point.
    “His parents had been wealthy folk who lost their lives in some accident when he was a baby. There were no near relatives, and young Leonard was brought up in a careful enough, but rather impersonal way. Nobody had much occasion to be interested in him, and he seems to have had no talent for impressing himself upon the world.
    “You spoke of vitality. I suspect he shoved most of that into a rugger scrum. And by his companions there, I suppose, he was remembered only as so much heave and shove. He made no print , so to speak, as a personality. Which was awkward, in view of what happened.
    “He took off into the skies one day – it was for the purpose of bombing Berlin – and ceased to be a recognisable physical object some hours later.”
    I was horrified. “Do you mean,” I asked Appleby, “that he was charred to a cinder?”
    “Nothing so drastic. But he was abominably burned. Or that was the story the world was asked to believe later. At the time, Morton was posted as missing, believed killed. No word of him came through, you see, as a POW or anything. Then the war ended, and suddenly there was this mutilated man with his story – his story of being Leonard Morton.
    “There was nothing out of the way in it. He had baled out; every rag had been blasted or burned off him; and he had for a long time suffered a complete loss of memory. And now here he was back in England, proposing to claim quite a substantial fortune. But was he Morton?”
    “If he wasn’t he had certainly known Morton – and known him as quite a young man, before the war started. There could, it seemed, be no doubt about that. If he was an impostor, he wasn’t impersonating a dead man whom he had met for the first time in a hospital or prison camp. But here certainty ended.”
    Appleby paused at this to stare thoughtfully at the photograph, and a question occurred to me. “At which point did you come into the affair?”
    “In the first few days. There was, you see, a time-element. For a reason I’ll presently explain, it was important that the truth should be got at quickly.
    “Sooner or later, of course, it was bound to be got at – although a bold imposter might well persuade himself it wasn’t so. The claimant – as I suppose he should be called – hadn’t materialised miraculously on a frontier of post-war Germany. He had come out in a train, and the train had had a starting point, and so on. There existed, as you can guess, a highly efficient organisation for tackling just such problems, and there was little doubt that in the end the facts would be run to earth.”
    “But meanwhile there was this time-element?”
    “Precisely. Nearly everybody’s relations with Morton had been impersonal, as I’ve said. Or, if not impersonal, say professional. Schoolmasters, holiday tutors, trustees, executors, bankers – and so on. They could none of them be confident, one way or the other. Quite early on they got together and held a sort of committee of inquiry on the young man, with a fellow called Firth, who was senior trustee, in the chair.
    “Well, the claimant did pretty well. When he realised that they conceived it their duty to question his identity, he behaved very much as the genuine man might have been expected to do – if the genuine man was a pretty decent and forbearing sort of fellow. They were impressed, but by no means convinced.
    “And then the claimant