THE NURSING HOME MURDER
Sir John Phillips, the Harley Street surgeon,
and his beautiful nurse, Jane Harden, are
almost too nervous to operate. The emergency
case on the table before them is the Home
Secretary—and they both have very good,
personal reasons to wish him dead. Within
hours he does die; although the operation itself
was a complete success . . .
THE
NURSING HOME
MURDER
Ngaio Marsh
A New Portway Large Print Book
CHIVERS PRESS
BATH
FR1;FR2;FR3;First published in Great Britain 1936
by
Geoffrey Bles Ltd
This Large Print edition published by
Chivers Press
by arrangement with
William Collins Sons & Co Ltd
and in U.S.A. with
Little, Brown & Company Inc
at the request of
London & Home Counties Branch
of
The Library Association
1989
ISBN 0 7451 7151 6
© Ngaio Marsh 1936
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Marsh, Ngaio, 18991982 The nursing home murder
I. Title
823 [F]
ISBN 0-7451-7151-6
.^W^. --I-- I*
„ ^^the
§0\P,BOROUCH
pubuc library'
BOARp
CONTENTS
1 10 Downing Street 1
Friday, the fifth. Afternoon
2 Introduces a Patent Medicine 9
Friday, the fifth. Evening
3 Sequel to a Scene in The House 20
Thursday, the eleventh. Afternoon
4 Post-Operative 35
Thursday, the eleventh. Late aftemooon
5 Lady O'Callaghan Insists 44
Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon
6 Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn 57
Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon and evening
7 Post-Mortem 71
Monday, the fifteenth. Afternoon
8 Hyoscine 84
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon
9 Three Nurses 98
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon
10 Thorns in the Theatre 116
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon
11 The Anaesthetist 128
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon and evening
12 The Lenin Hall Lot 143
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Night
13 Surprising Antics of a Chemist 159
Tuesday to Wednesday. The small hours
14 'Fulvitavolts' 173
Wednesday, the seventeenth. Morning and
afternoon
v
15 The 'Clean Breast' of Sir John Phillips
Wednesday to Thursday
16 Reconstruction Begun
Thursday, the eighteenth. Afternoon
17 Reconstruction Concluded
Thursday, the eighteenth. Late afternoon
18 Retrospective
Saturday, the twentieth. Evening
VI
THE NURSING HOME MURDER
4
-FR1;CHAPTER ONE
10 DOWNING STREET
Friday, the fifth. Afternoon. The Home Secretary, with an air of finality, laid
down the papers from which he had been reading
and glanced round the table. He was struck, not for
the first time, by the owlish solemnity of the other
members of the Cabinet. 'Really,' he thought, 'we
look for all the world like a Cabinet Meeting in a
cinema. We are too good to be true.' As if to
confirm this impression, the Prime Minister flung
himself back in his chair, laid the palms of his
hands on the table, and cleared his throat.
'Well, gentlemen,' he said portentously, 'there
we have it.'
'Strong!' said the Foreign Secretary. He folded
his arms and stared at the ceiling.
'Drastic!' added the Lord Chancellor. 'I venture
to think--drastic.'
'But in my opinion,' the Postmaster-General said,
'neither too strong nor too drastic.' He fidgeted
with his tie and became almost human. 'Damn it
all,' he said irritably, 'we've got to do something.'
There was a pause. The Home Secretary drew in
his breath sharply.
'Well,' repeated the Prime Minister, 'we have
talked a great deal, gentlemen, and now we've
heard the proposed Bill. We have all the facts. To
put it briefly, we are perfectly well aware of the
activities of these anarchistic personages. We know
what they are about and we know they mean to take
1
definite action. We are agreed that the importance
of the matter can hardly be overstated. The reports
from the P.O., the Secret Service and the C.I.D.
are sufficiently conclusive. We have to deal with a
definite menace and a growing menace. It's a bad
business. This Bill5—he made a gesture towards the
Home Secretary—'may be drastic. Does anyone
think it too drastic? Should it be modified?'
'No,' said the Postmaster-General. 'No.5
'I agree,' said the Attorney-General.
'Has it occurred to you,' asked the Lord
Chancellor, looking across the table to the Home
Secretary, 'that you yourself. Sir Derek, have most
cause to hesitate?'
The others looked at him. The Home Secretary
smiled faintly. 'As sponsor for this Bill,' continued
the Lord Chancellor, 'you will get a lot of limelight.
We know what these people are capable of doing.
Assassination is a word that occurs rather
frequently in the reports.' The Home Secretary's
smile broadened a little. 'I think I do not exaggerate
if I say their attention will be focused on yourself.
Have you considered this possibility, my dear
fellow?'
'I quite appreciate your point,' answered the
Home Secretary. 'The Bill is my child—I'll not
disclaim parentship and I'll look after myself.'
'I think the Home Secretary should be given
proper protection,' said the Chancellor of the
Exchequer.
'Certainly,' agreed the Prime Minister warmly.
'We owe it to the country. Her valuable assets must
be guarded. The Home Secretary is an extremely
valuable asset.'
Sir Derek made a curious grimace.
2
'I can assure you,' he said, 'that I'm in no hurry
to play the hero's part in a theatrical assassination.
On the other hand, I really don't feel there is any
necessity for me to walk down to the House
surrounded by policemen dressed up as private
secretaries and journalists.'
'I met Roderick Alleyn of the C.I.D yesterday,'
said the Prime Minister ponderously, 'and
discussed this business quite unofficially with him.
He's had these gentry under his eye for some time.
He's the last man on earth to exaggerate a position
of this sort. He considers that the Minister who
introduces a Bill to deal with them will be in real
danger from the organisation. I strongly urge you to
let the Yard take any measures it thinks necessary
for your protection.'
'Very well,' said Sir Derek. He moved uneasily in
his chair and passed his hand over his face. 'I take
it,' he added wearily, 'that the Cabinet approves the
introduction of the Bill?'
They fell to discussing again the suggested
measures. Their behaviour was weirdly solemn.
They used parliamentary phrases and politicians'
gestures. It was as though they had so saturated
themselves with professional behaviourism that
they had lost the knack of being natural. The Home
Secretary sat with his eyes fixed on the papers
before him, as though sunk in a profound and
unwilling meditation.
At last the Prime Minister put the matter to the
vote—did the Cabinet consider the introduction of
the Home Secretary's Bill advisable? It did.
'Well,' said the Prime Minister, 'that is as far as
we need go.'
The Home Secretary groaned slightly.
3
They all turned to him. His face was extremely
white and he was leaning forward over the table.
'O'Callaghan!' exclaimed the Postmaster-General.
'What's the matter? You're ill?'
'It's all right. Pain. Pass off in a moment.'
'Brandy,' said the Prime Minister and stretched
out his hand to a bell.
'Water,' whispered Sir Derek. 'Just water.'
When it came he drank it greedily and then mopped
his face.
'Better,' he told them presently, 'I'm sorry.'
They looked uncomfortable and concerned. The
Lord Chancellor hovered uncertainly over him. The
others eyed him with that horrified ineptitude with
which we observe sudden illness in our fellow men.
'I must apologise,' said Sir Derek. 'I've had one
or two bouts like this lately. Appendix, I imagine.
I'll have to get vetted. It's an infernal bore for
myself and everyone else. I want to stave it off until
after this business if I can.' He drew himself up in
his chair, paused a moment, and then got slowly to
his feet.
'Everything settled?' he asked.
'Yes, yes. Won't you lie down for a little?'
suggested the Prime Minister.
'Thank you so much, P.M.—no, I'll go home, I
think. If someone could tell my chauffeur—' A
secretary was summoned. O'Callaghan turned to
the door. The Postmaster-General made as if to take
his arm. Sir Derek nodded his thanks, but walked
out independently. In the hall the secretary took his
coat from the butler and helped him into it.
'Shall I come out to the car, Sir Derek?'
'No, thank you, my boy. I'm my own man
again.' With a word of farewell to the Prime
4
Minister he went out alone.
'He looks devilish ill,' said the Prime Minister
irritably. 'I hope to heaven it's not serious.'
'It'll be damned awkward if it is,' said the
Postmaster-General. 'Poor old O'Callaghan,' he
added hurriedly.
In his car the Home Secretary looked out of the
window drearily. They turned out of Downing
Street into Whitehall. It was a cold, gusty evening.
The faces of the people in the streets looked
pinched and their clothes drab and uneventful.
Their heads were bent to the wind. A thin rain was
driving fitfully across the window-pane. He
wondered if he was going to be very ill. He was
overwhelmed with melancholy. Perhaps he would
die of this thing that seized him with such
devastating agony. That would save the anarchists
and the C.I.D. a lot of trouble. It would also save
him a lot of trouble. Did he really care tuppence
about his Bill or about the machinations of people
who wanted to revolutionise the system of British
government? Did he care about anything or
anybody? He was conscious only of a pallid
indifference and an overwhelming inertia. He was
going to be ill.
At the top of Constitution Hill his car was held
up by a traffic jam. A taxi drew up close beside it.
He could see that there was a fare inside, but no
more than that. The driver looked several times at
O'Callaghan's chauffeur and called out something
which his man answered gruffly. O'Callaghan had
the feeling that the person inside the taxi stared in
at his window. He was being watched. He had
experienced this sensation many times lately. He
thought, with a sort of amusement, of the Prime
5
Minister's anxiety. He pulled a cord and the inside
of the car was flooded with light.
'Give them a good view while I'm about it,' he
thought grimly.
To his surprise the windows of the taxi were lit
up as if in answer. He peered across, shading the
pane with his hand. The taxi's fare was a solitary
man in a dinner-jacket. He sat with his hands
resting on the knob of a stick. His silk hat was worn
at a slight angle, revealing a clear-cut and singularly
handsome profile. It was an intelligent and
well-bred face, with a straight nose, firm mouth and
dark eyes. The man did not turn his head, and
while Sir Derek O'Callaghan still watched him, the
ranks of cars moved on and the taxi was left behind.
'That's someone I know,' thought O'Callaghan
with a kind of languid surprise. He tried for a
moment to place this individual, but it was too
much bother. He gave it up. In a few minutes his
chauffeur pulled up outside his own house in
Catherine Street and opened the door of the car.
The Home Secretary got out slowly and toiled up
the steps. His butler let him in. While he was still
in the hall his wife came downstairs. He stood and
contemplated her without speaking.
'Well, Derek,' she said.
'Hallo, Cicely,'
She stood at the foot of the stairs and watched
him composedly.
'You're late,' she observed after a moment.
'Am I? I suppose I am. Those fellows jawed and
jawed. Do you mind if I don't change? I'm tired.'
'Of course not. There's only Ruth dining.'
He grimaced.
'I really can't help it if your sister likes to see you
6
occasionally,' remarked Lady O'Callaghan
tranquilly.
'All right,' said her husband wearily. 'All right.'
He glanced at her inimically and thought how
tiresomely good-looking she was. Always so
perfectly groomed, so admirably gowned, so
maddeningly remote. Their very embraces were
masked in a chilly patina of good form.
Occasionally he had the feeling that she rather
disliked him, but as a rule he had no feeling about
her at all. He supposed he had married her in a
brief wave of enthusiasm for polar exploration.
There had been no children. Just as well since there
was a taint of insanity in his own family. He
supposed he was all right himself. His wife would
have brought out any traces of it, he reflected
sardonically. Cicely was an acid test for normality.
She walked away from him towards the
drawing-room. At the door she paused for a
moment to ask:
'Have you been worried at all by the pain today?'
'Oh, yes,' said O'Callaghan.
'What a bore it is,' she murmured vaguely, and
went into the drawing-room.
He looked after her for a moment and then
crossed the little hall and entered his own study, a
companionable room with a good fireplace, a
practical desk and deep square-angled chairs. Cedar
logs blazed in the grate and a tray with glasses and a
decanter of his particular sherry waited near his
particular chair. She certainly saw to it that he was
adequately looked after.
He poured himself out a glass of sherry and
opened his afternoon post. It was abysmally dull.
His secretary had dealt with the bulk of his letters
Ih
and had evidently considered that these were all
personal. Most of them were so marked. One writer
begged for money, another for preferment, a third
for information. A typewritten envelope had already
been opened by his secretary. It contained an
anonymous and threatening message and was
merely the latest of a long series of such
communications. He picked up the last letter,
glanced at the envelope, raised his eyebrows and
then frowned. He finished his sherry and poured
out another glass before he opened the letter and
read it.
It was from Jane Harden.
From Jane. He might have known he wouldn't
hear the end of that business in a hurry. He might
have known he was a fool to suppose she would let
him go without making difficulties. That weekend
in Cornwall--it had been pleasant enough but
before it was over he'd known he was in for trouble.
Damn it all, women were never fair--never. They
talked about leading their own lives, said they
wanted to get their experience like men, and then
broke all the rules of the game. He glanced again
over the letter. She reminded him that she had 'given herself to him (what nonsense that was.
She'd wanted it as much as he had!), that their
families had been neighbours in Dorset for
generations before her father went bankrupt. He
flinched away from the imputation of disloyalty
which, since he was a tolerably honest and
conservative man, made him profoundly
uncomfortable. She said he'd treated her as though
she was a suburban pick-up. He wished fretfully
that she had been. She wrote that she was going to a
post in a private nursing-home. Would he write to
8
her at the Nurses' Club? Up to this point the letter
had apparently been written with a certain amount
of self-control, but from then onwards O'Callaghan
saw, with something like horror, that Jane's
emotions had run away with her pen. She loved him
but what had she left to offer him? she asked. Must
they both forget? She was fighting for her soul and
nothing was too desperate. There was a devil
tearing at her soul and if she lost him it would get
her. She added again that she loved him and that if
he persisted in ignoring her she would do
something terrible. With a sudden petulant gesture
he crumpled up the sheet of paper and threw it on
the fire.
'Blast!' he said. 'Blast! Blast! Blast!'
There was a light tap on the door, which opened
far enough to disclose a large nose, a vague mouth,
a receding chin, and a gigantic earring.
'Affairs of state, Derry?' asked a coy voice.
'Affairs of state?'
'Oh, come in, Ruth,' said Sir Derek O'Callaghan.
CHAPTER TWO
INTRODUCES A
PATENT MEDICINE
Friday, the fifth. Evening.
During the following week the Home Secretary
followed his usual routine. He had become more or
less accustomed to the attacks of pain. If anything
they occurred more often and with increasing
severity. He told himself that the day after he had
9
introduced his Bill, he would consult a doctor.
Meanwhile he took three tablets of aspirin
whenever the pain threatened to become
unendurable, and grew more and more dispirited
and wretched. The memory of Jane Harden's letter
lurked at the back of his thoughts, like a bad taste
in the conscience.
His sister Ruth, an advanced hypochondriac,
with the persistence of a missionary, continually
pressed upon him strange boluses, pills and
draughts. She made a practice of calling on him
after dinner armed with chemists' parcels and a
store of maddening condolences and counsels. On
Friday night he retreated to his study, begging his
wife to tell Ruth, if she appeared, that he was
extremely busy, and not to be interrupted. His wife
looked at him for a moment.
'I shall ask Nash,' she said, 'to say we are both
out.'
He paused and then said uncomfortably:
'I don't think I quite like—'
'I too,' said his wife, 'find myself bored by Ruth.'
'Still, Cicely—after all she is exceedingly kind.
Perhaps it would be better—'
'You will see her then?'
'No, damn it, I won't.'
'Very well, Derek. I'll tell Nash. Has your pain
been worrying you lately?'
'Quite a lot, thank you.'
'That, of course, is why you are irritable. I think
you are foolish not to see a doctor.'
'I think I told you I would call in John Phillips as
soon as this Bill was through.'
'It's for you to decide, of course. Shall I ask Nash
to take your coffee into the study?'
10
'If you please.'
'Yes.' She had a curiously remote way of saying
'Yes,' as though it was a sort of bored comment on
everything he uttered.
'Good night, Derek. I am going up early and
won't disturb you.'
'Good night, Cicely.'
She stepped towards him and waited. By some
mischance his kiss fell upon her lips instead of her
cheek. He almost felt he ought to , apologise.
However, she merely repeated 'Good night' and he
went off to his study.
Here his secretary Ronald Jameson awaited him.
Jameson, just down from Oxford, was an eager but
not too tiresomely earnest young man. He did his
work well, and was intelligent. Normally,
O'Callaghan found him tolerable and even likeable.
To-night, the sight of his secretary irritated and
depressed him.
'Well, Ronald?'
He sank down into his chair, and reached for a
cigar.
'Sir John Phillips has rung up, sir, and would like
to come and see you this evening if you are free.'
'Phillips? Has anyone been talking about me to
Phillips? What does he want? Is it a professional
visit?'
'I don't think so, sir. Sir John didn't mention
your—indisposition.'
'Ring him up and say I'll be delighted. Anything
else?'
'These letters. There's another of the threatening
variety. I do wish, sir, that you'd let me talk to
Scotland Yard.'
'No. Anything else?'
11
'Only one, marked personal. It's on your desk.'
'Give it to me, will you?'
Jameson brought the letter and handed it to him.
He looked at it and experienced the sensation of
going down in a lifk It was from Jane Harden.
O'Callaghan let his arm swing down by the side of
his chair. The letter hung from his fingers. He
remained staring at the fire, the unlighted cigar
between his lips.
Ronald Jameson waited uncomfortably. At last he
produced his lighter and advanced it towards
O'Callaghan's cigar.
'Thank you,' said O'Callaghan absently.
'Is there anything I can do, sir?'
'No, thank you.'
Jameson hesitated, looked uneasily at his
employer's white face, reflected that Sir John
Phillips still awaited his message, and left the room.
For some time after the door had shut behind his
secretary O'Callaghan sat and stared at the fire. At
last, with an enormous effort, he forced himself to
read through the letter. Jane Harden had written a
frantic, bitter arraignment, rather than an appeal.
She said she felt like killing herself. A little further
on, she added that if an opportunity presented itself
she would not hesitate to kill him: 'Don't cross my
path. I'm warning you for my own sake, not for
yours. I mean it, Derek, for you and all men like
you are better out of the way. This is my final
word.—Jane Harden.'
O'Callaghan had a swift mental picture of the
letter as it would appear in the columns of the
penny Press. Rather to his surprise O'Callaghan
heard his wife speak to the secretary in the hall
outside. Something in the quality of her voice
12
arrested his attention. He listened.
'—something seems to be worrying him.'
'I think so too, Lady O'Callaghan,' Jameson
murmured.
'—any idea—any letters?' The voice faded away.
'To-night—seemed to upset—of course this
Bill—'
O'Callaghan got up and strode across the room.
He flung open the door.
His wife and Ronald Jameson stood facing each
other with something of the air of conspirators. As
he opened the door they turned their faces towards
him. Jameson's became very red and he looked
swiftly from husband to wife. Lady O'Callaghan
merely regarded Sir Derek placidly. He felt himself
trembling with anger.
'Hitherto,' he said to Jameson, 'I have seen no
reason to suppose you did not understand the
essentially confidential nature of your job.
Apparently I have been mistaken.'
'I'm—I'm terribly sorry, Sir Derek—it was only
because—'
'You have no business to discuss my letters with
anyone. With anyone. You understand?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Please don't be absurd, Derek,' said his wife. 'I
asked Mr. Jameson a question that he could not
avoid answering. We are both very worried about
you.'
O'Callaghan jerked his head. Jameson made a
miserable little bow and turned away. At the door
of his own room he paused, murmured 'I'm
extremely sorry, sir,' and disappeared.
'Really, Derek,' said Lady O'Callaghan, 'I think
you are unreasonable. I merely asked that
13
unfortunate youth if you had received any letter
that might account for your otherwise rather
unaccountable behaviour. He said a letter in this
evening's mail seemed to upset you. What was this
letter, Derek? Was it another threat from these
people—these anarchists or whatever they are?'
He was not so angry that he did not hear an
unusual note in her voice.
'Such threats are an intolerable impertinence,'
she said hastily. 'I cannot understand why you do
not deal with these people.'
'The letter had nothing whatever to do with
them, and my "unaccountable behavour," as you
call it, has nothing to do with the letter. I am
unwell and I'm worried. It may satisfy you to hear
that John Phillips is coming in this evening.'
'I'm delighted to hear it.'
The front-door bell sounded. They looked at
each other questioningly.
'Ruth?' murmured Lady O'Callaghan.
'I'm off,' he said quickly. Suddenly he felt more
friendly towards her. 'You'd better bolt, Cicely,' he
said.
She moved swiftly into his study and he followed
her. They heard Nash come out and open the door.
They listened, almost in sympathy with each other.
'Sir Derek and my lady are not at home, madam.'
'But there's a light in the study!'
They exchanged horrified glances.
'Perhaps Mr. Jameson—' said Nash.
'Just the man I want to see.'
They heard Nash bleating in dismay and the
sound of Miss Ruth O'Callaghan's umbrella being
rammed home in the ship's bucket. With one
accord they walked over to the fireplace. Lady
14
O'Callaghan lit a cigarette.
The door opened, and Ruth came in. They had a
brief glimpse of Nash's agonised countenance and
then were overwhelmed in embraces.
'There you are, darlings. Nash said you were out.5
'We're only "not at home," Ruth darling,' said
Lady O'Callaghan, very tranquilly. 'Derek expects
his doctor. It was too stupid of Nash not to realise
you were different.'
'Ah-ha,' said Ruth, with really terrifying gaiety,
'you don't defeat your old sister like that. Now,
Derry darling, I've come especially to see you, and I
shall be very cross and dreadfully hurt if you don't
do exactly what I tell you.'
She rummaged in an enormous handbag, and
fetched up out of its depths the familiar sealed
white parcel.
'Really, Ruth, I can not swallow every patent
medicine that commends itself to your attention.'
'I don't want you to do that, darling. I know you
think your old sister's a silly-billy'—she squinted
playfully at him—'but she knows what's good for
her big, famous brother. Cicely, he'll listen to you.
Please, please, persuade him to take just one of
these teeny little powders. They're too marvellous.
You've only to read the letters—'
With eager, clumsy fingers she undid the
wrapping and disclosed a round green box
decorated with the picture of a naked gentleman,
standing in front of something that looked like an
electric shock.
'There are six powders altogether,' she told them
excitedly, 'but after the first, you feel a marked
improvement. "Fulvitavolts". Hundreds of letters,
Derry, from physicians, surgeons, politicians—lots
15
of politicians, Derry. They all swear by it. Their
symptoms were precisely the same as yours.
Honestly.'
She looked pathetically eager. She was so
awkward and vehement with her thick hands, her
watery eyes, and her enormous nose.
'You don't know what my symptoms are, Ruth.'
'Indeed I do. Violent abdominal seizures.
Cicely—do read it all.'
Lady O'Callaghan took the box and looked at one
of the folded cachets.
'I'll give him one to-night, Ruth,' she promised,
exactly as though she was humouring an excitable
child.
'That's topping!' Ruth had a peculiar trick of
using unreal slang. 'I'm most awfully bucked. And
in the morning all those horrid pains will have flown
away.' She made a sort of blundering, ineffectual
gesture. She beamed at them.
'And now, old girl, I'm afraid you'll have to fly
away yourself,' said O'Callaghan with a desperate
effort to answer roguishness with brotherly
playfulness. 'I think I hear Phillips arriving.'
'Come along, Ruth,' said his wife. 'We must
make ourselves scarce. Good night again, Derek.'
Ruth laid a gnarled finger on her lips and tiptoed
elaborately to the door. There she turned and blew
him a kiss.
He heard them greet Sir John Phillips briefly and
go upstairs. In his relief at being rid of his sister,
O'Callaghan felt a wave of good-fellowship for John
Phillips. Phillips was an old friend. It would be a
relief to tell him how ill he felt—to learn how ill he
really was. Perhaps Phillips would give him
something that would help him along for the time
16
being. He already felt a little better. Very likely it
was a trifling thing after all. Phillips would know.
He turned to the door with an air of pleased
expectancy. Nash opened the door and came in.
'Sir John Phillips, sir.'
Phillips entered the room.
He was an extremely tall man with an habitual
stoop. His eyes, full-lidded and of a peculiarly light
grey, were piercingly bright. No one ever saw him
without his single eye-glass and there was a rumour
that he wore it ribbonless while he operated. His
nose was a beak and his under lip jutted out
aggressively. He was unmarried, and unmoved, so
it was said, by the general tendency among his
women patients to fall extravagantly in love with
him. Perhaps next to actors medical men profit
most by the possession of that curious quality that
people call 'personality'. Sir John Phillips was, very
definitely, a personage. His rudeness was more
glamorously famous than his brilliant ability.
O'Callaghan moved towards him, his hand
extended.
'Phillips!' he said, 'I'm delighted to see you.'
Phillips ignored the hand and stood stockstill
until the door had closed behind Nash. Then he
spoke.
'You will be less delighted when you hear my
business,' he said.
'Why—what on earth's the matter with you?'
'I can scarcely trust myself to speak to you.'
'What the devil do you mean?'
'Precisely what I say. I've discovered you are a
blackguard and I've come to tell you so.'
O'Callaghan stared at him in silence.
'Apparently you are serious,' he said at last. 'May
17
I ask if you intend merely to call me names and
then walk out? Or am I to be given an explanation?'
'I'll give you your explanation. In two words.
Jane Harden.'
There was a long silence. The two men stared at
each other. At last O'Callaghan turned away. A
kind of mulish huffiness in his expression made him
look ridiculous and unlikeable.
'What about Jane Harden?' he said at last.
'Only this. She's a nurse at my hospital. For a
very long time her happiness has been an important
thing for me. I have asked her to marry me. She has
refused, over and over again. To-day she told me
why. It seems you made capital out of a friendship
with her father and out of her present poverty. You
played the "old family friend" combined with the
distinguished philanderer.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Don't lie, O'Callaghan!'
'Look here—'
'I know the facts.'
'What sort of tale have you listened to?'
'One that brought me here to-night angrier than I
ever remember myself before. I know the precise
history of your—your friendship with her. You
amused yourself, evidently. I dislike overstatement
but I believe it would be no overstatement if I said,
as I do say, that you've ruined Jane's life for her.'
'Damn' sentimental twaddle!' said O'Callaghan
breathlessly. 'She's a modern young woman and she
knows how to enjoy herself.'
'That's a complete misrepresentation.' Phillips
had turned exceedingly white, but he spoke evenly.
'If, by the phrase "a modern young woman", you
mean a "loose woman" you must know yourself it's
18
a lie. This is the only episode of the sort in her life.
She loved you and you let her suppose she was
loved in return.'
'Nothing of the sort. She gave me no reason to
suppose she attached more importance to the thing
than I did myself. You say she's in love with me. If
it's true I'm sorry. I don't think it's true. What does
she want? It's not—' O'Callaghan stopped short and
looked frightened. 'It's not that she's going to have
a child?'
'Oh, no. She has no actual claim on you. No legal
claim. Evidently you don't recognise moral
obligations.'
'I've sent her £300. What more will she want?'
'I'm so near hitting you, O'Callaghan, I think I'd
better go.'
'You can go to hell if you like. What's the matter
with you? If you don't want to marry her there's an
alternative. It ought to be quite simple—I had no
difficulty.'
'You swine!' shouted Phillips. 'My God—' He
stopped short. His lips moved tremblingly. When
he spoke again it was more quietly. 'You'd do well
to keep clear of me,' he said. 'I assure you that if
the opportunity presented itself I should have no
hesitation—none—in putting you out of the way.'
Something in O'Callaghan's face made him
pause. The Home Secretary was looking beyond
him, towards the door.
'Excuse me, sir,' said Nash quietly. He crossed
the room with a tray holding glasses and a decanter.
He put the tray down noiselessly and returned to
the door.
'Is there anything further, sir?' asked Nash.
'Sir John Phillips is leaving. Will you show
19
him out?'
'Certainly, sir.'
Without another word Phillips turned on his heel
and left the room.
'Good night, Nash,' said O'Callaghan.
'Good night, sir,' said Nash softly. He followed
Sir John Phillips out and closed the door.
O'Callaghan gave a sharp cry of pain. He
stumbled towards his chair and bent over it, leaning
on the arm. For a minute or two he hung on,
doubled up with pain. Then he managed to get into
the chair, and in a little while poured out half a
tumbler of whisky. He noticed Ruth's patent
medicine lying on the table beside him. With a
tremulous hand he shook one of the powders into
the glass and gulped it down with the whisky.
CHAPTER THREE
SEQUEL TO A SCENE
IN THE HOUSE
Thursday, the eleventh. Afternoon.
The Home Secretary paused and looked round the
House. The sea of faces was blurred and
nightmarish. They were playing that trick on him
that he had noticed before. They would swim
together like cells under a microscope and then one
face would come out clearly and stare at him. He
thought: 'I may just manage it—only one more
paragraph', and raised the paper. The type swirled
and eddied, and then settled down. He heard his
own voice. He must speak up.
20
'In view of the extraordinary propaganda—'
They were making too much noise.
'Mr. Speaker—'
A disgusting feeling of nausea, a kind of
vapourish tightness behind his nose.
'Mr. Speaker—'
He looked up again. A mistake. The sea of faces
jerked up and revolved very quickly. A tiny voice,
somewhere up in the attic, was calling: 'He's
fainted.'
He did not feel himself pitch forward across the
desk. Nor did he hear a voice from the back
benches that called out: 'You'll be worse than that
before you've finished with your bloody Bill.'
'Who's his doctor—anyone know?'
'Yes—I do. It's bound to be Sir John
Phillips—they're old friends.'
Thillips? He runs that nursing-home in Brook
Street, doesn't he?'
'I've no idea.'
'Somebody must ring Lady O'Callaghan.'
'I will if you like. I know her.'
'Is he coming round?'
'Doesn't look like it. Tillotley went to see about
the ambulance.'
'Here he is. Did you fix up for an ambulance,
Tillotley?'
'It's coming. Where are you sending him?'
'Cuthbert's gone to ring up his wife.'
'God, he looks bad!'
'Did you hear that fellow yell out from the back
benches?'
'Yes. Who was it?'
'I don't know. I say, do you think there's
anything fishy about this?'
21
'Oh, rot!'
'Here's Dr. Wendover—I didn't know he was in
the House.'
They stood back from O'Callaghan. A little
tubby man, Communist Member for a North
Country constituency, came through the group of
men and knelt down.
'Open those windows, will you?' he said.
He loosened O'Callaghan's clothes. The others
eyed him respectfully. After a minute or two he
looked round.
'Who's his medical man?' he asked.
'Cuthbert thinks it's Sir John Phillips. He's
ringing his wife now.'
'Phillips is a surgeon. It's a surgical case.'
'What's the trouble, Dr. Wendover?'
'Looks like an acute appendix. There's no time to
be lost. You'd better ring the Brook Street Private
Hospital. Is the ambulance there? Can't wait for his
wife.'
From the doorway somebody said: 'The men
from the ambulance.'
'Good. Here's your patient.'
Two men came in carrying a stretcher.
O'Callaghan was got on to it, covered up, and
carried out. Cuthbert hurried in.
'Yes,' he said, 'It's Phillips. She wants him taken
to Phillips's nursing-home.'
'He's going there,' said little Dr. Wendover, and
walked out after the ambulance men.
* * *
O'Callaghan climbed up, sickeningly, from
nowhere into semi-consciousness. Grandiloquent
22
images slid rapidly downwards. His wife's face
came near and then receded. Somebody groaned
close to him. Somebody was in bed beside him,
groaning.
'Is the pain very bad?' said a voice.
He himself was in pain.
'Bad,' he said solemnly.
The doctor will be here soon. He'll give you
something to take it away.'
He now knew it was he who had groaned.
Cicely's face came close.
'The doctor's coming, Derek.'
He closed his eyes to show he had understood.
'Poor old Derry, poor old boy.'
'I'll just leave you with him for a minute. Lady
O'Callaghan. If you want me, will you ring? I think
I hear Sir John.' A door closed.
'This pain's very bad,' said O'Callaghan clearly.
The two women exchanged glances. Lady
O'Callaghan drew up a chair to the bed and sat
down.
'It won't be for long, Derek,' she said quietly.
'It's your appendix, you know.'
'Oh.'
Ruth had begun to whisper.
'What's Ruth say?'
'Never mind me, Derry-boy. It's just silly old
Ruthie.'
He muttered something, shut his eyes, and
seemed to fall asleep.
'Cicely darling, I know you laugh at my ideas,
but listen. As soon as I heard about Derry I went
and saw Harold Sage. He's the brilliant young
chemist I told you about. I explained exactly what
Was the matter and he gave me something that he
23
c
says will relieve the pain at once and can do no harm
at all. It's an invention of his own. In a few months
all the hospitals will use it.'
She began a search in her handbag.
'Suggest it to Sir John if you like, Ruth. Of
course nothing can be done without his knowledge.'
'Doctors are so bigoted. I know, my dear. The
things Harold has told me--!'
'You seem to be very friendly with this young
man.'
'He interests me enormously, Cicely.'
'Really?'
The nurse came back.
'Sir John would like to see you for a moment,
Lady O'Callaghan.'
'Thank you. I'll come.'
Left alone with her brother, Ruth dabbed at his
hand. He opened his eyes.
'Oh, God, Ruth,' he said, 'I'm in such pain.'
'Just hold on for one moment, Derry. I'll make it
better.'
She had found the little package. There was a
tumbler of water by the bedside.
In a few minutes Phillips came back with the
nurse.
'Sir John is going to make an examination,' said
Nurse Graham quietly to Ruth. 'If you wouldn't mind joining Lady O'Callaghan for a moment.'
'I shan't keep you long,' said Phillips and opened
the door.
Ruth, with a distracted and guilty look at her
brother, gathered herself up and blundered out of
the room.
O'Callaghan had relapsed into unconsciousness.
Nurse Graham uncovered the abdomen and Phillips
24
with his long inquisitive fingers pressed it
there—and there—and there. His eyes were closed
and his brain seemed to be in his hands.
'That will do,' he said suddenly. 'It looks like
peritonitis. He's in a bad way. I've warned them we
may need the theatre.' The nurse covered the
patient and in answer to a nod from Phillips fetched
the two women. As soon as they came in, Phillips
turned to Lady O'Callaghan but did not look at her.
The operation should be performed immediately,'
he said. 'Will you allow me to try to get hold of
Somerset Black?'
'But you, Sir John, won't you do it yourself?'
Phillips walked over to the window and stared
out.
'You wish me to operate?' he said at last.
'Of course I do. I know that sometimes surgeons
dislike operating on their friends, but unless you
feel—I do hope—I beg you to do it.'
'Very well.'
He returned to the patient.
'Nurse,' he said, 'tell them to get Dr. Thorns.
He's in the hospital and has been warned that an
operation may be necessary. Ring up Dr. Grey and
arrange for the anaesthetic—I'll speak to him
myself. Tell the theatre sister I'll operate as soon as
they are ready. Now, Lady O'Callaghan, if you
don't mind leaving the patient, Nurse will show you
where you can wait.'
The nurse opened the door and the others moved
away from the bed. At the threshold they were
arrested by a kind of stifled cry. They turned and
looked back to the bed. Derek O'Callaghan had
opened his eyes and was staring as if hypnotised at
Phillips.
25
'Don't—5 he said. 'Don't—let—'
His lips moved convulsively. A curious whining
sound came from them. For a moment or two he
struggled for speech and then suddenly his head fell
back.
'Come along. Lady O'Callghan,' said the nurse
gently. 'He doesn't know what he is saying, you
know.'
* * *
In the anteroom of the theatre two nurses and a
sister prepared for the operation.
'Now you mustn't forget,' said Sister Marigold,
who was also the matron of the hospital, 'that Sir
John likes his instruments left on the tray. He does
not like them handed to him.'
She covered a tray of instruments and Jane
Harden carried it into the theatre.
'It's a big responsibility,' said the sister chattily,
'for a surgeon, in a case of this sort. It would be a
terrible catastrophe for the country if anything
happened to Sir Derek O'Callaghan. The only
strong man in the Government, in my opinion.'
Nurse Banks, an older woman than her superior,
looked up from the sterilising apparatus.
'The biggest tyrant of the lot,' she remarked
surprisingly.
'Nurse! What did you say?'
'My politics are not Sir Derek O'Callaghan's,
Matron, and I don't care who knows it.'
Jane Harden returned from the theatre. Sister
Marigold cast an indignant glance at Nurse Banks
and said briefly:
'Did you look at the hyoscine solution. Nurse;
26
and the anti-gas ampoule?' 'Yes, Matron.'
'Gracious, child, you look very white. Are you all
right?'
'Quite, thank you,' answered Jane. She busied
herself with tins of sterilised dressings. After
another glance at her, the matron returned to the
attack on Nurse Banks.
'Of course. Nurse, we all know you are a Bolshie.
Still, you can't deny greatness when you see it. Now
Sir Derek is my idea of a big--a really big man.'
'And for that reason he's the more devilish,'
announced Banks with remarkable venom. 'He's
done murderous things since he's been in office.
Look at his Casual Labour Bill of last year. He's
directly responsible for every death from
under-nourishment that has occurred during the
last ten months. He's the enemy of the proletariat.
If I had my way he'd be treated as a common
murderer or else as a homicidal maniac. He ought
to be certified. There is insanity in his blood.
Everybody knows his father was dotty. That's what
I think of your Derek O'Callaghan with a title
bought with blood-money,' said Banks, making a
great clatter with sterilised bowls.
'Then perhaps'--Sister Marigold's voice was
ominously quiet--'perhaps you'll explain what
you're doing working for Sir John Phillips. Perhaps
his title was bought with blood-money too.'
'As long as this rotten system stands, we've got to "we,' declared Banks ambiguously, 'but it won't be tor ever and I'll be the first to declare myself when "ie time comes. O'Callaghan will have to go and all ms blood-sucking bourgeois party with him. It ^ould be a fine thing for the people if he went now.
27
There, Matron!'
'It would be a better thing if you went yourself,
Nurse Banks, and if I had another theatre nurse
free, go you would. I'm ashamed of you. You talk
about a patient like that—what are you thinking
of?'
'I can't help it if my blood boils.'
'There's a great deal too much blood, boiling or
not, in your conversation.'
With the air of one silenced but not defeated,
Banks set out a table with hypodermic appliances
and wheeled it into the theatre.
'Really, Nurse Harden,' said Sister Marigold,
'I'm ashamed of that woman. The vindictiveness!
She ought not to be here. One might almost think
she would—' Matron paused, unable to articulate
the enormity of her thought.
'No such—thing,' said Jane. 'I'd be more likely
to do him harm than she.'
'And that's an outside chance,' declared matron
more genially. 'I must say, Nurse Harden, you're
the best theatre nurse I've had for a long time. A
real compliment, my dear, because I'm very
particular. Are we ready? Yes. And here come the
doctors.'
Jane put her hands behind her back and stood to
attention. Sister Marigold assumed an air of
efficient repose. Nurse Banks appeared for a
moment in the doorway, seemed to recollect
something, and returned to the theatre.
Sir John Phillips came in followed by Thorns, his
assistant, and the anaesthetist. Thorns was fat,
scarlet-faced and industriously facetious. Dr.
Roberts was a thin, sandy-haired man, with a
deprecating manner. He took off his spectacles and
28
polished them.
'Ready, Matron?' asked Phillips.
'Quite ready. Sir John.'
'Dr. Roberts will give the anaesthetic. Dr. Grey is
engaged. We were lucky to get you, Roberts, at
such short notice.'
'I'm delighted to come,' said Roberts. 'I've been
doing a good deal of Grey's work lately. It is always
an honour, and an interesting experience, to work
under you. Sir John.'
He spoke with a curious formality as if he
considered each sentence and then offered it to the
person he addressed.
'If I may I'll just take a look at the
anaesthetising-room before we begin.'
'Certainly.'
The truculent Banks reappeared.
'Nurse Banks,' said the matron, 'go with Dr.
Roberts to the anaesthetising-room, please.'
Dr. Roberts blinked at Banks, and followed her
out.
Sir John went into the theatre and crossed to a
small table, enamelled white, on which were various
appliances concerned with the business of giving
hypodermic injections. There were three syringes,
each in a little dish of sterile water. Two were of the
usual size known to the layman. The third was so
large as to suggest it was intended for veterinary
rather than human needs. The small syringes held
twenty-five minims each, the larger at least six
fimes as much. An ampoule, a bottle, a small bowl
snd a measure-glass also stood on the table. The
bottle was marked: 'Hyoscine solution. 0.25 per cent.
Pive minims contains V/w a grain.' The ampoule was
"larked: 'Gas-Gangrene Antitoxin {concentrated).'
— 29
The bowl contained sterile water.
Phillips produced from his pocket a small
hypodermic case from which he took a tiny tube
labelled: 'Hyoscine gr. ^wo'. The tube being
completely covered by its label, it was difficult to
see the contents. He removed the cork, examined
the inside closely, laid down the tube and took
another, similarly labelled, from his case. His
fingers worked uncertainly, as though his mind was
on something else. At last he took one of the smaller
syringes, filled it with sterile water, and squirted its
contents into the measure-glass. Then he dropped
in the hyoscine, stirred it with the needle of the
syringe, and finally, pulling back the piston, sucked
the solution into the syringe.
Thorns came into the theatre.
'We ought to get washed up, sir,' he said.
He glanced at the table.
'Hallo!' he shouted. 'Two tubes! You're doing
him proud.5
'One was empty.' Phillips picked them up
automatically and put them back in his case.
Thorns looked at the syringe.
'You use a lot of water, don't you?' he observed.
'I do,' said Phillips shortly. Taking the syringe
with him, he walked out of the theatre into the
anaesthetic-room. Thorns, wearing that air of brisk
abstraction which people assume when they are
determined to ignore a snub, remained staring at
the table. He joined the others a few minutes later
in the anteroom. Phillips returned from the
anaesthetic-room.
Jane Harden and Sister Marigold helped the two
surgeons to turn themselves into pieces of sterilized
machinery. In a little while the anteroom was an
30
austere arrangement in white, steel, and
rubber-brown. There is something slightly repellent
as well as something beautiful in absolute white. It
is the negation of colour, the expression of coldness,
the emblem of death. There is less sensuous pleasure in white than in any of the colours, and
more suggestion of the macabre. A surgeon in his
white robe, the warmth of his hands hidden by
sleek chilly rubber, the animal vigour of his hair
covered by a white cap, is more like a symbol in modern sculpture than a human being. To the
layman he is translated, a priest in sacramental
robes, a terrifying and subtly fascinating figure.
'Seen this new show at the Palladium?' asked
Thorns. 'Blast this glove! Give me another,
Matron.'
'No,' said Sir John Phillips.
'There's a one-act play. Anteroom to a theatre in
a private hospital. Famous surgeon has to operate
on a man who ruined him and seduced his wife.
Problem--does he stick a knife into the patient?
Grand Guignol stuff. Awful rot, I thought it.'
Phillips turned slowly and stared at him. Jane
Harden uttered a little stifled cry.
'What's that. Nurse?' asked Thorns. 'Have you
seen it? Here, give me the glove.'
'No, sir,' murmured Jane, 'I haven't seen it.'
'Jolly well acted it was, and someone had put
them right about technical matters, but, of course, the situation was altogether too far-fetched. I'll just So and see--' He walked out, still talking, into the
theatre, and after a minute or two called to the Matron, who followed him.
'Jane,' said Phillips.
'Yes?'
----, 31
'This--this is a queer business.'
'Nemesis, perhaps,' said Jane Harden.
'What do you mean?' ?
'Oh, nothing,' she said drearily. 'Only it is rather
like a Greek play, don't you think? "Fate delivers
our enemy into our hands." Mr. Thorns would
think the situation very farfetched.'
Phillips washed his hands slowly in a basin of
sterilised water. 'I knew nothing of this illness,' he
said. 'It's the merest chance that I was here at this
hour. I'd only just got in from St. Jude's. I tried to
get out of it, but his wife insisted. Evidently she has
no idea we--quarrelled.'
'She could hardly know why you quarrelled,
could she?'
'I'd give anything to be out of it--anything.'
'And I. How do you think I feel?'
He squeezed the water off his gloves and turned
towards her, holding his hands out in front of him.
He looked a grotesque and somehow pathetic
figure.
'Jane,' he whispered, 'won't you change your
mind? I love you so much.'
'No,' she said. 'No. I loathe him. I never want to
see him again, but as long as he's alive I can't marry
you.'
'I don't understand you,' he said heavily. 'I don't understand myself,' answered Jane, 'so
how should you?'
'I shall go on--I shall ask you again and again.'
'It's no good. I suppose I'm queer, but as long as
he's there I--I'm in pawn.'
'It's insane--after his treatment of you. ^
He's--he's discarded you, Jane.' t She laughed harshly.
32
'Oh, yes. It's quite according to Victorian
tradition. I'm a "ruined girl", you know!'
'Well, stick to the Victorian tradition and let me
make an honest woman of you.'
'Look here,' said Jane suddenly. 'I'll try and be
an honest woman with you. I mean I'll try and
explain what's inexplicable and pretty humiliating.
I told him I wanted to live my own life, experience
everything, all that sort of chat. I deceived myself as
well as him. In the back of my mind I knew I was
simply a fool who had lost her head as well as her
heart. Then, when it happened, I realised just how
little it meant to him and just how much it meant to
me. I knew I ought to keep up the game, shake
hands and part friends, and all that. Well—I
couldn't. My pride wanted to, but—I couldn't. It's
all too grimly commonplace. I "loved and hated"
him at the same time. I wanted to keep him, knew I
hadn't a chance, and longed to hurt him. I wrote to
him and told him so. It's a nightmare and it's still
going on. There! Don't ask me to talk about it
again. Leave me alone to get over it as best I may.'
'Couldn't I help?'
'No. Someone's coming—be careful.'
Thorns and Roberts returned and washed up.
Roberts went away to give the anaesthetic. Phillips
stood and watched his assistant.
'How did your play end?' he asked suddenly.
'What? Oh. Back to the conversation we first
thought of. It ended in doubt. You were left to
wonder if the patient died under the anaesthetic, or
"the surgeon did him in. As a matter of fact, under
the circumstances, no one could have found out.
Are you thinking of trying it out on the Home
secretary, sir? I thought you were a pal of his?'
33
The mask over Phillips's face creased as though
he were smiling. 'Given the circumstances,' he said.
'I suppose it might be a temptation.'
He heard a movement behind him and turned to
see Nurse Banks regarding him fixedly from the
door into the theatre. Sister Marigold appeared
behind her, said: 'If you please. Nurse,' in a frigid
voice, and came through the door.
'Oh, Matron,' said Phillips abruptly, 'I have
given an injection of hyoscine, as usual. If we find
peritonitis, as I think we shall, I shall also inject
serum.'
'I remembered the hyoscine, of course. Sir John.
The stock solution had been put out, but I saw you
had prepared your own injection.'
'Yes, we won't need the stock solution. Always
use my own tablets--like to be sure of the correct
dosage. Are we all ready?'
He went into the theatre.
'Well,' said Sister Marigold, 'I'm sure the stock
solution is good enough for most people.'
'You can't be too careful, Matron,' Thorns
assured her genially. 'Hyoscine's a ticklish drug, you know.'
The sickly reek of ether began to drift into the
room.
'I must say I don't quite understand why Sir John
is so keen on giving hyoscine.'
'It saves anaesthetic and it has a soothing effect
after the operation. I give it myself,' added Thorns
importantly.
'What is the usual dose, sir?' asked Nurse Banks
abruptly.
'From a hundredth to a two-hundredth of a
grain. Nurse.'
34
'As little as that!'
'Oh ye8- I can't tell you the minimum lethal dose---varies with different cases. A quarter-grain
would do anyone in.'
'A quarter of a grain,' said Nurse Banks
thoughtfully. 'Fancy!'
CHAPTER FOUR
POSTOPERATIVE
Thursday, the eleventh. Late afternoon. Sir John waited in the theatre for his patient.
The matron, Jane and Nurse Banks came in with
Thorns. They stood near the table, a group of robed
and expressionless automata. They were silent. The
sound of wheels. A trolley appeared with Dr.
Roberts and the special nurse walking behind it.
Dr. Roberts held the anaesthetic mask over the
patient's face. On the trolley lay the figure of the
Home Secretary. As they lifted it on the table the
head spoke suddenly and inconsequently.
'Not to-day, not to-day, not to-day, damn' the
bloody thing,' it said very rapidly.
The special nurse went away.
The reek of ether rose up like incense round the
table. Dr. Roberts wheeled forward his
anssthetising apparatus, an object that, with its flinders of compressed gases carried in an iron
iramework, resembled a gigantic cruet. A low
screen was fixed across the patient's chest to shut 011 the anaesthetist. Thorns looked at the patient ^nously.
35
'He's a striking-looking chap, isn't he?' he
remarked lightly. 'Curious head. What do you
make of it, Roberts? You're a bit of a dog at that
sort of thing, aren't you? Read your book the other
day. There's insanity somewhere in the racial
make-up here, isn't there? Wasn't his old man
bats?'
Roberts looked scandalised.
'That is so,' he said stiffly, 'but one would hardly
expect to find evidence of racial insanity clearly
defined in the facial structure, Mr. Thorns.'
The sister arranged the sterile coverings over the
abdomen. With the head screened, the patient was
no longer an individual. A subject for operation lay
on the table—that was all.
Sir John took up a scalpel and made the first
incision.
'Peritonitis, all right,' said Thorns presently.
'Hal-lo!' he added a little later. 'Ruptured abcess.
He's made a job of it.'
'Accounts for the attacks of pain,' Phillips
grunted.
'Of course, sir. Wonder he kept going so
long—look there.'
'Nasty mess,' said Phillips. 'Good God, Matron,
are you deaf! I said forceps.'
Sister Marigold bridled slightly and gave a
genteel cough. There was silence for some time. Sir
John's fingers worked, nervously, inquisitively, and
with a kind of delicate assurance. I
'The pulse is weak. Sir John,' said Roberts ,
suddenly. I
'Oh? Look at this, Thorns.'
'I don't like this pulse.'
'What's the matter, Roberts? Pulse?'
36 h.
r...
^'Yes. It's rather weak. I don't like his looks. Get
me an injection of camphor, will you, Nurse?'
Nurse Banks filled the second small hypodermic
syringe and brought it to him.
'Give it. Nurse, at once, please.'
She did so.
'Serum,' grunted Phillips.
'Serum, Nurse Harden,' murmured the sister.
Jane crossed to the table of apparatus. There was
a little delay.
'Well--well, where is it?' asked Phillips
impatiently.
'Nurse!' called Thorns angrily. 'What are you
doing!'
'I'm sorry--but--'
'It's the large syringe,' said Nurse Banks.
'Very well,' said Jane faintly.
She bent over the table.
Phillips finished sewing up the incision.
'Nurse,' repeated Thorns, 'will you bring me that
syringe! What's the matter with you?'
An agitated drop appeared on the end of his nose.
Sister Marigold cast an expert glance at it and wiped
it off with a piece of gauze.
Jane came back uncertainly, holding the tray.
Phillips straightened his back and stood looking at
the wound. Thorns put on the dressing and then
gave the injection.
'Well,' he said, 'that's that. Very nasty case. I
Oppose he's neglected it.'
'I believe so,' answered Phillips slowly. 'I saw
"im the other evening and I had no idea he was
^l--no idea of it.'
'How's the condition now, Roberts?' asked
^noms.
37
'Not too brilliant.'
'Well--take him to bed,' said Phillips.
'And take that tray away,' added Thorns irritably
to Jane who still stood at his elbow.
She turned her head and looked into Phillips's
eyes. He seemed to avoid her gaze and moved away.
She turned towards the other table. Her steps grew
more uncertain. She stopped, swayed a little, and
fell forward on the tiled floor.
'Good God, what's the girl up to now!' shouted
Thorns.
Phillips strode across the theatre and stood
staring down at her.
'Fainted,' he said behind his mask. He looked at
his blood-stained gloves, pulled them off and knelt
beside her. Sister Marigold 'Tut-tut-tutted' like a
scandalised hen and rang a bell. Nurse Banks
glanced across and then stolidly helped Thorns to
cover the patient and lift him back on the trolley.
Dr. Roberts did not even look up. He had bent over
the patient in an attitude of the most intense
concentration. Two nurses came in.
'Nurse Harden's fainted,' said the matron briefly.
They managed to get Jane to her feet. She opened
her eyes and looked vaguely at them. Between them
they half carried her out of the theatre.
The patient was wheeled away.
Phillips walked off into the anteroom followed by
Thorns.
'Well, sir,' remarked Thorns cheerfully, 'I think
the usual state of things has been reversed. You are
the fierce member of the party as a rule, but today
you're a perfect sucking-dove and I damned that
poor girl to heaps. I'm sorry about it. Suppose she
was feeling groggy all through the op.'
38
'I suppose so,' said Phillips, turning on a tap.
'I'm sorry about it. She's a nice girl and a good
nurse. Attractive. Wonder if she's engaged.'
'No.'
'Not?'
'No.'
Thorns paused, towel in hand, and stared
curiously at his senior. Sir John washed up sedately
and methodically.
'Unpleasant game, operating on your friends,
isn't it?' ventured Thorns, after a pause. 'And such
a distinguished friend, too. Jove, there are lots of
Bolshie-minded gentlemen that wouldn't be
overwhelmed with grief if O'Callaghan faded out! I
can see it's hit you up a bit, sir. I've never before
seen the faintest tremor in your hands.'
'My dear Thorns, there's nothing the matter with my hands.'
'Oh--I'm sorry.'
'Nothing to be sorry about.' He took off his gown
and cap and brushed his hair. 'You're quite right,'
he said suddenly, 'I didn't enjoy the operation.'
Thorns grinned good-naturedly and then looked
sympathetic.
The door opened and Dr. Roberts came in.
'I just looked in to report. Sir John,' he began.
The patient's condition is rather disquieting. The
camphor injection helped matters at the time but
Ae pulse is still unsatisfactory.' He glanced
nervously from one surgeon to the other and
Polished his glasses. 'Must confess I feel rather
^xious,' he said. 'It's--it's such an important
case.'
'All cases are important,' said Phillips.
'Of course. Sir John. What I meant to convey was
39
my possible over-anxiety, occasioned by the
illustriousness of the patient.'
'You speak like your books, Roberts,' said
Thorns facetiously.
'However,' continued Roberts with a doubtful
glance at the fat little man. 'However, I am anxious.'
'I'll come and look at him,' answered Phillips. 'I
can understand your concern. Thorns, you'd better
come along with us.'
'I won't be a minute, sir.'
'There's something about his condition that one
doesn't quite expect,' Roberts said. He went into
details. Phillips listened attentively. Thorns darted a
complacent glance at the mirror.
'I'm ready,' he told them.
He turned to Roberts.
'That's a rum-looking old stethoscope you sport,
Roberts,' he said jovially.
Roberts looked at it rather proudly. It was an
old-fashioned straight instrument of wood with a
thick stem, decorated by a row of notches cut down
each quadrant.
'I wouldn't part with that for the latest and best
thing on the market, Mr. Thorns,' said Roberts.
'It looks like a tally-stick. What are the notches in
aid of?'
Roberts looked self-conscious. He glanced
deprecatingly at Phillips.
'I'm afraid you'll set me down as a very vain
individual,' he said shyly.
'Come on,' said Thorns. 'Spill the beans! Are
they all the people you've killed or are they your
millionaire patients?'
'Not that--no. As a matter of fact, it is a sort of
40
tally. They represent cases of severe heart disease to
whom I have given anaesthetic successfully.'
Thorns roared with laughter and Roberts blushed
like a schoolboy.
'Are you ready?' asked Phillips coldly.
They all went out together.
In the theatre Sister Marigold, Nurse Banks, and
a nurse who had appeared to 'scally', cleaned up
and prepared for another operation, an urgent
bronchoscopy, to be performed by a throat
specialist. Jane had been taken off to the nurses'
quarters.
'Two urgent ops. in one evening!' exclaimed the
matron importantly, 'we are busy. What's the time,
Nurse?'
'Six thirty-five,' said Banks.
'Whatever was the matter with Harden, Matron?'
asked the scally.
'I'm sure I don't know. Nurse,' rejoined Sister
Marigold.
'I do,' said Nurse Banks grimly.
Sister Marigold cast upon her a glance in which
curiosity struggled with dignity. Dignity
triumphed. Fortunately the scally was not so
handicapped.
'Well, Banks,' she said, 'come clean. Why did she
faint?'
'She knew the patient.'
'What! Knew Sir Derek O'Callaghan? Harden?'
'Oh, yes! Their people were neighbours down in
Dorset, don't you know,' aped Banks with what she
imagined to be the accent of landed proprietorship.
Sister Marigold's starch seemed to crackle
disapproval.
'Nurse Harden comes of a very nice family,' she
41
said pointedly to the scally.
'Oh, most fraytefully nayce,' jeered Banks. 'Yes,
she knew O'Callaghan all right. I happened to say,
about a month ago it was, that he was probably the
most completely unscrupulous of the Tories and she
didn't half flare up. Then she told me.'
'Thank you, Nurse Banks, that will do,' said
Matron icily. 'The theatre is not the place for
politics. I think we are ready now. I want a word
with the doctor about this case.'
She rustled out of the theatre.
'You've got a nerve, Banks,' said the scally.
'Fancy talking like that about Sir Derek. I think he
looks lovely in his photos.'
'You think because he's got a face like Conrad
Veidt he's a suitable leader of the people--a man to
make laws. Typical bourgeois ignorance and
stupidity! However, he's probably the last of his
species and he'll be the first to go when the Dawn
breaks.'
'Whatever are you talking about?' 'I know what I'm talking about.'
'Well, I'm sure I don't. What Dawn?'
'The Dawn of the Proletariat Day.'
'What's that? No, don't lose your hair, Banks.
I'd like to know.'
'You will know,' said Banks. 'Very shortly.'
Upon which the throat specialist appeared and
inquired if they were all ready for him. In ten
minutes' time the figure of a child was wheeled into
the theatre and once again the fumes of the
anaesthetic rose like incense about the table. In
another ten minutes the child was taken away.
Nurse Banks and the scally began to clear up again.
The throat specialist whistled as he washed up in
42
the anteroom. He thrust his head in at the door,
remarked: 'No rest for the wicked, Nurse,' and
took himself off.
The two women worked in silence for a little
while. Nurse Banks seemed preoccupied and rather
morose.
'Hallo,' said the scally, 'there's Pips growling on
the stairs.' ('Pips' was hospital slang for Sir John
Phillips.) 'And Thomcat. Wonder how he is now.
Sir Derek, I mean.'
Nurse Banks did not answer.
'I don't believe you care.'
'Oh, I'm quite interested.'
The voices grew louder but neither of the two
nurses could hear what was said. They stood very
still, listening intently.
Presently there seemed to be some kind of
movement. A woman's voice joined in the
conversation.
'Who's that?' asked the scally.
'Sounds like Marigold,' said Banks. 'God, that
woman infuriates me!'
'Ssh! What's it all about, I wonder?'
Sir John Phillips's voice sounded clearly above
the others.
'I'd better attend to that,' it said.
'Pip sounds absolutely rampant breathed the
scally.
'Yes,' said Thorns clearly. 'Yes.'
A sound of footsteps. Then suddenly the door
into the theatre opened and O'Callaghan's special
nurse burst into the room.
'Isn't it frightful!' she said. 'Oh, isn't it frightful!'
'What? What's the matter with you?'
'He's dead--Sir Derek O'Callaghan's dead!'
4^
'Nurse!' The scally gazed at her speechless.
'It really is awful,' said Nurse Graham. 'Lady
O'Callaghan is there now--she wanted to be left
alone with him. I felt I simply must tell somebody.'
There was a dead silence, and then, prompted
perhaps by some kind of mental telepathy, they
both turned and stared at Banks.
The older woman's head was tipped back. She
held her arms stiffly at her sides. Her eyes shone
and her lips worked convulsively.
'Banks!' said the scally, 'Banks! How can you
behave like that? I believe you're glad he's gone!'
'If I hadn't cast off the worn-out shackles of
religion,' said Banks, 'I should say "Praise the Lord
for He hath cast down our Enemy".'
'You disgusting old horror,' said the special, and
went out of the theatre.
CHAPTER FIVE
LADY O'CALLAGHAN INSISTS
Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon.
'Lady O'Callaghan, I'm terribly sorry to bother,
but may I speak to you for a moment?'
Ronald Jameson paused and looked
apologetically at the widow of his late employer.
She was very handsome in black. Her hair--he
could never make up his mind whether it was a
warm white or a white blonde--looked as though it
had been ironed into place. Her hands, thin and
elegant, hung relaxed against the matt surface of
her dress. Her pale blue eyes under their heavy lids
44
regarded him with a kind of polite detachment.
'Yes,' she said vaguely. 'Come into my room,
Mr. Jameson.'
He followed her into that place of frozen
elegance. She sat down leisurely, her back to the
light.
'Yes,' she repeated. 'Sit down, Mr. Jameson.'
Ronald said: 'Thank you so much,' nervously,
and sat on the most uncomfortable chair.
'I've just come back from the House,' he began.
| 'The Prime Minister saw me in his room. He is
I terribly distressed about--about yesterday. He
^ wished me to tell you that--that he is entirely at
^ your service should there be anything--'
? 'So kind of him,' she said.
I 'Of course, he is also very much troubled about
the Bill--Sir Derek's Anarchy Bill, you know. The
business arising from it has to go forward, you see,
and this tragedy has complicated matters.' He
paused again.
'I see--yes.'
'It's a question of Sir Derek's private notes. They
can do nothing without them. I said that the matter
would have to wait until after the--until after
tomorrow; but the Prime Minister thinks the whole
business is so urgent that he ought to see them
immediately. I believe they are in the desk in the
study, but of course, before I could do anything
about it, I felt I must have your permission.'
She took so long to answer that he felt quite
alarmed. At last, looking at her hands which lay
I delicately clasped on her lap, she said: 'This Bill.
^. Will it deal with the persons who killed him?'
^B He was so completely dumbfounded by this
^p amazing inquiry that he could think of nothing to
45
say. He was a young man with a good deal of savoir-faire, but evidently her extraordinary
assumption took him unawares.
'I'm afraid I don't--do you mean--surely. Lady
O'Callaghan, you can't believe--' He could get no
further with it.
'Oh, yes,' she said tranquilly, 'I'm quite sure
they killed him.'
'But--who?'
'These people. Anarchists, aren't they? They
threatened to kill my husband. I believe they have
done so. I understand his Bill was designed to
suppress such persons. Please do anything you can
to help it to go forward.'
'Thank you,' said Ronald idiotically.
'Yes. Is that all, Mr. Jameson?'
'But, Lady O'Callaghan--please--have you
thought--honestly, you have simply amazed me.
It's a terrible idea. Surely the doctors' report is
clear! Sir Derek had acute peritonitis.'
'Sir John Phillips said the operation was
successful. He was poisoned.'
'By peritonitis and a ruptured abscess. Really, I
can't think anything else. How could he be
deliberately poisoned?'
'One of the letters threatened poison. The one he
had last Monday, it was.'
'But many leading politicians get letters of that
sort. Nothing ever happens. Forgive me. Lady
O'Callaghan, but I'm sure you are utterly wrong.
How could they have poisoned him? It's--it's
impossible. I do beg you not to distress yourself.'
He glanced uncomfortably at her placid face. 'I'm
sure you are quite mistaken,' ended Ronald wildly.
'Let us go into his room,' she murmured and,
46
without another word, led the way into
O'Callaghan's study.
They unlocked the desk and she sat and watched,
while Ronald went through the papers in the top
pigeonholes.
'The drawers on the left,' he explained to her,
'were used for private correspondence--I did not
have anything to do with them.'
'They will have to be opened. I will do that.'
'Of course. Here is one of the threatening
letters--several--I think all of them. I wanted to
show them to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn at
the Yard. Sir Derek wouldn't allow me to do so.'
'Let me see them.'
He gave her the bundle of letters and returned to
the pigeonholes.
'Here are his notes,' he said presently. She did
not answer, and he glanced up and was astonished
to surprise in her face an expression of some sort of
an emotion. She looked venomous.
'Here is the letter I spoke of,' she said. 'You will
see that they threaten to poison him.'
'Yes. I see.'
'You still do not believe me, Mr. Jameson?'
'I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't.'
'I shall insist upon an inquiry.'
'An inquiry? Oh Lord!' said Ronald
involuntarily. 'I mean--I wouldn't, really. Lady
O'Callaghan. It's--we've no grounds for it.'
'Are you taking these notes to the Prime Minister
today?'
'Yes.'
'Will you tell him, if you please, what I propose
to do? You may discuss it with him. In the
meantime I shall go through the private letters.
47
Have you the keys of those drawers?'
Ronald took a bunch of keys from the desk, and
with an air of reluctance put them in her hand.
'When is your appointment?'
'For three o'clock.'
'It is now only half-past two. Please come and see
me before you leave.'
As he left her she was fitting a key to the bottom
drawer.
To anybody who had the curiosity to watch
him--Nash, the butler, for instance--Ronald
Jameson would have appeared to be very much
upset. He went up to his bedroom, wandered
aimlessly about, smoked three cigarettes, and finally
sat on the bed, staring in a sort of trance at a
wood-engraving that hung above his dressing-table.
At last he looked at his watch, went downstairs got
his hat and umbrella and returned to the study.
He found Lady O'Callaghan seated at the desk
with a neatly arranged pile of letters in front of her.
She did not turn her head when he came in. She
simply stared very fixedly at a paper she held in her
hand. It struck him that she had sat like that for
some time--while he himself had done much the
same thing upstairs in his room. Her face was
always pale--she did not use rouge--but he thought
now that it was deadly white. There was a thin
ridge, like a taut thread, linking her nostrils with
the corners of her mouth.
'Come here,' she said quietly.
He went and stood by the desk.
'You told me that night, a week ago, I think, that
my husband had received a letter that seemed to
upset him. Was this the letter?'
He glanced at it and then looked away.
48
'I did not see the letter,' he stammered. 'Only the
envelope.'
'Is that the envelope?'
'I--I think so. I can't be sure.'
'Read it.'
With an expression of extreme distaste he read
the letter. It was Jane Harden's.
'If an opportunity presented itself,' Jane had
written, 'I would not hesitate to kill you.'
Ronald put it down on the desk.
'Now read this.'
The second letter was from Sir John Phillips.
Phillips had written it at fever-heat on the night he
got home from his interview with O'Callaghan, and
had posted it before he had time to cool down.
I gather you're going to cut your losses and evade
what, to any decent man, would be a
responsibility. You talked of sending Jane a
cheque. She will, of course, either tear it up or
return it. I cannot force your hand, for that
would do still more harm to a lady who is already
deeply wronged. I warn you, however, to keep
clear of me. I've a certain devil in me that I
thought was scotched, but you have brought it to
life again, and I think I could very easily kill you.
This may sound like hyperbole; as a matter of
fact it is meiosis.
john phillips
'Have you seen that before?' asked Lady
O'Callaghan.
'Never,' said Ronald.
'You notice the signature? It was written by the
man who operated on my husband.'
49
'Yes.'
'Who is this woman--Jane Harden?'
'Honestly, I have no idea, Lady O'Callaghan.'
'No? A nurse, evidently. Look at the address,
Mr. Jameson.'
'Good God,' said Ronald. 'It's--it's the
nursing-home.'
'Yes. We sent him to a strange place for his
operation.'
'But--'
'Will you please take these letters with you?'
'But, Lady O'Callaghan, I can't possibly show
them to the P.M.--the Prime Minister--really!'
'Then I shall have to do so myself. Of course, there must be an inquest.'
'Forgive me, but in the shock of reading these
letters and--and realising their inferences, have you
considered the effect any publicity would have on
yourself?'
'What do you mean? What shock? Do you
suppose I did not know he had mistresses?'
'I've no idea, I'm sure,' said poor Ronald
unhappily.
'Of course I knew,' she said composedly. 'That
seems to me to have nothing to do with the point we
are discussing. I knew he had been murdered. I
thought at first that these other people--' She made
a slight gesture towards the neat little pile on the
desk. 'Now I find he had bitter enemies nearer to
him than that.' Her hand closed over the letters on
her knee. 'He has been murdered. Probably by this nurse or by Sir John Phillips; possibly by both of
them in collaboration. I shall demand an inquest.'
'An inquest! You know, I doubt very much if you
would be given permission.'
50
'Yes.'
'Who is this woman—Jane Harden?'
'Honestly, I have no idea, Lady O'Callaghan.'
'No? A nurse, evidently. Look at the address,
Mr. Jameson.'
'Good God,' said Ronald. 'It's—it's the
nursing-home.'
'Yes. We sent him to a strange place for his
operation.'
'But—
'Will you please take these letters with you?'
'But, Lady O'Callaghan, I can't possibly show
them to the P.M.—the Prime Minister—really!'
'Then I shall have to do so myself. Of course,
there must be an inquest.'
'Forgive me, but in the shock of reading these
letters and—and realising their inferences, have you
considered the effect any publicity would have on
yourself?'
'What do you mean? What shock? Do you
suppose I did not know he had mistresses?'
'I've no idea, I'm sure,' said poor Ronald
unhappily.
'Of course I knew,' she said composedly. 'That
seems to me to have nothing to do with the point we
are discussing. I knew he had been murdered. I
thought at first that these other people—' She made
a slight gesture towards the neat little pile on the
desk. 'Now I find he had bitter enemies nearer to
him than that.' Her hand closed over the letters on
her knee. 'He has been murdered. Probably by this
nurse or by Sir John Phillips; possibly by both of
them in collaboration. I shall demand an inquest.'
'An inquest! You know, I doubt very much if you
would be given permission.'
50
'To whom does one apply?'
'One can't just order an inquest,' Ronald said
evasively.
'Who can do so, Mr. Jameson?'
'The—well, the coroner for the district, I
imagine.'
'Or the police?'
Ronald winced.
'I suppose so—yes.'
'Yes. Thank you, Mr. Jameson.'
Ronald, in a panic, took himself off to the House.
Lady O'Callaghan put a jade paper-weight on the
little heap of letters and opened the telephone
directory. The number she wanted was printed in
large letters on a front page. She dialled it, and was
answered immediately.
'Is that New Scotland Yard?' she asked, pitching
her voice in a sort of serene falsetto. 'It is Lady
O'Callaghan speaking. My husband was Sir Derek
O'Callaghan, the late Home Secretary. I want to
^ speak to someone in authority, in reference to the
death of my husband. No, not on the telephone.
Perhaps someone would call? Immediately, if
possible. Thank you.'
She hung up the receiver and leant back in her
chair. Then she rang for Nash, who came in looking
like a Stilton in mourning.
'Nash,' she said, 'an officer from Scotland Yard is
calling in ten minutes. It is in reference to the
funeral. I wish to speak to him myself. If Miss
O'Callaghan calls, will you tell her I am unable to
see her? Show the officer in here when he comes.'
'Very good, m'lady,' breathed Nash and
withdrew.
Cicely O'Callaghan then went to the room where
51
her husband lay, awaiting his last journey down
Whitehall. She was an Anglo-Catholic, so candles
burned, small golden plumes, at the head and foot
of the coffin. The room, a large one, was massed
heavily with flowers. It smelt like a tropical island,
but was very cold. A nun from the church that the
O'Callaghans attended knelt at a little distance from
the coffin. She did not look up when Lady
O'Callaghan came in.
The wife knelt beside her for a moment, crossed
herself with a thin vague movement of her hand,
and then rose and contemplated her husband.
Derek O'Callaghan looked impressive. The heavy
eyebrows, black hair, jutting nose and thin wide
mouth were striking accents in the absolute pallor
of his face. His hands, stiffly crossed, obediently
fixed a crucifix to the hard curve of his breast. His
wife, only a little less pale than he, stared at him. It
would have been impossible to guess her thoughts.
She simply looked in the direction of the dead face.
In the distance a door opened and shut. She turned
away from the bier, and walked out of the room.
In the hall Nash waited gloomily, while a tall,
thickly built man handed him hat and umbrella.
'Inspector Fox, my lady.'
'Will you come in here?'
She took the inspector into the study. Nash had
lit the fire, and she held her thin hands towards it.
'Please sit down,' she murmured. They sat facing
each other. Inspector Fox regarded her with
respectful attention.
'I asked you to come and see me,' she began very
quietly, 'because I believe my husband to have been
murdered.'
Fox did not speak for a moment. He sat stockily,
52
very still, looking gravely before him.
'I'm sorry to hear that. Lady O'Callaghan,' he
said at last. 'It sounds rather serious.'
Apparently she had met her match in
understatement.
'Of course, I should not have called you in unless
I had material evidence to put before you. I believe
the police are aware of the activities of those persons
against whom my husband's Anarchy Bill was
directed?'
'We know a good deal about them.'
'Yes. My husband had received many threatening
letters which were believed to come from these
people. I wished him to let the police see the letters,
but he refused.'
'We were informed of the matter from another
source,' said Fox.
'The Prime Minister, perhaps?'
Fox regarded her placidly, but did not reply.
'I have the letters here,' she continued, after a
moment, 'and would like you to read them.' She
took them from the desk and gave them to him.
Fox took a spectacle case from an inner pocket
and put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He
looked extremely respectable.
He read the letters through stolidly, laying them
down neatly one on top of the other. When the last
was finished, he clasped his enormous hands
together and said:
'Yes. That's the sort of things these people
write.'
'Now, will you read these?'
She gave him the letters from Sir John Phillips
and Jane Harden. He read them carefully, in
exactly the same way.
53
'Sir John Phillips is the surgeon who operated
upon my husband. I understand the other letter is
from a nurse in the hospital.'
'Is that so, Lady O'Callaghan?' said Fox politely.
'My husband had peritonitis but I believe he died
of poisoning. I believe he was poisoned.'
'In view of these letters? These two, or the
others?'
'I do not know. I am inclined to regard the
personal ones as being more important. They
definitely threaten his life.'
'Yes. Very vindictive, they seem to be.'
'I wish to have an inquest.'
'I see,' said Fox. 'Now that's quite a serious
matter. Lady O'Callaghan.'
A faint redness appeared in her cheeks. Another
woman would possibly have screamed in his face.
'Of course it is serious,' she said.
'I mean, if you understand me, that before an
order is made for an inquest, the coroner who
makes it has to be certain of one or two points.
What about the death certificate, for instance?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, was one signed?'
'Yes.'
'By Sir John Phillips?'
'I don't know. Possibly. Mr. Thorns, the
assistant surgeon, may have signed it.'
'Yes. Well, now, Mr. Thorns is a well-known
surgeon. Sir Derek was a distinguished patient. He
would take every care before he signed. I think that
would be considered sufficiently conclusive by the
coroner.'
'But these threats! I am convinced he was
murdered. I shall demand an inquest.'
54
Fox stared gravely into the fire.
'Perhaps,' he said, rather ponderously, 'perhaps
you would like me to ring up the coroner and put
the case before him.'
'Certainly, if you will.'
'It would be better if you could tell him,
definitely, who signed the certificate.'
'Mr. Jameson, my husband's secretary, may
know. He had an appointment with the Prime
Minister at three.'
'It's fifteen minutes to four.'
'I shall ring up the House,' she said, and did.
She got Ronald at last and asked her question.
'It was Mr. Thorns?' she said into the telephone.
Ronald's voice quacked audibly in the room. 'Yes.
Thank you. Have you discussed the matter? I see.
No, I think not, Mr. Jameson; I am communicating
directly with the police.'
She hung up the receiver and informed Fox that
Thorns had signed the certificate.
Inspector Fox then rang up the coroner. He held
a long and muffled conversation. The coroner
talked a great deal and appeared to be agitated.
Lady O'Callaghan listened. Her fingers drummed
bonily on the arm of her chair. For her, it was a
terrific gesture. At last Fox rang off.
'It's as I thought,' he said. 'He says he cannot
interfere.'
'Then I shall go direct to the Prime Minister.'
He got rather ponderously to his feet.
'I don't think I'd do that. Lady O'Callaghan—at
least not yet. If you'll allow me to I'd like to talk it
over with my superior. Chief Detective-Inspector
Alleyn.'
'Alleyn? I think I've heard of him. Isn't he—'
ll 55
She paused. Cicely O'Callaghan had nearly dropped
a brick. She had been about to say 'Isn't he a
gentleman?' She must have been really very much
perturbed to come within hail of such a gaffe.
Inspector Fox answered her very simply.
'Yes,' he said, 'he's rather well known. He's a
very highly educated man. Quite a different type
from me, you might say.'
Again a faint pink tinged her cheeks.
'I'm grateful to you for the trouble you are
taking,' she told him.
'It's all in the day's work,' said Fox. 'If you'll
excuse me. Lady O'Callaghan, I'll get along. I'll
speak to the chief at once. If you're agreeable, I'll
show him the correspondence.'
'Yes.'
'Thank you very much. I'll wish you good
afternoon.'
'Will you have something to drink before you
go?'
'No, thank you. Very kind of you, I'm sure,' He
tramped to the door, turned and made a little bow.
'I hope you'll allow me to offer my sympathy,' he
said. 'It's a great loss to the nation.'
'Thank you.'
'Good afternoon, Lady O'Callaghan.'
'Good afternoon, Inspector.'
So Inspector Fox went to the Yard to see Alleyn.
56
CHAPTER SIX
CHIEF DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR
ALLEYN
Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon and evening.
'Hallo, Brer Fox,' said Alleyn, looking up from his
desk. 'Where've you been in your new bowler?'
'Paying a call on the Snow Queen,' replied Fox
with unexpected imaginativeness. 'And when I say
"Snow Queen" I don't mean cocaine, either.'
'No? Then what do you mean? Sit down and have
a smoke. You look perturbed.'
'Well, I am,' said Fox heavily. He produced a
pipe and blew down it, staring solemnly at his
superior. 'I've been to see the wife of the late Home
Secretary,' he said.
'What? You are coming on.'
'Look here, chief. She says it's murder.'
'She says what's murder?'
'Him. Sir Derek O'Callaghan.'
Alleyn put his pipe down and swung round
slowly in his chair.
'Oh!' he said. He raised one eyebrow to an
excruciating height and twisted his mouth sideways.
This trick invested his handsome face with a kind of
impish fastidiousness.
'What sort of woman is she?' he asked.
'A very cold fishy sort of lady,' answered Fox. 'A
Snow Queen, in fact. Not the hysterical sort, if
that's what you mean.'
'She was a Rattisbon. All the Rattisbons are a bit
frosty. I was at school with her brother—who was,
57
of course, called "Ratsbane". I speak like Mr.
Gossip, don't I? A very churlish fellow, he was.
Well, let's have the whole story.'
Fox told him the whole story, dwelling a little on
the letters.
'I see,' said Alleyn. 'And she's hell-bent on an
inquest?'
'That she is. If we won't do anything, she's going
to the Prime Minister. He's a friend of yours, isn't
he, sir?'
'I know the old creature, yes. As a matter of fact,
he summoned me to the presence on another matter
about a fortnight ago and we had an Oppenheimian
conversation about anarchists. He was very
perturbed and asked me if I didn't consider
O'Callaghan would be in personal danger if he
pushed the Bill. Well, one never knows, and I said
so. Some bright young Communist might bowl a
bomb. As a matter of cold fact, I greatly doubt it.
They do a certain amount of mischief, they're an
almighty nuisance, but as murderers I've no real
faith in the British anarchist. Anarchist! The word
is vieux jeu.^
'I suppose that's French?'
'Quite right, Fox. I always said you had a flair for
languages.'
'I'm teaching myself with the gramophone. All
the same, sir, these anarchists are no joke.'
'Of course they're not. The P.M., as I believe the
member for Little Squidgemere calls him, thought
O'Callaghan ought to have police protection. I quite
agreed. I couldn't very well do anything else.
O'Callaghan pooh-poohed the idea. As you know,
we were looking after him in our unassuming way.
On the afternoon of the Cabinet Meeting, when
58
they decided to introduce the Bill, I went along to
Downing Street myself. I'd got wind of that
insufferable nuisance Nicholas Kakaroff, and found
him standing about in the street, dressed up as
something rather ridiculous—a photographer, I
think. He made off, with all his infra-red rays and
what not, as soon as he saw me. I took a taxi and
followed O'Callaghan home. We were alongside
each other at one moment. He turned up the lights
in his car and I returned the compliment.'
'His servants are all right, aren't they?' asked
Fox.
'Oh, yes; we went as far as that. But, of course,
we couldn't do much without O'Callaghan's
permission or knowledge.'
'No. I think her ladyship suspects the surgeon or
the girl.'
'"The Surgeon or the Girl"—it sounds like a
talkie. Sir John Phillips is a very able man and
handy, so I understand, with the knife. She thinks
he dug it into an unlawful spot, because
O'Callaghan had been interfering with his girl—is
that it?'
'She thinks Sir Derek was poisoned, otherwise
that seems to be the general idea, but of course his
letter isn't very explicit.'
'Have you got the letters?'
'Yes. Here they are.'
Alleyn read them carefully.
'You know, Fox, hundreds of people write letters
like these without planning murder.'
'Isn't that what I tried to tell her!'
'My poor Foxkin! See if you can find the Press
report of his death.'
Fox produced a paper.
59
'I brought it with me,' he said.
'You think of everything. Here we are. He died
an hour after the operation was over. The
anaesthetist was worried—peritonitis—ruptured
abscess—"unwilling to run aside from the gigantic
task"—he'd neglected his tummy, evidently. It
sounds straightforward enough, and yet—'
Alleyn took the tip of his straight nose between
his thumb and finger and pulled it thoughtfully.
'Oh, lord!' he said sadly. 'I'll have to go and see
the lady.'
Fox looked relieved.
'If there's anything in it,' he reflected, 'it'll be a
hell of a big case. What you call'—he paused
self-consciously—'a cause celebre.^
'It will indeed,' said Alleyn, who never made too
much fun of anybody. 'I wonder if she would see
me this evening?'
'I'm certain she would, sir.'
'I'll ask.'
Alleyn rang up the house in Catherine Street. 'Is
that Lady O'Callaghan's house? Is it her butler
speaking? Chief Inspector Alleyn, Scotland Yard,
here. Will you^sk her ladyship if I may call on her
to-night at any time that would suit her? Inspector
Alleyn, yes. Thank you.'
He stared absent-mindedly at Fox while he
waited for the reply.
'At nine o'clock. Thank you so much.'
He hung up the receiver.
'I'm for it,' he said.
After Fox had gone Alleyn sat and gazed at the
opposite wall for twenty minutes. Then he rang up
the divisional surgeon and talked to him about the
human appendix, peritonitis and anaesthetics. Then
60
he went to his flat near Coventry Street, bathed,
changed into a dinner-jacket, dined, and read the
first scene in Hamlet, to which he was partial. By
that time it was twenty to nine. He decided to walk
to Catherine Street. His servant, Vassily, [See A
Man Lay Dead] helped him into his overcoat.
'Vassily,' said Alleyn, 'do you ever see anything
of your disreputable pals—The Pan-Soviet
Brotherhood, or whatever they were—nowadays?'
'No, sir. Not now am I such a foolish old rascal. I
am one bite too shy.'
'So I should hope, you old donkey. You don't
happen to remember hearing any gossip about
Nicholas Kakaroff?'
Vassily crossed himself lavishly from right to left.
'Hospodi bozhe moy! He is one of the most worst
of them,' he said energetically. 'A bad fellow.
Before the Soviet he was young and anysing but
conserff-a-tiff. After the Soviet he was older and
always up to no-goods. The Soviet pleased him no
better than the Romanoffs. So sometimes he was
killing officials, and at last he has heated up Russia
for himself too much, so has come to England.'
'Where he seems to have been given the usual
hearty welcome. Yes, I knew all that, Vassily.
Thank you. Don't wait up. Good night.'
'Good night, sir,' Vassily laid his hand on
Alleyn's sleeve. 'Please, sir,' he said, 'have no
business with Nikolai Alexevich—he is a very bad
rascal.'
'Well, you ought to know,' Alleyn remarked
lightly, and went out smiling to himself.
At Catherine Street he was received by Nash,
who stared like a boiled owl at the inspector. Nash,
who carried in his head a sort of social ladder, had
61
quietly decided that police officers of all ranks were
to be graded with piano-tuners. Chief
Detective-Inspector Alleyn did not conform, in
appearance or in manner, to this classification.
Nash performed a reluctant mental somersault.
'Lady O'Callaghan?' asked Alleyn.
'Her ladyship is expecting you, sir.' Alleyn gave
him his hat and overcoat. Nash said: 'Thank you,
sir,' and waddled off towards the study. Alleyn
followed him. Nash opened the door.
'Mr. Alleyn, m'lady,' he said. Obviously the
degrading titles were better omitted.
Alleyn walked in.
Cicely O'Callaghan sat before the fire in her
husband's armchair. As Alleyn came in she rose to
her feet and looked serenely at him.
'How do you do?' she said.
'How do you do? I am extremely sorry to bother
you. Lady O'Callaghan.'
He thought: 'Golly, she is like Ratsbane!'
'But I wished to see you. It is good of you to
come so promptly.'
'Not a bit.' This was an exceedingly polite
introduction to a murder story.
'Do sit down. I suppose the man who came here
this afternoon has told you my reason for
communicating with the police?'
'I believe Inspector Fox gave me a full account of
your conversation.'
'Yes. I am convinced that my husband was
murdered—probably poisoned.'
'I am sorry that in addition to your grief you
should suffer the pain occasioned by such a
suspicion,' said Alleyn, and wondered how long
they were to make speeches at each other.
62
'Thank you. Do you agree with me that the
circumstances warrant an inquest?'
'I think I should like to hear a little more about
them. I have read the letters.'
'Surely they, in themselves are enough to arouse
anybody's suspicion?'
'Lady O'Callaghan, it is extremely unusual for a
person contemplating homicide to write such
letters. I do not say it is unknown, but it is very
unusual. I expect Fox told you that.'
'I believe he said something of the sort. My point
is this: I do not think the murderer contemplated
homicide when writing the letter. I do think that a
person capable of writing such a letter would also be
capable of seizing the opportunity when it
presented itself.'
'So it is Phillips and the girl she's after,' thought
Alley n.
'I see your point, of course,' he said slowly.
'There is another incident which I did not go into
with—Inspector Fox. Before my husband's
operation I was in his room with him. He did not
realise where he was or what had happened to him.
I tried to explain about the appendix. Then Sir
John Phillips came into the room. When my
husband saw him he exclaimed: "Don't—don't
let—" and then he collapsed. He seemed terrified
by the presence of Sir John Phillips and I am
certain that he tried to say: "Don't let him touch
me". I must tell you that a week before this Sir
John called on my husband. I hoped that it was for
a consultation about his pain, which was then very
severe. Next morning I asked my husband if Sir
John had examined him. He evaded my question,
and seemed very much upset. I had met Sir John in
63
the hall and had thought his manner most unusual.
His letter was written that same night, evidently as
a result of the interview.'
'You definitely connect Sir John's letter with the
other? signed Jane Harden?'
'Yes. She is a nurse in the hospital where my
husband was a patient. After your man left, this
afternoon, I rang up the hospital and under pretext
of "wishing to thank the nurses concerned in the
case, I found out their names. She was actually
present in the operating theatre and I dare say
assisted Sir John.'
She drawled all this out in her serene,
high-pitched voice, exactly as though she was
reading aloud.
'Forgive me,' said Alleyn, 'but did you know
anything about this business? I hope you will
understand that I only ask because—'
'Because you wonder if I am prejudiced?'
'Exactly.'
'I knew my husband was unfaithful to me from
time to time. I also believed these incidents to be
more or less casual encounters.'
'You were unaware of this Miss Harden's
existence?'
'Quite.'
Alleyn was silent for a little while. Then he rose
to his feet.
'I think, with you, that there should be an
inquest,' he told her.
She made a slight movement and the heavy folds
of her dress stirred. It was as though she had
suddenly gone tense all over. When she spoke,
Kowever, it was with her customary equanimity.
'You have, I am sure, made a very wise decision.'
64
'I'm afraid we shall have difficulty with the
coroner. Naturally he is rather chary about starting
I such an alarming hare. It will be impossible to keep
the thing even moderately quiet. The papers
already have wind of these threatening letters from
Sir Derek's political enemies.'
He watched her closely, but beyond a faint
expression of distaste, could find no evidence of any
sort of emotion.
'That will be rather disagreeable,' she murmured.
'I am afraid so. Is there anything else that you
would like to discuss?'
'I was going to suggest that you speak to Mr.
Ronald Jameson, my husband's secretary. He will,
I think, confirm what I have said about Sir Derek's
reaction to these letters.'
'If you wish it, I will see him. Of course, if the
post-mortem shows that poison has been given, it
will then be my duty to make very exhaustive
inquiries.'
'Of course,' she agreed.
Evidently she had made up her mind Alleyn
should see Jameson, because she sent for him then
and there. Ronald came in looking very perturbed
and uneasy.
'This is my husband's secretary--Mr. Jameson, Mr. Alleyn.'
'How do you do, sir?' said Ronald. 'You won't
have the foggiest recollection of me, I'm afraid, but
we have met before.'
'I've a filthy memory,' declared Chief Inspector
Alleyn.
'It was at Nigel Bathgate's.'
'Oh, yes.' Alleyn was polite, but noncommittal.
'Really?' murmured Lady O'Callaghan. 'Yes, I
65
thought too that perhaps I had seen you—that your
face—' She seemed uncertain how to go on.
'People often find they are familiar with the faces
of the police,' said Alley n gravely.
'It's not that, sir,' Ronald turned to Lady
O'Callaghan. 'Mr. Alleyn is in some of Mr.
Rattisbon's photos in the study at Karnelly.'
'Ratsbane's cricketing groups,' thought Alleyn.
'Oh, Lord!'
'Oh,' said Lady O'Callaghan. 'Yes.' She stared
rather blankly at him.
'Mr. Jameson,' Alleyn began, 'I believe Lady
O'Callaghan wants me to speak to you about an
incident that took place here a week before Sir
Derek's operation.'
Ronald jumped and glanced nervously at the
lady.
'I have spoken to Mr. Alleyn about my
suspicions. He agrees that there should be an
inquest.'
'Really, sir? Look here—I mean, of course, you
know best, but, well—it's—it's a pretty ghastly
thought, isn't it?'
'You remember the evening my husband had the
letter signed Jane Harden?'
'Yes,' said Ronald very reluctantly.
'You remember that you told me the letter
seemed to upset him very much?'
'Yes—but—'
'And when he overheard you speaking of it he
was quite unreasonably angry?'
'I don't think unreasonably. Lady O'Callaghan,'
Ronald protested. 'Sir Derek was quite right. I
should not have mentioned his correspondence. I
had never done so before.'
66
'Why did you do so then?5 she asked him.
'Really,' thought Alleyn, 'she might be an
Attorney-General.'
'Because—well, because it seemed to upset him
so much.' Ronald saw the fence too late and crashed
into it.
'Yes,' said Lady O'Callaghan.
'Would you describe him as being alarmed?'
Alleyn asked.
'Well—more sort of disturbed and distressed.
After all, sir, it was an unpleasant letter to get.'
Ronald seemed to be in a perfect agony of
embarrassment.
'Certainly,' Alleyn agreed. 'You were not
present, were you, at any time during the interview
between Sir Derek and Sir John Phillips?'
'No. I—no, I wasn't.'
'What were you going to say? Was anyone else
there?'
'Nash, the butler, took in the tray.'
'Has he spoken to you on the subject?' asked
Alleyn casually.
'Er—yes. Servants' gossip. I rather snubbed him,
sir.'
'What did he say before you'd snubbed him?'
'He's an awful old woman—Nash. He seemed to
think Sir John had used some sort of threatening
expression. Honestly, sir, he's a fearful ass.'
'I see. I think that's all, Lady O'Callaghan.
Perhaps the apprehensive Nash will make an
appearance when I go.'
She rang the bell.
'He should have come in with the tray by this
time,' she said vaguely.
When Nash appeared it was with the tray, which
67
he set down delicately.
'Mr. Alleyn, will you--?'
'No thank you so much. I must be off. Goodbye,
Lady O'Callaghan. I'll ring you up if I may.'
'Yes. Thank you. Goodbye.'
Nash opened the door and followed Alleyn into
the hall. Jameson made as if to see the inspector
out.
'Oh--Mr. Jameson,' said Lady O'Callaghan. He
hesitated and then returned to the study, closing
the door.
As he took his hat and coat from the butler
Alleyn paused and looked directly at him.
'Perhaps you realise why I am here?' he said.
'Not altogether, sir,' murmured Nash
composedly.
'It is in connection with Sir Derek's death.'
Nash bowed very slightly.
'If I ask you a question,' Alleyn continued, 'you
must understand there is no obligation to answer if
you don't want to. I particularly do not wish the
matter mentioned in or out of the servants' hall.
You understand?'
'Certainly, sir,' said Nash quietly.
'I believe I can depend on you. How long have
you been with Sir Derek?'
'Twenty years, sir. I was footman to his father.'
'Yes. Did you hear Sir John Phillips say anything
to your master the last time he came here?'
'Yes, sir.'
'What was it?'
'"If the opportunity presented itself, I should
have no hesitation in putting you out of the way".
Those were the exact words, sir.'
'I see. Have you told anyone about this?'
68
'Mr. Jameson, sir. I considered it my duty. No
one in the hall has any idea of the incident, sir.'
'What did Mr. Jameson think about it?'
'He appeared to attach no importance to it, sir.'
'No? Thank you, Nash.'
'Thank you very much, sir. Shall I get you a taxi,
sir?'
'No, I'll walk. Good night.'
'Good evening, sir.'
Nash opened the door and Alleyn went out into
the street. He paused for a moment to light a
cigarette. He had taken a few steps along the
pavement when he heard something that made him
pause and turn.
Ronald Jameson had come out of the house and
hurried after him, bareheaded.
'Please forgive me, sir,' he said hurriedly, 'but I
felt I must have another word with you. It was
rather difficult with Lady O'Callaghan present.
About these ideas of hers. I'm certain there's
nothing in it. Sir Derek was a man of the world
and—and, of course, he had his relaxations. She
seems very cold and all that, but I believe she was
frightfully jealous and she wants to punish this girl.
I'm sure that's all it is.'
'Oh. Why should she want to punish Sir John
Phillips as well as Miss Harden?'
'Oh, Lord knows. You can't tell with women,
sir, can you?'
'I haven't tried,' said Alleyn.
'I expect you think it frightful cheek, my butting
in like this, but, you see, I—well, Sir Derek was
rather a marvellous person to me, and I simply
loathe the idea of everything being dragged out and
made public. It's a ghastly thought.'
69
Something of Ronald's semi-diplomatic air of
winning tactfulness still appeared in his rather
dishevelled manner. He gazed with anxious
deference into Alleyn's sardonic face. The inspector
cocked an eyebrow.
'And yet,' he said, 'I imagine, if Sir Derek was
actually killed, you would rather the murderer
didn't get off scot-free?'
'Yes, but, you know, I'm sure he wasn't. Those
two letters didn't mean anything—I thought so
at—' Ronald stopped short.
'Were you about to say "at the time"?' inquired
Alley n.
'I meant at the time Lady O'Callaghan found
them.'
'Where were the letters kept, Mr. Jameson?'
'In his private drawer,' said Ronald with a very
red face.
'And the keys?'
'Er—oh, usually in the desk.'
'I see. Well, we must pursue the subject no more
until we discover whether Sir Derek was
murdered.'
'I'm absolutely certain there's nothing in it, sir.'
'I hope you are right. Good night.'
'Thank you so much, sir,' said Ronald, all eager
and charming. 'Good night.'
Alley n swung his stick up, turned on his heel,
and walked away. Ronald gazed after the long,
elegant figure for some seconds. His fingers fidgeted
with his tie. Then he looked up at the windows of
the house, slightly shrugged his shoulders, and ran
up the steps and through the door.
Alley n heard the door slam. As he turned out of
Catherine Street towards Buckingham Gate he
70
FR1;began to whistle Ophelia's song:
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf.
At his heels a stone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
POSTMORTEM
Monday, the fifteenth. Afternoon. 'Everybody talks to me about "P.M's",' complained Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to
Inspector Fox on Monday afternoon, 'and I never
know whether they mean post-mortem or Prime
Minister. Really, it's very difficult when you
happen to be involved with both.'
'It must be,' said Fox dryly. 'How's the case
going?'
'It's too young to be called a case. So far it's only
a naughty thought. As you know. Lady
O'Callaghan urged the inquest and threatened to
appeal to the P.M. However, the coroner ordered
the inquest, which opened on Saturday a.m. and
was adjourned for a P.M. which has been going on
during the week-end p.m. and a.m. You see how
tricky it all is?'
'I can see you're worried, chief.'
'When you call me "chief", Fox, I feel like a
cross between an Indian brave and one of those men
with jaws and cigars in gangster films.'
71
'Okay, chief, said Fox impenurbably.. 'It's a big
job, this,' he added sombrely.
'It is,' said Alleyn. 'I don't mind admLtting I was
nervous over the inquest. I should have looked
remarkably silly if it had gone the other way and no
P.M. had been ordered.'
'It might very easily have happened. IPhillips did
his best to put the kybosh on a post-imortem.'
'You thought so?'
'Well—didn't you?'
'Yes, I suppose so. Oh, yes.'
'Of course,' said Fox slowly, 'an innocent man in
his position would have been anxious for a P.M.'
'Not if he thought someone else had done the
trick.'
'Oh,' Fox ruminated. 'That's the big idea, is it,
sir?'
'It's only one idea—possibly a silly one?. What did
you think of the matron's contribute on to the
evidence? Sister Marigold?'
'Couldn't make her out at all and that's a fact.
She seemed to welcome the inquest. She obviously
resented any hint of criticism against: Sir John
Phillips.'
'She made one or two very acid renxarks about
the other nurse—Nurse Banks.'
'Yes. Now, that struck me as rum, too, sir. No
suggestion of anything as regards the I-Carden girl,
but when Nurse Banks was mentioned-—'
'She bridled like a Persian,' said Alleyn. 'I
know—"rum's" the word, Fox.'
'The medical witnesses are always a bit trying in a
case like this,' reflected Inspector fo> pounds pence'On the
defensive, as you might say. They all pull together.'
'Now that's exactly what I thought ttley did not
72
do. I've just read over the shorthand report of the
inquest and the thing that struck me all of a heap
was that the hospital gang seemed to be playing a
sort of tig-in-the-dark game. Or rather tug-of-war in
the dark. They wanted to pull together, but didn't
know which way to pull. Here's the report. Let us
go over it, shall we? Where's your pipe?'
They lit up. Alleyn shoved a carbon copy of the
verbatim report on the inquest across to his
subordinate.
'First you get straight-out evidence on the
operation. Phillips said Sir Derek O'Callaghan,
suffering from a ruptured abscess of the appendix,
was admitted to the Brook Street hospital. He
examined the patient, advised an immediate
operation, which, at Lady O'Callaghan's request,
he undertook to perform himself. Peritonitis was
found. The anaesthetist was Dr. Roberts, engaged
for the job because the usual man was unavailable.
Phillips says Roberts used all possible care and he
can find no fault in that department. Thorns, the
assistant, agrees. So do Sister Marigold and the two
nurses. Before he began, Phillips injected hyoscine,
his usual procedure for all operations. For this
injection he used tablets he brought with him,
saying that he preferred them to the solution in the
theatre, as hyoscine is an extremely tricky drug.
"All care taken, no responsibility accepted." one
feels moved to remark. He prepared the syringe
himself. At the end of the operation a concoction
prettily named ^Concentrated Gas-Gangrene
Antitoxin9', used in cases of peritonitis, was
injected. The serum, together with a large syringe,
was laid out by Nurse Banks before the operation.
It was a commercial preparation kept in an ampoule
73
from which she simply filled the syringe. Nurse
Harden fetched the syringe and gave it to Thorns,
who injected the stuff. Meanwhile Roberts, the
anaesthetist, had got all hot and hectic about the
patient's heart and had asked for an injection of
camphor, which was prepared and given by the
elder nurse. They then tacked up the tear in the
tummy and away went the patient. He died an hour
later, presumably, one longs to say, of heart-failure,
but my medical friends tell me that's as good as
saying 'he died of dying". So we can only murmur
humbly "he died as the result of an operation
which, apart from this little incident, was a howling
success."'
'Well,' said Fox, 'so far they all agree.'
'Yes, but did you notice that where it came to the
bit about Jane Harden fetching the syringe with the
anti-gas, as they call it for short, they all went
rather warily. She herself looked pretty sick when
the coroner asked her about it. Here it is:
'"The coroner: I understand you brought the
syringe containing the anti-gas, to Dr. Thorns?
"'Nurse Harden (after a pause): Yes.
'"The Coroner: There was no unusual delay, or
anything of that sort?
'"Nurse Harden: I—I did hesitate a moment.
The syringe was already full and I paused to make
sure it was the right one.
'"The Coroner: Did you not expect to find it
prepared?
'"Nurse Harden: I was not sure. I—I wasn't
well, and for a moment I hesitated and then Nurse
Banks said it was the large syringe and I brought it
to Dr. Thorns.
'Sir John Phillips, recalled, said that the delay
74
< «<
was of no significance. Nurse Harden was unwell
and had subsequently fainted.
' "The Coroner: I understand you were personally
acquainted with the deceased?
'"Nurse Harden: Yes.'"
* * *
Alleyn laid down the report.
That's the incident,' he said. 'It's all perfectly
natural, but I smelt high tension among the expert
witnesses, whenever it was mentioned.'
He waited for a movement and then said slowly:
'That incident would never have come out if it
hadn't been for Thorns.'
'I noticed that, sir. Mr. Thorns let it out during
his evidence and then looked as if he wished he
hadn't.'
'Yes,' said Alleyn dryly.
Fox eyed him cautiously and then went on:
'That girl must have been in a pretty good
fatigue—in the light of what we know, I mean.
There was this man to whom she'd been
writing—the man she'd gone off with, as far as we
can tell. She'd reckoned on some sort of permanent
understanding, anyway, according to her letter, and
when there was nothing doing she'd said she'd like
to kill him and—there he was.'
'Very dramatic,' said Alleyn. 'The same line of
chat, with a difference, may be applied to Sir John
Phillips.'
'That's so,' admitted Fox. 'They may have been
in collusion.'
'I'm entirely against any sort of speculation until
we get the analyst's report, Fox. I have not
75
interviewed any of these people. As you know, I
thought it best to start no hares before the inquest.
I wanted the inquest to be as colourless as possible.
The post-mortem may be a wash-out, in which case
we'll want to fade away with the minimum amount
of publicity.'
'That's right,' said Fox heavily.
'Wre only noting any points of interest in the
evidence that may come in handy for future
reference. Exhibit A—Nurse Harden and the
anti-gas. Exhibit B—curious behaviour of Nurse
Banks while giving evidence. The woman closely
resembled a chestnut on the hob. She might have
spontaneously combusted at any moment.
However, she didn't, more's the pity perhaps, but I
think she managed to fill the minds of the jury with
strange surmises. It struck me that she hadn't
exactly hero-worshipped the late Home Secretary.
There was more than a suspicion of a snort in her
references to him.'
'Bolshie-minded, perhaps,' ruminated Fox.
'Dare say. She looks like that.'
'He may have carried on with her too.'
'Oh, Fox! She does not look like that.'
'People take very strange fancies sometimes, sir.'
'How true that is. No speculations, Foxkin.'
'All right, sir, all right. What about Exhibit C?'
'Exhibit C, In re above. Heavy restraint of the
matron, Sister Marigold, when Banks was
mentioned. Marigold seemed to me to seethe with
suppressed information. "Wild horses wouldn't get
me to tell, but, my oath, if wild horses could—?"'
'And Sir John himself?'
^Agitato ma non troppo, and unnaturally ppp. This
abbreviation business is insidious. Sir John was so
76
anxious to let everybody know he had prepared the
hyoscine injection, wasn't he?'
'Very straightforward of him, I thought,'
remarked Fox doubtfully.
'Oh,' said Alleyn vaguely, 'so did I. As honest as
the day.'
Fox regarded him suspiciously.
'Lady O'Callaghan gave her evidence well.' he
said.
'Admirably. But, oh, lummie, how we did hover
on the brink of those letters. I'd warned the
coroner, who had, of course, read them and
thought they were sufficient grounds for a
post-mortem. However, he agreed it was better they
should not come out. He was very coy about the
whole thing anyway, and would have repressed
pints of hyoscine—'
'Hyoscine!' shouted Fox. 'Aha—you are thinking
of hyoscine!'
'Don't shriek at me like that; I nearly bit my pipe
stem in half. I'm not thinking particularly of
hyoscine. I was about to remark that I was in deadly
fear Lady O'Callaghan would drag in the letters. I'd
warned her, advised her, implored her not to, but
she's not a Ratsbane for nothing, and you never
know.'
'And Thorns?'
'Thorns took the line that the whole show was
unnecessary, but he gave his evidence well,
appeared to have nothing to conceal apart from his
regret over divulging the fainting episode, and
seemed to resent the slightest criticism of Phillips.'
'Yes,' Fox agreed, 'I noticed that. Roberts took
much the same line. That's what I mean about the
experts sticking together.'
77
'Oh quite. They wanted to pull together but I'm
pretty certain they were not all agreed. I did rather
feel that they were uneasy about Nurse Harden's
delay over the anti-gas syringe, and that there was
something about Nurse Banks that both Sister
Marigold and Jane Harden shied away from.'
'There were three injections altogether,' said Fox
thoughtfully. He held up as many short fingers.
'The hyoscine, prepared and injected by Phillips;
the camphor, prepared and injected by Nurse
Banks; and the anti-gas, prepared by Nurse Banks
and injected by Mr. Thorns.'
'Sounds like a petrol station. Well, there it is. If
his tummy turns up a natural, we can forget all
about it. If dirty weather sets in, it'll be with a
vengeance. Do you like cocktail metaphors?'
'I've been talking to Inspector Boys about the
political side,' said Fox. 'He's got all the Kakaroff
crowd taped out and he doesn't think there's much
• • s
in it.'
'Nor do I. Since the Krasinky lot were roped in
they've piped down considerably. [See A Man Lay
Dead] Still, you never know with these people.
They may mean business. If that Bill goes through
next week, it'll larn 'em. I hope there's no nonsense
at the funeral to-morrow. We're making elaborate
enough arrangements for burying the poor
chap—shutting the stable door with a gold padlock.
They might possibly choose the moment to
celebrate at the funeral:, but, no, I don't think they
were in on the murder. I'm inclined to think they
would have staged something more spectacular—a
suitable echo to the Yugoslavia affair. Hyoscine
doesn't sound their cup of tea at all.'
'Why hyoscine?' asked Fox with massive
78
innocence.
'You old devil,' said Alleyn, 'I refuse to discuss
the case with you. Go and catch pickpockets.'
'Sorry, sir.'
'And if anything comes of this P.M. business,
you can jolly well deal with Lady O'Callaghan
yourself. That makes you blanch. What's the time?'
'Three o'clock, sir. The results of the
post-mortem ought to come in fairly soon.'
'I suppose so. Our famous pathologist is going to
ring me up himself as soon as he has informed the
coroner.'
Alleyn got up and walked about the room
hunching up one shoulder and whistling under his
breath. The desk telephone rang. Fox answered it.
'It's a Miss O'Callaghan asking for you,' he said
stolidly.
'Miss—? Who the devil—? Oh, all right. Now
what's in the wind, do you suppose?'
'Send her up,' said Fox to the telephone. 'I'd
better push off, sir,' he added.
'I suppose you had. This is all very rum—very
rum indeed.'
Fox departed. Alleyn knocked out his pipe,
opened the window, and sat behind the desk. A
woman's voice sounded in the passage outside. The
door was opened by a police-constable, who said:
'Miss O'Callaghan, sir,' and withdrew.
Ruth O'Callaghan walked into the room. She
appeared to be dressed in a series of unrelated
lengths of material. Her eye-glasses were canted
over the top angle of her enormous nose. Her
handbag and umbrella, wedded by an unhappy
confusion of cords and leather thongs, dangled from
a gaunt wrist. Her face, exclusive of the nose, was
79
pale. She seemed to be grievously agitated.
Alleyn rose and waited politely.
'Oh!' said Ruth, catching sight of him. 'Oh!' She
came towards him at a kind of gallop and held out
the hand that was encumbered with the umbrella
and handbag. Alleyn shook it.
'How do you do?' he murmured.
'So good of you to see me,' Ruth began. 'I know
how busy you must be. The statistics of crime are
so appalling. Too kind.'
'I am making no arrests this afternoon,' said
Alleyn gravely.
She gazed at him dubiously and then broke into a
sort of whooping laugh.
'Oh, no, no, no' said Ruth. 'That's very
funny—no, of course, I didn't suppose—' She
stopped laughing abruptly and looked
disconcertingly lugubrious.
'No,' she repeated. 'But it is kind, all the same,
when I expect you think I'm a jolly old nuisance of
an interfering woman.'
'Do sit down,' said Alleyn gently, and pulled
forward a chair. Ruth shut up rather like a two-foot
rule. He pushed the chair under her and returned to
his own. She leant forward, resting her elbows on
his desk and gazed earnestly at him.
'Mr. Alleyn,' Ruth began, 'what is this dreadful,
dreadful suspicion about my brother's death?'
'At the moment. Miss O'Callaghan, it can
scarcely be called a suspicion.'
'I don't understand. I've been talking to my
sister-in-law. She said some dreadful things to
me—terrible—appalling. She says my brother
was—' Ruth drew in her breath noisily and on the
crest of the intake uttered the word 'murdered.'
80
'Lady O'Callaghan attaches a certain amount of
importance to threatening letters which were sent to
Sir Derek. You have heard of these letters, I
expect.5
'You mean from those horrible anarchist people?
Of course, I know they behaved very badly, but
Derry—my brother, you know—always said they
wouldn't do anything, and I'm quite certain he was
right. Nobody else could have any reason for
wishing him harm.' ('She hasn't heard about the
other letters, then,' thought Alleyn.) 'Everybody
adored him, simply adored him, dear old boy. Mr.
Alleyn, I've come to beg you not to go on with the
case. The inquest was bad enough, but the
other—the—you know what I mean. I can't endure
the thought of it. Please—please, Mr. Alleyn—' She
fumbled desperately in the bag and produced a
colossal handkerchief.
'I'm so sorry,' said Alleyn. 'I know it's a beastly
idea, but just think a little. Does it matter so much
what they do to our bodies when we've finished
with them? I can't think so. It seems to me that the
impulse to shrink from such things is based on a
fallacy. Perhaps it is impertinent of me to speak so
I frankly.' Ruth gurgled and shook her head
dolefully. 'Well then, suppose there was no
post-mortem, what about your feelings then? There
would always be an unscotched suspicion whenever
_ you thought of your brother.'
I 'He was ill. It was his illness. If only he had
I followed my advice! Mr. Alleyn, I have a friend, a
| brilliant young chemist, a rising man. I consulted
him about my brother and he—generously and
nobly—gave me a wonderful remedy,
"Fulvitavolts", that would have cured my brother.
81
I begged him to take it. It would have cured him; I
know it would. My friend assured me of it and he
knows. He said—' She broke off abruptly and
darted a curiously frightened glance at Alleyn. 'My
brother always laughed at me,5 she added quickly.
'And he refused to try this "Fulvitavolts"?'
'Yes—at least—yes, he did. I left the tablets there
but, of course—he just laughed. My sister-in-law is
not very—' Here Ruth floundered unhappily. 'I'm
sure he didn't take them.'
'I see. People are generally very conservative
about medicine.'
'Yes, aren't they?' agreed Ruth eagerly and then
stopped again and blew her nose.
'The lack of interest shown in chemical research
must be very discouraging to a young man like your
friend,' Alleyn went on. 'I know a brilliant
fellow—only twenty-five—who has already—' He
stopped and bent towards her. 'I suppose we can't
possibly be speaking of the same person?'
Ruth beamed at him through her tears.
'Oh, no,' she assured him.
'Now, how do you know. Miss O'Callaghan?'
said Alleyn gaily. 'I'm a very great believer in
coincidence. My man is James Graham.'
'No, no.' She hesitated again, oddly, and then in
another burst of confidence: 'I'm talking about
Harold Sage. Perhaps you've heard of him too?
He's getting quite famous. He's—he's practically
thirty.'
'The name seems to strike a chord,' lied Alleyn
thoughtfully. The desk telephone rang.
'Will you excuse me?' he asked her, and took off
the receiver.
'Hallo? Yes, speaking. Yes. Yes. I see. Thank
82
you very much. I'm engaged at the moment, but if I
may I'll come round and see you tomorrow?
Right.' He hung up the receiver. Ruth had just got
to her feet.
'I mustn't keep you, Mr. Alleyn. Only before I
go--please, please let me beg you to go no further
with these investigations. I've--I've got a reason--I
mean I'm so sure Derry died naturally. It is all so
dreadful. If I could be sure you were satisfied--'
She made an ineffectual movement with her hands,
a clumsy gesture of entreaty. Tell me you'll go no
further!' begged Ruth.
'I am extremely sorry,' said Alleyn formally, 'but
that would be impossible. The post-mortem has
already been held. That message gave me the
result.'
She stood gaping at him, her mouth half open, her big hands clutching at her bag.
'But what--what is it? What do they say?'
'Your brother died of an overdose of a dangerous
drug,' said Alleyn.
She stared at him in utter dismay and then,
without another word, turned and blundered out of
the room.
Alleyn wrote the name 'Harold Sage' in a minute
notebook that he carried. Having done so, he stared
at it with an air of incredulity, sighed, shut up his
book and went to find Fox.
83
I begged him to take it. It would have cured him; I
know it would. My friend assured me of it and he
knows. He said—' She broke off abruptly and
darted a curiously frightened glance at Alleyn. 'My
brother always laughed at me,' she added quickly.
'And he refused to try this "Ful vita volts"?'
'Yes—at least—yes, he did. I left the tablets there
but, of course—he just laughed. My sister-in-law is
not very—' Here Ruth floundered unhappily. 'I'm
sure he didn't take them.'
'I see. People are generally very conservative
about medicine.'
'Yes, aren't they?' agreed Ruth eagerly and then
stopped again and blew her nose.
'The lack of interest shown in chemical research
must be very discouraging to a young man like your
friend,' Alleyn went on. 'I know a brilliant
fellow—only twenty-five—who has already—' He
stopped and bent towards her. 'I suppose we can't
possibly be speaking of the same person?'
Ruth beamed at him through her tears.
'Oh, no,' she assured him.
'Now, how do you know. Miss O'Callaghan?'
said Alleyn gaily. 'I'm a very great believer in
coincidence. My man is James Graham.'
'No, no.' She hesitated again, oddly, and then in
another burst of confidence: 'I'm talking about
Harold Sage. Perhaps you've heard of him too?
He's getting quite famous. He's—he's practically
thirty.'
'The name seems to strike a chord,' lied Alleyn
thoughtfully. The desk telephone rang.
'Will you excuse me?' he asked her, and took off
the receiver.
'Hallo? Yes, speaking. Yes. Yes. I see. Thank
82
you very much. I'm engaged at the moment, but if I
may I'll come round and see you tomorrow?
Right.' He hung up the receiver. Ruth had just got
to her feet.
'I mustn't keep you, Mr. Alleyn. Only before I
go--please, please let me beg you to go no further
with these investigations. I've--I've got a reason--I
mean I'm so sure Derry died naturally. It is all so
dreadful. If I could be sure you were satisfied--'
She made an ineffectual movement with her hands,
a clumsy gesture of entreaty. 'Tell me you'll go no
further!' begged Ruth.
'I am extremely sorry,' said Alleyn formally, 'but
that would be impossible. The post-mortem has
already been held. That message gave me the
result.'
She stood gaping at him, her mouth half open,
her big hands clutching at her bag.
'But what--what is it? What do they say?'
'Your brother died of an overdose of a dangerous
drug,' said Alleyn.
She stared at him in utter dismay and then,
without another word, turned and blundered out of
the room.
Alleyn wrote the name 'Harold Sage' in a minute
notebook that he carried. Having done so, he stared
at it with an air of incredulity, sighed, shut up his
book and went to find Fox.
83
CHAPTER EIGHT
HYOSCINE
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon.
On the following afternoon, five days after his
death, Derek O'Callaghan was buried with a great
deal of pomp and ceremony. Alleyn was right about
the funeral—there was no demonstration from the
late Home Secretary's obscure opponents, and the
long procession streamed slowly down Whitehall
without disturbance. Meanwhile the inquest had
been resumed and concluded. After hearing the
pathologist's and the analyst's reports, the jury
returned a verdict of murder against 'a person or
persons unknown'. Alleyn had had a few words in
private with the pathologist before the inquest
opened.
'Well,' said the great man, 'there wasn't much
doubt about the hyoscine. The usual dose is a
hundredth to a two-hundredth of a grain. My
calculations based on traces of hyoscine found in
the organs, show that more than a quarter of a grain
had been given. The minimum lethal dose would be
something very much less.'
'I see,' said Alleyn slowly.
'Did you expect hyoscine, Alleyn?'
'It was on the tapis. I wish to heaven you hadn't
found it.'
'Yes. Unpleasant business.'
'Do they ever put hyoscine in patent medicines?'
'Oh, yes. Had Sir Derek taken patent
medicines?'
84
'I don't know. It's possible.'
'The dosage would be too small to enter into the
picture.'
'If he swallowed an entire packet?'
The pathologist shrugged his shoulders. 'Would
he take an entire packet?' Alleyn did not answer. 'I
can see you've got something in mind,' said the
pathologist, who knew him.
'Sir John Phillips injected hyoscine. Suppose
O'Callaghan had taken a patent medicine containing
the drug?' Alleyn suggested.
'The average injection, as I have said, is about,
say, a hundredth of a grain. The amount in patent
medicines would be very much less. The two
together, even if he had taken quantities of his
rot-gut, could scarcely constitute a lethal
dose—unless, of course, O'Callaghan had an
idiosyncrasy for hyoscine, and even if there was an
idiosyncrasy for hyoscine, it wouldn't account for
the amount we found. If you want my private
opinion, for what it is worth, I consider the man
was murdered.'
'Thank you for all the trouble you have taken,'
said Alleyn glumly. 'I shan't wait to hear the
verdict; it's a foregone conclusion. Fox can grace
the court for me. There's one other point. Were you
able to find the marks of the injections?'
'Yes.'
'How many were there?'
Three.'
'Three. That tallies. Damn!'
'It's not conclusive, Alleyn. There might be a
fourth injected where we couldn't see it. Inside the
ear, under the hair, or even into the exact spot
where one of the others was given.'
85
'I see. Oh, well, I must bustle away and solve the
murder.'
'Let me know if there's anything further I can
do.'
'Thank you, I will. Goodbye.'
Alleyn went out, changed his mind and stuck his
head round the door.
'If I send you a pill or two, will you have them
dissected for me?'
'Analysed?'
'If you'd rather. Goodbye.'
Alleyn took a taxi to the Brook Street home. He
asked a lugubrious individual in a chastened sort of
uniform if Sir John Phillips was in the hospital. Sir
John had not yet come in. When would he be in?
The lugubrious individual was afraid he 'reely
couldn't say.'
'Please find someone who can say,' said Alleyn.
'And when he's free give Sir John this card.'
He was invited to wait in one of those
extraordinary drawing-rooms that can only be
found in expensive private hospitals in the West
End of London. Thick carpet, subfusc curtains of
pseudo-empire pattern and gilt-legged chairs
combined to disseminate the atmosphere of a
mausoleum. Chief Inspector Alleyn and a marble
woman whose salient features were picked out
embarrassingly in gilt stared coldly at each other. A
nurse came in starchily, glanced in doubt at Alleyn,
and went out again. A clock, flaunted aloft by a
defiant bronze-nude, swung its pendulum
industriously to and fro for twenty minutes. A
man's voice sounded somewhere and in a moment
the door opened and Phillips came in.
He was, as usual, immaculate, a very model for a
86
fashionable surgeon, with his effective ugliness, his
eye-glass, his air of professional cleanliness, pointed
by the faint reek of ether. Alleyn wondered if the
extreme pallor of his face was habitual.
'Inspector Alleyn?' he said. 'I am sorry to have
kept you waiting.'
'Not a bit, sir,' said Alleyn. 'I must apologise for
bothering you, but I felt you would like to know the
report of the post-mortem as soon as it came
through.'
Phillips went back to the door and shut it quietly.
His face was turned away from his visitor as he
spoke.
'Thank you. I shall be relieved to hear it.5
'I'm afraid "relieved" is scarcely the word.'
'No?'
Phillips faced round slowly.
'No,' said Alleyn. 'They have found strongly
marked traces of hyoscine in the organs. He must
have had at least a quarter of a grain.'
"A quarter of a grain!' He moved his eyebrows and
his glass fell to the floor. He looked extraordinarily
shocked and astonished. 'Impossible!' he said
sharply. He stooped and picked up his monocle.
'There has been no mistake,' said Alleyn quietly.
Phillips glanced at him in silence.
'I beg your pardon. Inspector,' he said at last. 'Of
course, you have made certain of your facts,
but—hyoscine—it's incredible.'
'You understand that I shall be forced to make
exhaustive inquiries.'
'I—I suppose so.'
'In a case of this sort the police feel more than
usually helpless. We must delve into highly
technical matters. I will be quite frank with you. Sir
87
John. Sir Derek died of the effects of a lethal dose
of hyoscine. Unless it can be proved that he took
the drug himself, we are faced with a very serious
situation. Naturally I shall have to go into the
history of his operation. There are many questions
which I should like to put to you. I need not remind
you that you are under no compulsion to answer
them.'
Phillips took his time in replying to this. Then he
said courteously:
'Of course, I quite understand. I shall be glad to
tell you anything that will help—anxious to do so. I
owe it to myself. O'Callaghan came here as my
patient. I operated on him. Naturally I shall be one
of the possible suspects.'
'I hope we shall dispose of your claims to that
position very early in the game. Now, first of
all—Sir Derek O'Callaghan, as you told us at the
inquest, had been given hyoscine.5
'Certainly. One-hundredth of a grain was injected
prior to the operation.'
'Exactly. You approved of this injection, of
course?'
'I gave it,' said Phillips evenly.
'So you did. I'm afraid I know absolutely nothing
about the properties of this drug. Is it always used
in cases of peritonitis?'
'It had nothing to do with peritonitis. It is always
my practice to give an injection of hyoscine before
operating. It reduces the amount of anaesthetic
necessary and the patient is more comfortable
afterwards.'
'It is much more generally used nowadays than,
say, twenty years ago?'
'Oh, yes.'
88
'Do you mind telling me just how, and at what
stage of the proceedings, it is given? This was not
stated specifically at the inquest I think.'
'It was given in the anaesthetising-room
immediately before the operation and after the
patient was under the anaesthetic. A hypodermic
syringe was used.'
'Prepared, I imagine, by the nurse in charge of
the theatre?'
'In this instance, no. I thought this was all
perfectly clear, Inspector. I prepared the injection
myself.'
'Yes, of course—how stupid I am!' Alleyn
exclaimed. 'That makes it much simpler for me.
What exactly did you do? Dip the syringe in a blue
bottle and suck up a dram?'
'Not quite.' Phillips smiled for the first time and
produced a cigarette-case. 'Shall we sit down?' he
said. 'And will you smoke?'
'Do you mind if I have one of my own? Good
cigarettes are wasted on me.'
They sat on two incredibly uncomfortable chairs
under the right elbow of the marble woman.
'As regards the actual solution,' said Phillips, 'I
used a tablet of a hundredth of a grain. This I
dissolved in twenty-five minims of distilled water.
There was a stock solution of hyoscine in the
theatre which I did not use.'
'Less reliable or something?'
'It's no doubt perfectly reliable, but hyoscine is a
drug that should be used with extreme care. By
preparing it myself I am sure of the correct dosage.
In most theatres nowadays, it's put out in
ampoules. I shall see,' added Phillips grimly, 'that
this procedure is followed here in future.'
89
'In this instance you went through the customary
routine?'
'I did.'
'Were you alone when you prepared the syringe?'
'There may have been a nurse in the theatre—I
don't remember.' He paused and then added:
'Thorns came in just as I finished.'
'Did he go out with you?'
'I really don't know. I rather think he returned to
the ante-room a few moments later. I left him in the
theatre. I went to the anaesthetic-room and gave the
injection.'
'Of course, you have no doubt in your own mind
about the dosage?'
'I know quite well what you are thinking,
Inspector Alleyn. It is a perfectly reasonable
suspicion. I am absolutely assured that I dissolved
one tablet and one tablet only. I filled the syringe
with distilled water, squirted it into a
measuring-glass, shook one tablet into my hand,
saw that it was a single tablet, and dropped it into
the glass.'
Phillips leant back, looked steadily into Alleyn's
eyes, and thrust his hands into his pockets. 'I am
prepared to swear to that,' he said.
'It's perfectly clear, sir,' said Alleyn, 'and
although I had to consider the possibility of a
mistake, I realise that even if you had dropped two
tablets into the water it would have only meant a
dosage of a fiftieth of a grain. Probably the entire
contents of the tube would not be a quarter of a
grain—the amount estimated.'
For the first time Phillips hesitated. 'They are
packed in tubes of twenty,' he said at last, 'so an
entire tube would contain a fifth of a grain of
90
hyoscine.' He felt in his coat pocket and produced a
hypodermic case which he handed to Alleyn.
'The actual tube is still in there. I have since used
one tablet.'
Alleyn opened the case and took out a glass tube
completely covered by its paper label. He pulled
out the tiny cork and looked in.
'May I?' he asked, and shook out the contents
into his hand. There were eighteen tablets.
'That settles it,' he said cheerfully. 'Do you mind
if I take these for analysis? Purely a matter of
routine, as one says in crime fiction.'
'Do,' said Phillips, looking rather bored.
Alleyn took an envelope from his pocket, put the
tablets back into the tube, the tube into the
envelope, and the envelope into his pocket.
'Thank you so much,' he said. 'You've been
extremely courteous. You've no idea how scared we
are of experts at the Yard.'
'Indeed?'
'Yes, indeed. This must have been a distressing
business for you.'
'Very.'
'I believe Sir Derek was a personal friend.'
'I knew him personally—yes.'
'Had you seen much of him recently?'
Phillips did not answer immediately. Then,
looking straight in front of him, he said: 'What do
you call recently?'
'Well—a fortnight or so.'
'I called at his house on the Friday evening before
the operation.'
'A professional call?'
'No.'
'Did you think he was heading for a serious
91
illness then?'
'I did not know there was anything the matter
with him.'
'He did not mention a patent medicine?'
'No,' said Phillips sharply. 'What is this about
patent medicines?'
'Merely a point that arises.'
'If there is any question of his taking a drug,' said
Phillips more cordially, 'it should be gone into most
thoroughly.'
'That is my view,' Alleyn answered coolly.
'He may,' Phillips went on, 'have had an
idiosyncrasy for hyoscine and if he had been taking
it—'
'Exactly.'
The two men seemed to have changed positions.
It was the surgeon who now made the advances.
Alleyn was polite and withdrawn.
'Is there any evidence that O'Callaghan had taken
a patent medicine?'
'It's possible.'
'Damn fool!' ejaculated Phillips.
'Strange he didn't tell you he was ill on the
Friday.'
'He—I—we discussed another matter altogether.'
'Would you care to tell me what it was?'
'It was purely personal.'
'Sir John,' said Alleyn mildly, 'I think I should
let you know at once that I have seen your letter to
Sir Derek.'
Phillips's head jerked up as though he had come
suddenly face to face with a threatening obstacle.
He did not speak for perhaps half a minute and
then he said very softly:
'Do you enjoy reading other people's private
92
correspondence?'
'About as much as you enjoy glaring into a septic
abdomen, I should think,' rejoined Alleyn. 'It has a
technical interest.'
'I suppose you've spoken to the butler?'
'Would you like to give me your own explanation
of the business?'
'No,' said Phillips. 'No.'
'Speaking unofficially—a thing I am far too prone
to do—I am extremely sorry for you. Sir John.'
Phillips looked at him.
'Do you know, I think I believe you,' he said. 'Is
there anything else?'
'No, I've kept you quite long enough. Would it
be an awful bore for everyone if I had a word with
the nurses who attended the case?'
'I don't think they can tell you very much
further.'
'Probably not, but I think I ought to see them
unless they are all heavily engaged in operations.'
'The theatre is not in use at the moment. The
matron and the nurse who assists her—Nurse
Banks—will be free.'
'Splendid. What about Sir Derek's personal
nurse and the other one from the theatre—Nurse
Harden, wasn't it?'
'I will find out,' said Phillips. 'Do you mind
waiting?'
'Not at all,' murmured Alleyn with an
involuntary glance at the marble woman. 'May I see
them one by one—it will be less violently
embarrassing for all of us?'
'You do not impress me,' rejoined Phillips, 'as a
person who suffers from shyness, but no doubt you
would rather sleuth in secret. You shall see them
93
one by one.'
'Thank you.'
Alleyn waited only a few minutes after Sir John
left him and then the door reopened to admit Sister
Marigold in whose countenance gentility, curiosity
and resentment were exquisitely reflected.
'How do you do. Matron?' said Alleyn.
'Good afternoon,' said Sister Marigold.
'Won't you sit down? Here? Or under the
statue?'
'Thank you very much, I'm sure.' She sat with a
rustle, and eyed the inspector guardedly.
'Perhaps Sir John has told you the report on the
post-mortem?' Alleyn suggested.
'It's terrible. Such a loss, as I say, to the
country.'
'Unthinkable. One of the really strong men in the
right party,' said Alleyn with low cunning.
'Just what I said when it happened.'
'Now look here. Matron, will you take mercy on
a wretched ignorant policeman and help me out of
the awful fog I'm wallowing in? Here's this man,
perhaps the foremost statesman of his time, lying
dead with a quarter of a grain of hyoscine inside
him, and here am I, an abysmally incompetent
layman, with the terrific task before me of finding
out how it got there. What the devil am I to do
about it, Matron?'
He smiled very charmingly into her competent
spectacles. Her very veil seemed to lose starch.
'Well really,' said Sister Marigold, 'I'm sure it's
all very trying for everybody.'
'Exactly. You yourself must have had a great
shock.'
'Well, I did. Of course, in the ordinary way we
94
nurses become accustomed to the sad side of things.
People think us dreadfully hardhearted
sometimes.'
'You won't get me to believe that. Of course, this
discovery--'
'That's what makes it so dreadful, Mr.--er--I
never could have believed it, never. Such a thing
has never happened in the whole of my experience.
And for it to be after an operation in my own
theatre! Nobody could have taken more care.
Nothing went wrong.'
'Now you've hit the nail right on the head!'
exclaimed Alleyn, gazing at her as if she was a sort
of sibyl. 'I felt assured of that. You know as well as
I do. Matron, that Sir Derek was a man with many
bitter enemies. I may tell you in confidence that at
the Yard we know where to look. We are in close
touch with the Secret Service'--he noted with
satisfaction the glint of intrigue in her eye--'and we
are pretty sure how the land lies. In our midst--in
our very midst. Matron--are secret agents, secret
societies, powers of evil known to the Yard but
unsuspected by the general public. Mercifully so.'
He stopped short, folded his arms, and wondered
how much of this the woman would swallow.
Apparently the whole dose.
'Fancy!' breathed Sister Marigold. 'Just fancy!'
'Well--that's the position,' said Alleyn grandly,
throwing himself back in his chair. 'But here's my
difficulty. Before we can fire point-blank we've got
to clear away the other possibilities. Suppose we
made an arrest now--what would be the defence?
An attempt would be made to throw suspicion on
innocent persons, on the very people who fought to
save Sir Derek's life, on the surgeon who operated,
95
and on his assistants.'
'But that's terrible!'
'Nevertheless it is what would happen. Now to
meet that position I must have the actual history of
Sir Derek's operation, in all its details, at my
fingers' ends. That is why I have laid my cards on
the table, Matron, and that is why I have come to
you.'
Sister Marigold stared at him so long that he
wondered nervously if he had been inartistic.
However, when she did speak, it was with the
greatest air of earnestness.
'I shall consider it my duty,' she said, 'to give you
what help I can.'
Alleyn thought it better not to shake hands with
her. He merely said with quiet reverence:
'Thank you, Matron, you have made a wise
decision. Now to come down to tin tacks. I
understand Sir John performed the operation
assisted by Mr. Thorns and with Dr. Roberts as
anaesthetist. Sir John gave the hyoscine injection
and prepared it himself.'
'Yes. Sir John always does that. As I always say,
he's so conscientious.'
'Splendid, isn't it? And Mr Thorns gave the
anti-gas injection. Nurse Harden brought it to him,
didn't she?'
'Yes, she did. Poor Harden, she was dreadfully
upset. Sir Derek was a great friend of her own
family, a very old Dorsetshire family, Mr.—er—'
'Really? Strange coincidence. She fainted
afterwards, didn't she, poor girl?'
'Yes. But I assure you she did her work all
through the op., quite as usual—really.' Sister
Marigold's voice trailed away doubtfully.
96
'Someone said something about a delay over the
anti-gas injection.'
'It was only for a moment. She told me
afterwards she was so faint she had to pause before
she brought it across.'
'Yes, I see. Frightfully bad luck. Nurse Banks
gave the camphor injection, didn't she?'
'She did.' Sister Marigold's thin lips closed in a
whippy line.
'And prepared the serum?'
'That is so.'
'I suppose I'll have to see her. Between you and
me and the Marble Lady, Matron, she rather
alarms me.'
'H'm!' said Sister Marigold. 'Really? Fancy!'
'Still, it is my duty and I must. Is she on the
premises?'
'Nurse Banks is leaving us to-morrow. I believe
she is in the hospital this afternoon.'
'Leaving you, is she? Does she frighten you too,
Matron?'
Sister Marigold pursed her lips.
'She is not a type I care to have nursing for me,'
she said. 'As I say, personal feelings should not
interfere with a nurse's work, much less political
opinions.'
'I thought she looked as if she was suffering from
High Ideals,' Alleyn remarked.
'Call them high ideals! Beastly Bolshevik
nonsense,' said Sister Marigold vigorously. 'She had
the impertinence to tell me, in my own theatre, that
she would be glad if the patient—' She stopped
I short and looked extremely uncomfortable. 'Not, of
course, that she meant anything. Still, as I say—'
'Yes, quite. They'd say anything, some of these
97
people. Of course with those views she'd loathe the
very sight of O'Callaghan.'
'How she dared!' fumed Sister Marigold.
'Tell me about it,' said Alleyn winningly.
After a little hesitation she did.
CHAPTER NINE
THREE NURSES
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon.
The unbosoming of Sister Marigold was almost an
epic. Once the floodgates of her wrath were opened
the spate of disclosure flowed turbulently. Alleyn
decided that in the Marigold's eye Banks was a
murderess. Derek O'Callaghan's nurse had told
Sister Marigold of Banks's triumph at the news of
his death. The theatre scally had lost her head and
told everybody. At first, prompted no doubt by her
anxiety to stifle the breath of scandal in her
hospital. Sister Marigold had determined to say as
little as possible about the unspeakable Banks.
Alleyn's hints that Phillips, his assistants, even she
herself, would come under suspicion had evidently
decided her to speak. She now said that Banks was
obviously an agent of Sir Derek's political enemies.
Alleyn let her talk and talk, and contrived to remain
brilliantly non-committal. He discovered that she
had an excellent memory, and, by dint of careful
questioning, he arrived at the procession of events
during, and immediately before, the operation. It
appeared that the only members of the party who
had been alone in the theatre were Phillips, herself,
98
Thorns, and possibly one of the nurses. Mr.
Thorns, she thought, had come out of the theatre
into the anteroom a few moments after Sir John had
prepared his syringe. When she had told him
everything two or three times over, Alleyn said that
he was a brute to keep her so long and could he see
the private nurse and the scally. He asked her not to
mention the result of the post-mortem. The scally
came first. She was alarmed and inclined to shy off
his questions, but quietened down presently and
stuck to her story of Banks's indecent rejoicing. She
said Banks was always dinning Soviet teaching into
the other nurses. She added nervously that Banks
was a good nurse and would never forget her duty
to a patient. She described the impedimenta that
were put out on a side table before the operation—a
full bottle of hyoscine solution, an ampoule of
anti-gas serum, syringes, a bowl of distilled water.
She was quite sure the bottle of hyoscine solution
had been full. She believed that a small amount had
since been used. She hadn't looked at it
immediately after the operation. This tallied with
information already given by the matron. The scally
herself had put all the things away and had cleaned
the outsides of all the jars carefully. Matron was so
particular. 'No use looking for prints on this job,'
thought Alleyn with a sigh. He thanked her and let
her go.
Nurse Graham, O'Callaghan's special, was then
sent into the room. She came in quietly, smiled at
Alleyn and stood with her hands behind her back
waiting. She had blue eyes, set far apart, a wide
humorous mouth, slightly prominent teeth and a
neat figure. She had an air of repose and efficiency
which pleased the inspector.
99
'D'o sit down, won't you?' Alleyn invited her. She
sat d^own omfortably and didn't fidget.
'Y<ou niised Sir Derek, didn't you?' he began.
;Y<es.' '
'H^ow Wg was it from the time he was admitted
until the operation?'
'N^earlyvia hour, I think. He came in soon after I
went: on dliity at five o'clock. The operation was at a
quarter tec six.'
'Y<es. Uk here, Nurse Graham, will you tell me
the ywhole story of that hour as though you were
writiing i^own in detail?'
Sh'ie looted gravely at him for a moment or two.
'1^11 try, she said at last. Alleyn took out a
notebook and with an uneasy glance at it she began:
'Sooiti afteil came on duty a message came up that
he wi-as onhis way and I was to "special" him. I met
the slitretcX? put him to bed, and prepared him for
the o^peraition.'
'D:)id ywt give him an injection of any sort?'
'N'|o. Ttii usual injection of morphia and atropine
was r[not gi'en. Sir John's injection of hyoscine took
its palace.'
'I I see. fell, nurse?'
'W^hile lliat was being done Lady O'Callaghan
and Sir Derek's sister arrived and when the
prepe,arati(ol was over they went into his room. He
was s semi-conscious. Am I doing this properly?'
'Ac.dmir-^y- Please go on.'
'W^ell, lit me think. I was in the room with them
at fir)rst. lidy O'Callaghan was very good--quiet,
and cdidn'tiipset the patient. Miss O'Callaghan was
rathe:sr distisssed. They sat down by the bed. I went
out t^to spet to Sir John. When I came back they
were »talkX together. Sir Derek was lying with his
100
eyes closed, but he opened them for a moment and
groaned. I think he was conscious just then and he
seemed very uncomfortable. Lady O'Callaghan
came out and spoke for a minute to Sir John. Then
we all returned and Sir John made an examination.
The patient seemed much easier, but I thought that
now he was quite unconscious, more deeply so than
he had been since he came in. Sir John diagnosed
ruptured appendix abscess and offered to get Mr.
Somerset Black to operate immediately. Lady
O'Callaghan begged him to do it himself and he
finally said he would. I took Lady O'Callaghan and
Miss O'Callaghan out.'
Nurse Graham paused and looked very earnestly
at the inspector.
'Was there any further incident before they left
the room?' Alleyn asked.
'You mean—? There was something else, but
please. Inspector Alleyn, do not attach too much
importance to it. The patient, I am sure, did not
realise in the least what he said.'
'What did he say?'
'He opened his eyes and said "Don't—don't
let—" and then relapsed again.'
'Did you get any idea of what he was trying to
say?'
'It might have been anything.'
'At what was he looking?'
'He looked at Sir John, who was nearest the bed.'
'How would you describe his look? Appealing?
Entreating? What?'
'N-no. He—he seemed frightened. It might have
been anything. He looked rather like a patient who
had been given a drug—morphia, for instance. It's
a kind of frowning stare—I have often noticed it
101
appear when the drug is beginning to take effect.'
'And yet you tell me he had not had anything of
the sort.'
'I gave him nothing,' Nurse Graham said.
'There's a curious inflexion in your voice, Nurse.
You gave him nothing? Now of what are you
thinking?'
She moved uneasily and her face became rather
pink.
'I have said nothing about this to anybody,' she
told him. 'It seemed to me a dangerous thing to
speak of what was—was—not absolute fact.'
'Quite right. Don't you think, though, that you
should tell me? Nurse Graham, Sir Derek
O'Callaghan was murdered.' He watched her
closely. She seemed both startled and shocked. She
gave a quick look as if she hoped she had mistaken
what he'd said. After a moment he went on:
'He was given a lethal dose of hyoscine. At least
four people come under the possibility of suspicion.
The very incident you are shying away from might
be the one to save an innocent person. I am too old
a hand to jump at asinine conclusions. Do you
really think you can do any good by keeping me in
the dark?'
'Perhaps not.'
'Let me help you. You think, don't you, that
someone had given O'Callaghan something—a drug
of some sort?'
'It looked like it, and yet it was too soon for a
drug to act.'
'What happened when you returned to your
patient? What did you find?'
'You are—very acute,' she said. 'When I went
back I tidied the room. The patient seemed to be
102
asleep. I lifted his eyelid and he was quite
unconscious. The pupil was not contracted. I knew
then that he could not have had morphia. Then I
saw under a chair by the bed a small piece of white
paper. I picked it up and noticed that it had broken
pieces of sealing-wax on it. It was certainly not
there when Sir Derek was admitted.'
'Have you kept it?'
'I—yes, I have. I wondered then if he had been
given anything, and when the room was done out I
put the paper into a drawer in his dressing-table. It
will still be there.'
'I'll look at it later on if I may. Who had sat in
the chair?'
'Miss O'Callaghan,' she said uneasily.
'And Miss O'Callaghan was alone with the
patient for—how long? Three minutes? Five
minutes?'
'Quite five, I should think.'
'Notice anything else? Had he had a drink of
water, do you think?'
'The glass on the bedside table had been used.'
'You are a model witness. I suppose this glass has
also been cleaned? Yes. A hospital is a poor
hunting-ground for the likes of me. Now don't
worry too much about this. It may be quite beside
the point. In any case it would have been criminal
to withhold it. Consciousness of having done the
right thing brings, I understand, solace to the
troubled breast.'
'I can't say it does to mine.'
'Nonsense. Now will you be very kind and get
your scrap of paper for me? Bring Nurse Banks
back with you, and don't mention homicide. By the
way, what did you think about her reception of the
103
glad tidings--I gather she looked upon them as
glad?'
'She's an ass,' answered Nurse Graham
unexpectedly, 'but she's no murderer.'
'What did she say exactly?'
'Oh, something out of the Bible about praising
the Lord for He hath cast down our enemies.'
'Good lack!' apostrophised Alleyn. 'What an
old--I beg your pardon. Nurse. Ask the lady to
come here, will you? And if you hear me scream
come in and rescue me. I've no desire to die at the
feet of that marble goddess there--who is she, by
the way--Anaesthesia?'
'I've no idea, Inspector,' said Nurse Graham with
a sudden broad smile. She went out briskly and
returned in a few minutes to give him a small
square of white paper such as chemists use in
wrapping up prescriptions. Fragments of red
sealing-wax remained on the margins and the
creases suggested that it had contained a round box.
Alleyn put it in his pocketbook.
'Nurse Banks is waiting,' remarked Nurse
Graham.
'Loose her,' said Alleyn. 'Good-bye, Nurse.'
'Good-bye, Inspector.'
Miss Banks made a somewhat truculent entrance.
She refused a chair and stood uncomfortably erect,
just inside the door. Alleyn remained politely on his
feet.
'Perhaps Nurse Graham has told you of my
business here?' he suggested.
'She said something about Scotland Yard,'
sniffed Banks. 'I didn't know what she was talking
about.'
'I am investigating the circumstances of Sir
104
Derek O'Callaghan's death.'
'I said all there was to say about it at that
inquest.'
Alleyn decided that finesse was not indicated.
'You didn't mention it was murder,' he
remarked.
For a moment he thought she looked frightened.
Then she said woodenly:
'Is it?'
'Yes. What do you think of that?'
'How do you know?'
'The post-mortem revealed indications of at least
a quarter of a grain of hyoscine.'
'A quarter of a grain!' exclaimed Banks. He was
reminded of Phillips. Neither of these two had
ejaculated 'Hyoscine!' as one might have expected,
but had exclaimed at the amount.
'Wouldn't you have expected that to kill him?' he
asked.
'Oh, yes. Mr. Thorns said—' She stopped short.
'What did Mr. Thorns say?'
'Heard him say before the op. that a
quarter-grain would be a fatal dose.'
'How did the subject arise?'
'Don't remember.'
'I understand you prepared and gave the
camphor injection and prepared the anti-gas
injection.'
'Yes. I didn't put hyoscine in either if that's what
you're thinking.'
'No doubt there will be some means of proving
that,' said Alleyn smoothly. 'I shall have the matter
investigated, of course.'
'You'd better,' snorted Banks.
'Sir John prepared and gave the hyoscine.'
105
'Well, what if he did? Sir John Phillips wouldn't
poison his worst enemy in the theatre. Too much
the little surgeon.'
'I'm glad you think so,' said Alleyn mildly.
Banks was silent.
'I hear you look upon the affair as a dispensation
of Providence,' he added.
'I am an agnostic. I said "if".'
< tfrmy
'If I wasn't, I would.'
'Oh,' said Alleyn. 'It's cryptic, but I get you. Can
you tell me which members of the party were alone
in the theatre before the operation?'
'No, I can't.'
'Do try. Do you remember if you were?'
'No. Phillips was. Thorns was.'
'When?'
'Just before they washed up. We were in the
anteroom. Phillips came in first and that little fool
followed him.'
'Meaning Mr. Thorns?'
'I said so, didn't I?'
'Are you going to hear Nicholas Kakaroff speak
tonight?'
This was a shot in the dark. Kakaroff was to
address a large meeting of Soviet sympathisers. The
Yard would think it worth while to put in an
amiable appearance. Nurse Banks threw up her
chin and glared at him.
'I shall be proud to be there,' she said loudly.
'That's the spirit!' cried Alleyn.
Inspired perhaps by fiery recollections of former
meetings. Nurse Banks suddenly came out strong
with a speech.
'You may stand there with a smile on your lips,'
106
she stormed, 'but you won't smile for long. I know
your type—the gentleman policeman—the latest
development of the capitalist system. You've got
where you are by influence while better men do
bigger work for a slave's pittance. You'll go, and all
others like you, when the Dawn breaks. You think
I killed Derek O'Callaghan. I didn't, but I'll tell
you this much—I should be proud—proud, do you
hear, if I had.'
She reeled all this out with remarkable fluency, as
though it was a preposterous recitation. Alley n had
a swift picture of her covering her friends' suburban
tea-parties with exquisite confusion. Small wonder
the other nurses fought shy of her.
'Do you know. Nurse,' he said, 'until the Dawn
does break I rather think I'd pipe down a bit if I
were you. Unless you really fancy the martyr's
crown, you're talking like a remarkably silly
woman. You had as good a chance as anyone else of
pumping hyoscine into the deceased. You're now
shrieking your motive into my capitalist face. I'm
not threatening you. No, you'd better not say
anything more at the moment, but when the mantle
of Mr. Kakaroff is laid aside you may think it
advisable to make a statement. Until then, Nurse
Banks, if you'll forgive me the suggestion, I should
really pipe down. Will you tell Nurse Harden I'm
ready?'
He opened the door for her. She stood for a
moment staring above his head. Then she walked to
the door, paused, and looked directly at him.
'I'll tell you this much,' she said. 'Neither
Phillips nor Harden did it. Phillips is a
conscientious surgeon and Harden is a
conscientious nurse. They are hidebound by their
107
professional code, both of them.'
With this emphatic assertion she left him. Alleyn
screwed his face sideways and opened his notebook.
Here, in an incredibly fine and upright hand he
wrote 'Thorns—conversation about hyoscine,' and
after a moment's hesitation T and H—hidebound
by their professional code, says the B.'
He wrote busily, shut his little book, glanced up
and gave a start of surprise. Jane Harden had come
in so quietly that he had not heard her. There she
stood, her fingers twisted together, staring at the
inspector. He had thought at the inquest that she
was very good-looking. Now, with the white veil
behind it, the extreme pallor of her face was less
emphatic. She was beautiful, with that peculiar
beauty that covers delicate bone. The contour of the
forehead and cheek-bones, the little hollows of the
temples, and the fine-drawn arches of the eyes had
the quality of a Holbein drawing. The eyes
themselves were a very dark grey, the nose
absolutely straight, and the mouth, rather too
small, with drooping corners, was at once sensuous
and obstinate.
'I beg your pardon,' said Alleyn; 'I did not hear
you come in. Please sit down.'
He pulled forward the nearest of the preposterous
chairs, turning it towards the window. The
afternoon had darkened and a chilly sort of gloom
masked the ceiling and corners of the room. Jane
Harden sat down and clasped the knobs of the
chair-arms with long fingers that even the
exigencies of nursing had not reddened.
'I expect you know why I'm here?' said Alleyn.
'What was the—is the post-mortem finished?'
She spoke quite evenly, but with a kind of
108
breathlessness.
'Yes. He was murdered. Hyoscine.'
She seemed to stiffen and become uncannily still.
'So the hunt is up,' added Alleyn calmly.
'Hyoscine,' she whispered. 'Hyoscine. How
much?'
'At least a quarter of a grain. Sir John injected a
hundredth, he tells me. Therefore someone else
gave the patient a little more than a fifth of a
grain—six twenty-fifths, to be exact. It may have
been more, of course. I don't know if the
post-mortem can be relied upon to account for
every particle.'
'I don't know either,' said Jane.
'There are one or two questions I must ask you.'
'Yes?'
'I'm afraid this is all very distressing for you. You
knew Sir Derek personally, I believe?'
'Yes.'
'I'm terribly sorry to have to bother you. Let's
get it over as soon as possible. As regards the
anti-gas injection. At the close of the operation Sir
John or Mr. Thorns asked for it. Sister Marigold
told you to get it. You went to a side table, where
you found the syringe. Was it ready—prepared for
use?'
'Yes.'
'At the inquest it appeared that you delayed a
little while. Why was this?'
'There were two syringes. I felt faint and could
not think, for a moment, which was the right one.
Then Banks said: "The large syringe", and I
brought it.'
'You did not hesitate because you thought there
might be something wrong with the large syringe?'
109
This suggestion seemed to startle her very much.
She moved her hands nervously and gave a soft
exclamation
'Oh! No/No--Why should I think that?'
'Nurse Banks prepared this syringe, didn't she?'
'Yes,' said Jane.
Alleyn was silent for a minute. He got up and
walked across to the window. From were she sat his profile looked black, like a silhouette with blurred
edges. He stared out at the darkening roofs.
Something about a movement of his shoulders
suggested a kind of distaste. He shoved his hands
down into his trouser pockets and swung round, facing the room. He looked shadowy, but larger
than life against the yellowish windowpane.
'How well did you know Sir Derek?' he asked
suddenly. His voice sounded oddly flat in the
thickly furnished room.
'Quite well,' she said after another pause.
'Intimately?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Well--did you meet often--as friends, shall I
say?'
She stared at his darkened face. Her own, lit by
the sallow light from the window, looked thin and
secret.
'Sometimes.'
'Recently?'
'No. I can't see what my acquaintanceship with
him has to do with the matter.'
'Why did you faint?'
'I was--I wasn't well; I'm run down.'
'It had nothing to do with the identity of the
patient? It wasn't because Sir Derek was so ill?'
'Naturally that distressed me.'
110
'Have you ever written to him?'
She seemed to shrink back into the chair as
though he had actually hurt her.
'You need not answer any of these questions if
you think it better not to,' he announced. 'Still, I
shall, of course, go to other people for the
information.5
7 have done nothing to hurt him,9 she said
loudly.
'No. But have you ever written to him? That was
my question, you know.'
She took a long time to answer this. At last she
murmured: 'Oh yes.'
'How often?'
'I don't know—'
'Recently?'
'Fairly recently.'
'Threatening letters?'
She moved her head from side to side as though
the increasing dusk held a menace.
'No,' said Jane.
He saw now that she looked at him with terror in
her eyes. It was a glance to which he had become
accustomed, but since in his way he was a sensitive
man, never quite reconciled.
'I think it would be better,' he pronounced
slowly, 'if you told me the whole story. There is no
need, is there, for me to tell you that you are one of
the people whom I must take into consideration?
Your presence in the operating theatre brings you
into the picture. Naturally I want an explanation.'
'I should have thought my—distress—would
have given you that,' she whispered, and in that
half-light he saw her pallor change to a painful red.
'You see, I loved him,' added Jane.
Ill
'I think I understand that part of it,' he said
abruptly. 'I am extremely sorry that these beastly
circumstances oblige me to pry into such very
painful matters. Try to think of me as a sort of
automaton, unpleasant but quite impersonal. Can
you do that, do you think?'
'I suppose I must try.'
Thank you. First of all—was there anything
beyond ordinary friendship between you and
O'Callaghan?'
She made a slight movement.
'Not—' She paused and then said: 'Not really.'
'Were you going to say "Not now"? I think there
had been. You say you wrote to him. Perhaps your
letters terminated a phase of your friendship?'
She seemed to consider this and then answered
uneasily: 'The second did.'
He thought: 'Two letters. I wonder what
happened to the other?'
Aloud, he said: 'Now, as I understand it, you had
known Sir Derek for some time—an old family
friendship. Recently this friendship changed to a
more intimate association. When was this?'
'Last June—three months ago.'
'And it went on—for how long?'
Her hands moved to her face. As if ashamed of
this pitiful gesture she snatched them away, and
raising her voice, said clearly: 'Three days.'
'I see,' said Alleyn gently. 'Was that the last time
you saw him?'
'Yes—until the operation.'
'Had there been any quarrel?'
'No.'
'None?'
'No.' She tilted her head back and began to speak
112
rapidly.
'It was a mutual agreement. People make such a
fuss about sex. It's only a normal physical
experience, like hunger or thirst. The sensible thing
is to satisfy it in a perfectly reasonable and natural
way. That's what we did. There was no need to
meet again. We had had our experience.'
'My poor child!' Alleyn ejaculated.
'What do you mean!'
'You reel it all off as if you'd learnt it out of a
textbook. "First Steps in Sex". "0 Brave New
World", as Miranda and Mr. Huxley would say!
And it didn't work out according to the receipt?'
'Yes it did.'
"Then why did you write those letters?'
Her mouth opened. She looked pitifully
ludicrous and, for a moment, not at all pretty.
'You've seen them—you've—'
'I'm afraid so,' said Alleyn.
She gave a curious dry sob and put her hands up
to the neck of her uniform as though it choked her.
'You see,' Alleyn continued, 'it would be better
to tell me the truth, really it would.'
She began to weep very bitterly.
'I can't help it. I'm sorry. It's been so awful—I
can't help it.'
Alleyn swung round to the light again.
'It's all right,' he said to the window-pane. 'Don't
mind about me—only an automaton, remember.'
She seemed to pull herself together quickly. He
heard a stifled sob or two and a rustle as if she had
made a violent movement of some sort.
'Better,' she murmured presently. When he
turned back to the room she was sitting there,
staring at him, as though there had been no break
113
in their conversation.
'There's not much more,' he began—very
businesslike and pleasant. 'Nobody accuses you of
anything. I simply want to check up on the
operation. You did not see Sir Derek from June
until he was brought into the theatre. Very well.
Beyond these two letters you did not communicate
with him in any way whatever? All right. Now the
only place where you step into the picture is where
you fetched the syringe containing the anti-gas
concoction. You delayed. You were faint. You are
positive you brought the right syringe?'
'Oh, yes. It was much bigger than the others.'
'Good enough. I'll look at it presently if I may.
Now I understand that the jar, bottle, or pot
containing the serum—'
'It was an ampoule,' said Jane.
'So it was—and the pipkin, cruse, or pottle
containing hyoscine were on the table. Could you,
feeling all faint and bothered, have possibly sucked
up hyoscine by mistake?'
'But, don't you understand, it was ready!' she
said impatiently.
'So I am told, but I've got to make sure, you
know. You are positive, for instance, that you
didn't squirt out the contents and refill the syringe?'
'Of course—positive.' She spoke with more
assurance and less agitation than he had expected.
'You remember getting the syringe? You were
not so groggy that you did it more or less blindly?'
That seemed to get home. She looked frightened
again.
'I—I was very faint, but I know—oh, I know I
made no mistake.'
'Right. Anyone watch you?'
114
He watched her himself, closely. The light was
now very dim, but her face was still lit from the
window behind him.
'They—may—have. I didn't notice.'
'I understand Mr. Thorns complained of the
delay. Perhaps he turned to see what you were
doing?'
'He's always watching—I beg your pardon; that's
got nothing to do with it.'
'What were you going to say?'
'Only that Mr. Thorns has rather an offensive
trick of staring.'
'Did you happen to notice, before the operation,
how much of the hyoscine solution there was in the
bottle?'
She thought for some time.
'I think it was full,' she said.
'Has it been used since?'
'Once, I believe.'
'Good.'
He moved away from the window briskly, found
the light switch and snapped it down. Jane rose to
her feet. Her hands shook and her face was a little
marked with tears.
'That's all,' said Alleyn brightly. 'Cheer up,
Nurse Harden.'
'I'll try.'
She hesitated a moment after he had opened the
door, looked as if she wanted to say something
further, but finally, without another word, left the
room.
After she had gone Alleyn stood stock-still and
stared at the opposite wall.
At last, catching sight of himself in an ornate
mirror, he made a wry face at his own reflection.
115
'Oh, damn the doings,' said Alleyn.
CHAPTER TEN
THOMS IN THE THEATRE
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon.
It was Mr. Thorns who took Alleyn into the theatre.
After Jane left him the inspector had wandered into
the hall and run into the plump little surgeon.
Alleyn had explained who he was, and Thorns
instantly assumed an expression of intense
seriousness that made him look rather like a clown
pulling a mock-tragic face.
'I say!' he exclaimed. 'You're not here about Sir
Derek O'Callaghan's business, are you?'
'That's it, Mr. Thorns,' Alleyn rejoined wearily.
'The man was murdered.'
Thorns began to babble excitedly. Alleyn held up
a long hand.
'Hyoscine. At least a quarter of a grain. Wilful
murder,' he said briefly.
'Lor'!' ejaculated Thorns.
'Lor' it is. I've been badgering nurses and now I
want to see the theatre of operations. It never struck
me till just then what a localised implication that
phrase has.'
'See the theatre?' said Thorns. 'Yes. Of course.
Look here. It's not in use now. Sir John's gone out.
I'll show you round if you like.'
'Thank you so much,' said Alleyn.
Thorns talked excitedly as he led the way. 'It's
the most amazing thing I ever heard. Damn' nasty
116
business, too. I hope to God you don't think I
pumped hyoscine into the man. Thought you police
chaps must have something up your sleeves when
you pushed the inquest. Yes. Well, here we are.
This is an anteroom to the theatre, where we wash
and dress ourselves up for the business. Along
there's the anaesthetising-room. Here's the theatre.'
He butted open the swing-doors.
'Wait a bit,' said Alleyn. 'Let's get a sort of
picture of the proceedings, may we? Before the
operation you and the other medical men
foregathered in here.'
'That's it. Sir John and I came in here together.
Dr Roberts came in for a moment and then went off
to the anaesthetising-room, where the patient was
brought to him.'
'Anyone else in here during that time?'
'With Phillips and me, you mean? Oh, yes—the
matron. Sister Marigold, you know. She does
theatre sister. It's only a small hospital, and she
rather fancies herself at the job, does old Marigold.
Then, let me see, the other two nurses were
dodging about. Thingummy, the Bolshie one, and
that pretty girl that did a faint—Harden.'
'What did you all talk about?'
'Talk about?' echoed Thorns. He had a curious
trick of gaping at the simplest question as though
much taken aback. His eyes popped and his mouth
fell open. He then gave a short and, to Alleyn,
tiresome guffaw. 'What did we talk about?' he
repeated. 'Well, let's see. Oh, I asked Sir John if he
had seen the show at the Palladium this week
and—' He stopped short and again his eyes bolted.
'Well—what about it?' asked Alleyn patiently.
'He said he hadn't,' said Thorns. He looked
117
ridiculously uncomfortable, as though he had nearly
said something frightfully improper.
'I missed the Palladium this week,5 Alleyn
remarked. 'It's particularly good, I hear.'
'Oh,' Thorns mumbled, 'not bad. Rather rot
really.'
He seemed extraordinarily embarrassed.
'And had Sir John seen the show?' asked Alleyn
lightly.
'Er—no, no, he hadn't.'
'Did you discuss any particular part of it?'
'No. Only mentioned the show—nothing
particular.'
There was a long pause during which Thorns
whistled under his breath.
'During this time,' said Alleyn at last, 'was any
one member of the theatre party alone?'
'In here?'
'In here.'
'Let me think,' begged Thorns. Alleyn let him
think. 'No—no. As far as I remember, we were all
here. Then one of the nurses showed Roberts to the
anaesthetising-room. That left Sir John and the
other two nurses and myself. I went with Marigold
into the theatre to look round. That left Sir John
and the other nurse—the pretty one—in this room.
They were here when I got back. Then Roberts and
I washed up while Sir John went into the theatre to
fix his hyoscine injection. He always does that and
gives it himself. Rum idea. We usually leave all that
game to the anaesthetist. Of course, in this instance
everything had been very hurried. The patient had
not been given the usual morphia and atropine
injection. Well, let's see. The females were dodging
about, I suppose. I remember the—what's-her118
name—the Banks woman asked me why Sir John
didn't use the stock solution.'
'Why didn't he?'
'Oh—well, because he wanted to be sure of the
dosage, I suppose.'
'And then?'
'I went into the theatre,'
'Where you joined Phillips?'
'Yes. He'd just put the hyoscine tablet into the
water, I think.'
'Did you notice the little bottle—how many
tablets were left? I simply want to check up, you
understand.'
'Of course. Well, it's a tube; you can't see the
number of tablets unless you peer into it, and then
you can only guess, but, of course, there would be
nineteen, because it was a new lot.'
'How do you know that, Mr Thorns?'
'Well, as a matter of fact, I saw he had two tubes
and said something about it, and he said one of
them was empty, so he'd opened another.'
'What happened to the empty one?'
'Eh? Search me. Chucked it away, I suppose. I
say—er—look here, what is your name?'
'Alleyn.'
'Oh. Well, look here, Alleyn, you're not
attaching any importance to the second tube, are
you? Because you jolly well needn't. It's all
perfectly simple. Phillips uses a hypodermic case
which holds two of these little phials. He'd
obviously used the last tablet on a previous case
without realising it was the last. Very easy thing to
do.'
'I see that. All this business is merely by way of
checking up.'
119
'Yes, but—
'For my own sake I've got to account for every
movement of the game, Mr. Thorns. It's all
frightfully muddling and I've got to try to learn it
like a lesson. Do you remember anything that was
said just then?'
'Well,—well, I chaffed him about the two
tubes—said he was doing Sir Derek proud, and
then I—I remarked that he used a lot of water.'
'Did this seem to upset him at all?'
'Oh, Lord—no. I mean, Sir John always stands a
bit on his dignity. I mean, he rather shut me up. He
hasn't got what I call a sense of humour.'
'Really? Did you go out together?'
'Yes. I went into the anteroom and Sir John into
the anaesthetic-room to give the injection. I went
first.'
'Sure, Mr. Thorns?'
'Oh, yes,' said Thorns, opening his eyes very
wide. 'Why?'
'I only want to get the order of events. Now let's
look at the theatre, shall we?'
Once again Thorns butted the swing-doors with
his compact little stern, and this time Inspector
Alleyn followed him through.
The theatre was scrupulously, monstrously
immaculate—a place of tiles and chromium and
white enamel. Thorns turned on a switch and for a
moment an enormous high-powered cluster of lights
poured down its truncated conical glare on the
blank surface of the table. The theatre instantly
became alive and expectant. He snapped it off and
in its stead an insignificant wall bracket came to life
over a side table on rubber castors.
'Is this how it was for the operation?' asked
120
Alleyn. 'Everything in its right place?'
'Er—yes, I think so. Yes.'
'Which way did the patient lie?'
'Head here. Eastward position, eh? Ha ha!'
'I see. There would be a trolley alongside the
table, perhaps?'
'It would be wheeled away as soon as the patient
was taken off it.'
'That's the side table, over by the windows,
where the syringes were set out?'
'That's it.'
'Can you show me just where you all stood at the
time each of the injections was given? Wait a
bit—I'll make a sort of plan. My memory's
hopeless. Damn, where's my pencil?'
Alleyn opened his notebook and produced a small
rule from his pocket. He measured the floor space,
made a tiny plan and marked the positions of the
two tables, and, as Thorns instructed him, those of
the surgeons and nurses.
'Sir John would be here, about half-way along the
table, isn't it? I stood opposite there. Marigold
hovered round here, and the other two moved
about a bit.'
'Yes. Well, where, as near as you can give it,
would they all be for the operation?'
'The surgeons and anaesthetist where I have
shown you. Marigold on Sir John's right and the
other two somewhere in the background.'
'And for the camphor injection?'
'As before, except for the Bolshie, who gave it.
She would be here, by the patient's arm, you see.'
'Did you watch Nurse Banks give this injection?'
'Don't think so. I wouldn't notice. Probably
wouldn't see her hands—they'd be hidden by the
121
little screen across the patient's chest.'
'Oh. I'll take a look at that afterwards if I may.
Now the anti-gas injection.'
'That was after Sir John had sewed him up. I
dressed the wound and asked for the serum. I
damned that girl to heaps for keeping me
waiting—felt rather a brute when she hit the floor
two minutes later—what? I stood here, on the
inside of the table; Sir John was opposite; Marigold
had moved round to my side. Roberts and Banks, if
that's her name, were fussing round over the
patient, and Roberts kept bleating about the pulse
and so on. They were both at the patient's head.'
'Wait a bit. I'll fix those positions. Perhaps I'll
get you to help me to reconstruct the operation later
on. You have no doubts, I suppose, about it being
the correct syringe—the one you used, I mean?'
'None. It seemed to be perfectly in order.'
'Was there any marked change in the patient's
condition after this injection?'
'Roberts is the man to ask about that. My own
idea is that he was worried about the patient for
some time before I gave the injection. He asked for
camphor, remember. Naturally, you'll think, I
want to stress that point. Well, Inspector, so I do. I
suppose the serum injection is the dangerous corner
as far as I'm concerned. Still, I did not prepare the
syringe and I could hardly palm it and produce
another from behind my left ear. Could I? What?
Ha ha ha!'
'Let's have a look at it,' said Alleyn
imperturbably,''and we'll see.'
Thorns went to one of the shelves and returned
with a syringe at the sight of which the inspector
gave a little shout of horror.
122
'Good God, Mr. Thorns, are you a horse-coper?
You don't mean to tell me you jabbed that horror
into the poor man? It's the size of a fire
extinguisher!'
Thorns stared at him and then roared with
laughter. 'He didn't feel it. Oh, yes, we plugged it
into him. Well, now, I could hardly produce a thing
like that by sleight of hand, could I?'
'Heavens, no! Put it away, do; it makes me feel
quite sick. A disgusting, an indecent, a revolting
implement.'
Thorns made a playful pass at the inspector, who
seized the syringe and bore it away. He examined it,
uttering little noises of disgust.
'This is the type used for the other two
injections,' explained Thorns, who had been
peering into the array of instruments. He showed
Alleyn a hypodermic syringe of the sort familiar to
the layman.
'Sufficiently alarming, but not so preposterous.
This would be the kind of thing Dr. Roberts
handled?'
'Yes—or rather, no. Roberts didn't give the
camphor injection. The nurse gave it.'
'Oh, yes. Is that usual?'
'It's quite in order. Generally speaking, that
injection is given by the anaesthetist, but there's
nothing in his asking the nurse to give it.'
'This needle's a delicate-looking thing. I suppose
you never carry a syringe about ready for use?'
'Lord, no! In the theatre, of course, they are laid
out all complete.'
'Would you mind filling this one for me?'
He gave Thorns a small syringe. The surgeon
poured some water into a measuring-glass, inserted
hi 123
little screen across the patient's chest.'
'Oh. I'll take a look at that afterwards if 1 rnay
Now the anti-gas injection.'
'That was after Sir John had sewed him up. I
dressed the wound and asked for the serum. I
damned that girl to heaps for keeping me
waiting—felt rather a brute when she hit the floor
two minutes later—what? I stood here, on the
inside of the table; Sir John was opposite; Marigold
had moved round to my side. Roberts and Banks, if
that's her name, were fussing round over the
patient, and Roberts kept bleating about the pulse
and so on. They were both at the patient's head.'
'Wait a bit. I'll fix those positions. Perhaps I'll
get you to help me to reconstruct the operation later
on. You have no doubts, I suppose, about it being
the correct syringe—the one you used, I mean?'
'None. It seemed to be perfectly in order.'
'Was there any marked change in the patient's
condition after this injection?'
'Roberts is the man to ask about that. My own
idea is that he was worried about the patient for
some time before I gave the injection. He asked for
camphor, remember. Naturally, you'll think, I
want to stress that point. Well, Inspector, so I do. I
suppose the serum injection is the dangerous corner
as far as I'm concerned. Still, I did not prepare the
syringe and I could hardly palm it and produce
another from behind my left ear. Could I? What?
Ha ha ha!'
'Let's have a look at it,' said Alleyn
imperturbably, 'and we'll see.'
Thorns went to one of the shelves and returned
with a syringe at the sight of which the inspector
gave a little shout of horror.
122
'Good God, Mr. Thorns, are you a horse-coper?
You don't mean to tell me you jabbed that horror
into the poor man? It's the size of a fire
extinguisher!'
Thorns stared at him and then roared with
laughter. 'He didn't feel it. Oh, yes, we plugged it
into him. Well, now, I could hardly produce a thing
like that by sleight of hand, could I?'
'Heavens, no! Put it away, do; it makes me feel
quite sick. A disgusting, an indecent, a revolting
implement.'
Thorns made a playful pass at the inspector, who
seized the syringe and bore it away. He examined it,
uttering little noises of disgust.
'This is the type used for the other two
injections,' explained Thorns, who had been
peering into the array of instruments. He showed
Alleyn a hypodermic syringe of the sort familiar to
the layman.
'Sufficiently alarming, but not so preposterous.
This would be the kind of thing Dr. Roberts
handled?'
'Yes—or rather, no. Roberts didn't give the
camphor injection. The nurse gave it.'
'Oh, yes. Is that usual?'
'It's quite in order. Generally speaking, that
injection is given by the anaesthetist, but there's
nothing in his asking the nurse to give it.'
'This needle's a delicate-looking thing. I suppose
you never carry a syringe about ready for use?'
'Lord, no! In the theatre, of course, they are laid
°ut all complete.'
^Would you mind filling this one for me?'
He gave Thorns a small syringe. The surgeon
Poured some water into a measuring-glass, inserted
»,» 123
the needle and pulled back the piston.
'There you are. If a tablet's used, the usual
procedure is to squirt the syringe half full into the
glass, dissolve the tablet, and then draw it up
again.'
'The whole business only takes a few seconds?'
'Well--the tablet has to dissolve. In the case of
the serum and the camphor the stuff was there
ready.'
'Yes, I've got that. May I see the bottle the serum
is kept in?'
'It's not kept in a bottle, but in ampoules which
hold the exact amount and are then thrown away.
There aren't any kicking about in the theatre. I'll
beat some up for you to see if you like.'
'Very good of you, Mr. Thorns. I'm being a
crashing bore, I'm afraid.'
Thorns protested his freedom from boredom and
fussed away. Alleyn prowled meditatively round the
theatre until the fat man returned.
'Here we are,' said Thorns cheerfully. 'Here are
ampoules of oil and camphor. Here's the anti-gas
serum and here's the hyoscine solution. All
labelled, as you see. Tell you what I'll do: I'll set
out the table as it would have been for the op. How
will that do you?'
'Splendid!'
'Let's see now--ampoules here, serum there.
Here's the bottle of hyoscine solution; thought
you'd want to see that too. Old-fashioned idea--it
should be in ampoules, but matron's a bit of a
dugout.'
'The bottle's nearly full, I see.'
'Yes. I believe one injection had been given.'
Alleyn noted mentally that this tallied with Nurse
124
Harden's and the scally's impression that the bottle
had been full before the operation and had since
been used once.
'Can anyone have access to this bottle?' asked
Alleyn suddenly.
'What? Oh, yes—any of the theatre staff.'
'May I have a small amount—I may have to get it
tested?'
He produced a tiny bottle from his pocket and
Thorns, looking rather intrigued, filled it with the
solution.
'There you are. Now—where were we? Oh!
Along here, small syringe for the camphor, another
small syringe for the hyoscine—they hold
twenty-five minims each. That would be the one Sir
John would use for his tablet. Now the whopper for
the serum. It holds ten c.c.'s.'
Ten c.c.'s?'
'That's about a hundred and sixty minims,'
explained Thorns.
'What's that in gallons?'
Thorns looked at the inspector as if he had
uttered something in Chinese and then burst out
laughing.
'Not quite as solid as that,' he said. 'One hundred
and sixty minims is equal to two and two-thirds
drachms. That any better?'
'Not much,' grumbled Alleyn. 'The dawn may
break later on. I'm talking like Nurse Banks.
What's the strength of this hyoscine?'
'Quarter per cent.'
'But—what does that mean? They'll have to get
someone cleverer than me for this game.'
'Cheer up. It's one grain in one point one ounces
of water.'
125
That sounds as though it means something. I
must look up those horrid little things at the end of
an arithmetic-book. Wait a moment, now. Don't
say a word, Mr. Thorns, if you please,5 begged
Alleyn. 'I'm doing sums.'
He screwed up his face and did complicated
things with his fingers. Twenty-fives into ones, you
can't. No, anyway you don't want to. Drat. Wait a
bit.' He opened his eyes suddenly and began to
speak rapidly. The twenty-five-minim syringe
could hold a twentieth of a grain of hyoscine, and
the vet's pump could hold eleven thirty-seconds of a
grain. There!' he added proudly.
'Quite correct—good for you!' shouted Thorns,
clapping the inspector on the back.
There's more to come. I can do better than that.
Eleven thirty-seconds is three thirty-seconds more
than a quarter, which is only eight thirty-seconds.
How's that?'
'Brilliant, but I don't see the application?'
'Don't you?' asked Alleyn anxiously. 'And yet I
know I thought it rather important a moment ago.
Ah, well—it's gone now. I'll just write the others
down.'
Mr. Thorns moved to his elbow and looked
curiously at his tiny hieroglyphics.
'I can't see,' complained Alleyn and walked over
to the light.
Mr. Thorns didn't follow and so did not see the
last of his minute entries, which read:
The large syringe could hold a little over the
amount found at the P.M.'
He shut his little book tenderly and put it in his
pocket.
Thank you a thousand times, Mr. Thorns,' he
126
said. 'You've made it very easy for me. Now there's
only one more person I've got to see to-day and
that's Dr. Roberts. Can you tell me where I'll find
him?'
'Well, he's not the usual anaesthetist here, you
know. He does a lot of Dr Grey's work for him.
Hasn't been in since this affair. I should think at
this time you'd find him at his private address. I'll
ring up his house if you like.'
'That's very good of you. Where does he live?'
'Not sure. His name's Theodore. I know that
because I heard Grey calling him Dora. Dora!' Mr.
Thorns laughed extensively and led the way to a
black hole with a telephone inside it.
He switched on a light and consulted the
directory.
'Here we are. Roberts, Roberts, Roberts. Dr.
Theodore. Wigrnore Street. That's your man.'
He dialled the number. Alleyn leant patiently
against the door.
'Hallo. Dr. Roberts' house? Is he in? Ask him if
he can see Inspector—' He paused and put his hand
over the receiver. 'Alleyn, isn't it? Yes—ask him if
he can see Inspector Alleyn if he comes along now.'
Thorns turned towards Alleyn. 'He's in—that'll
be all right, I expect. Hallo, is that you, Roberts?
It's Thorns here. Inspector Alleyn has just been
over the O'Callaghan business with me. They've
found hyoscine—quarter of a grain. That makes
you sit up. What? I don't know. Yes of course it is.
Well, don't get all agitated. They're not going to
arrest you. Ha ha ha! What! All right—in about
twenty minutes, I should think. Look out, my
boy—don't give yourself away—what!'
He hung up, and taking Alleyn by the elbow,
127
walked with him to the front door.
'Poor old Roberts is in an awful hum about it,
spluttering away down the telephone like I don't
know what. Well, let me know if there's anything
more I can do.'
'I will indeed. Thank you so much. Good night.'
'Good night. Got a pair of handcuffs for Roberts?
Ha ha ha!'
'Ha ha ha!' said Alleyn. 'Good night.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE ANAESTHETIST
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon and evening.
Dr. Roberts lived in a nice little house in Wigmore
Street. It was a narrow house with two windows on
the first floor, and on the street level was a large
vermilion front door that occupied a fair proportion
of the wall.
A man-servant, small and cheerful to suit the
house, showed Alleyn into a pleasant
drawing-room-study with apple-green walls and
bookshelves, glazed chintz curtains, and
comfortable chairs. Above the fireplace hung an
excellent painting of lots of little people skating on a
lake surrounded by Christmas trees. A wood fire
crackled on the hearth. On a table near the
bookcase was a sheaf of manuscript weighted down
by the old wooden stethoscope that Mr. Thorns had
found so funny.
After an appreciative glance at the picture, Alleyn
walked over to the bookcase, where he found a
128
beguiling collection of modern novels, a Variorum
Shakespeare that aroused his envy, and a number of
works on heredity, eugenics and psychoanalysis.
Among these was a respectable-looking volume
entitled Debased Currency, by Theodore Roberts.
Alleyn took it out and looked at the contents. They
proved to be a series of papers on hereditary taints.
Roberts evidently had read them at meetings of the
International Congress on Eugenics and Sex
Reform.
Alleyn was still absorbed in this evidence of
Roberts's industry when the author himself came
in.
'Inspector Alleyn, I believe,5 said Roberts.
With a slight effort Alleyn refrained from
answering 'Dr. Roberts, I presume.' He closed the
book over his thumb and came forward to meet the
anaesthetist. Roberts blinked apprehensively and
then glanced at the volume in the inspector's hand.
'Yes, Dr. Roberts,' said Alleyn, 'you've caught
me red-handed. I never can resist plucking from
bookshelves and I was so interested to see that you
yourself wrote.'
'Oh,' answered Roberts vaguely, 'the subject
interests me. Will you sit down, Inspector?'
'Thank you. Yes, the problems of heredity have
an extraordinary fascination, even for a layman like
myself. However, I haven't come here to air my
ignorance of your country, but to try and fill out
some of the blanks in my own. About this
O'Callaghan business--'
'I am extremely sorry to hear of the result of the
autopsy,' said Roberts formally. 'It is terribly
distressing, shocking, an irreplaceable loss.' He
moved his hands nervously, gulped, and then added
129
hurriedly: 'I am also exceedingly distressed for
more personal reasons. As anaesthetist for the
operation I feel that I may be held responsible, that
perhaps I should have noticed earlier that all was
not well. I was worried, almost from the start,
about his condition. I said so to Sir John and to
Thorns.'
'What did they answer?'
'Sir John was very properly concerned with his
own work. He simply left me to deal with mine,
after, I think, commenting in some way on my
report. I do not remember that Thorns replied at
all. Inspector Alleyn, I sincerely hope you are able
to free Sir John from any possibility of the slightest
breath of suspicion. Any doubt in that direction is
quite unthinkable.'
'I hope to be able to clear up his part in the
business as soon as the usual inquiries have been
made. Perhaps you can help me there. Dr.
Roberts?'
'I should be glad to do so. I will not attempt to
deny that I am also very selfishly nervous on my
own account.'
'You gave no injection, did you?'
'No. I am thankful to say, no.'
'How was that? I should have imagined the
anaesthetist would have given the camphor and the
hyoscine injections.'
Roberts did not speak for a moment, but sat
gazing at Alleyn with a curiously helpless
expression on his sensitive face. Alleyn noticed that
whenever he spoke to Roberts the doctor seemed to
suppress a sort of wince. He did this now,
tightening his lips and drawing himself rigidly
upright in his chair.
130
'I—I never give injections,' he said. 'I have a
personal and very painful reason for not doing so.'
'Would you care to tell me what it is? You see,
the fact that you did not give an injection is very
important from your point of view. You did not see
the patient while he was conscious and so—to be
frank—could hardly have poured hyoscine down his
throat without someone noticing what you were up
to.'
'Yes. I see. I will tell you. Many years ago I gave
an overdose of morphia and the patient died as the
result of my carelessness. I—I have never been able
to bring myself to give an injection since.
Psychologically my behaviour has been weak and
unsound. I should have overcome this repulsion,
but I have been unable to do so. For some time I
even lost my nerve as an anaesthetist. Then I was
called in for an urgent case with heart disease and
the operation was successful.' He showed Alleyn his
stethoscope and told him its history. 'This
instrument represents an interesting experiment in
psychology. I began to mark on it all my successful
cases of heart disease. It helped enormously but I
have never been able to face an injection. Perhaps
some day I may. Sir John is aware of
this—peculiarity. I told him of it the first time I
gave an anaesthetic for him. It was some time ago in
a private house. He very thoughtfully remembered.
I believe that in any case he prefers to give the
hyoscine injection himself.'
He turned very white as he made his unhappy
confession, and it was curious to see how, in spite of
his obvious distress, he did not lose his trick of
formal phraseology.
'Thank you so much, Dr. Roberts,' said Alleyn
131
gently. 'We need not trouble any more about that.
Now, you say you were worried almost from the
start about Sir Derek's condition. Would you
describe his condition as consistent with hyoscine
poisoning?'
'Ever since Thorns rang up I have been
considering that point. Yes, I think I should. In the
light of the autopsy, of course, one is tempted to
correlate the two without further consideration.'
'Did you notice any definite change in the
patient's condition, or did the same symptoms
simply get more and more acute, if that's the right
way of putting it?'
'The pulse was remarkably slow when I first
examined him in the ansesthetising-room. The
condition grew steadily more disquieting
throughout the operation.'
'But, to stress my point, there was no decided
change at any time, only a more or less gradual
progression.'
'Yes. There was perhaps a rather marked increase
in the symptoms after Sr John made the first
incision.'
'That would be after he had given the hyoscine
injection, wouldn't it?'
Roberts glanced at him sharply.
'Yes, that is true,' he said quickly, 'but do you
not see, the small amount Sir John injected—a
hundredth of a grain, I think it was—would
naturally aggravate the condition if hyoscine had
already been given?'
'That's perfectly true,' agreed Alleyn. 'It's an
important point, too. Look here, Dr. Roberts, may
I take it that it's your opinion that hyoscine—a fatal
amount—was somehow or other got into the man
132 i
before the operation?'
'I think so,' Roberts blinked nervously. He had
that trick of blinking hard, twice—it reminded
Alleyn of a highly strung boy. 'Of course,' he added
uneasily, 'I realise, Inspector, that it would
probably be to my advantage if I said that I thought
the lethal dose was given when the patient was on
the table. That, however, is, in my opinion, most
improbable.'
'I must here trot out my customary cliche that it
is always to an innocent person's advantage to tell
the truth,' Alleyn assured him. 'Do you know, it's
my opinion that at least two-thirds of the difficulties
in homicidal cases are caused by innocent asses
lying for all they're worth.'
'Indeed? I suppose there is no possibility of
suicide in this instance?'
'It seems very unlikely so far. Why? How?
Where's the motive?'
'There need not necessarily be any usual motive.'
Roberts hesitated and then spoke with more
assurance than he had shown so far. 'In suggesting
this,' he said, 'I may be accused of mounting my
special hobby-horse. As you have seen I am greatly
interested in hereditary taints. In Sir Derek
O'Callaghan's family there is such a taint. In his
father, Sir Blake O'Callaghan, it appeared. I believe
he suffered at times from suicidal mania. There has
been a great deal of injudicious inbreeding. Mark
you, I am perfectly well aware that the usual
whole-hearted condemnation of inbreeding is to be
revised in the light—'
He had lost all his nervousness. He lectured
Alleyn roundly for ten minutes, getting highly
excited. He quoted his own works and other
133
authorities. He scolded the British public in the
person of one of their most distinguished policemen
for their criminal neglect of racial problems. Alleyn
listened, meek and greatly interested. He asked
questions. Roberts got books from his shelves, read
long passages in a high-pitched voice, and left the
volumes on the hearthrug. He told Alleyn he should
pay more attention to such things, and finally, to
the inspector's secret amusement, asked him flatly
if he knew, if he had taken the trouble to find out,
whether he himself was free from all traces of
hereditary insanity.
'I had a great-aunt who left all her money to a
muffin-man with coloured blood,' said Alleyn. 'She
was undoubtedly bats. Otherwise I have nothing to
tell you, Dr. Roberts.'
Roberts listened to this gravely and continued his
harangue. By the time it was over Alleyn felt that he
had heard most of the theories propounded at the
International Congress on Sex Reform and then
some more. They were interrupted by the
man-servant, who came in to announce dinner.
'Inspector Alleyn will dine,' said Roberts
impatiently.
'No—really,' said Alleyn. 'Thank you so much,
but I must go. I'd love to, but I can't.' The man
went out.
'Why not?' asked Roberts rather huffily.
'Because I've got a murder to solve.'
'Oh,' he said, rather nonplussed and vexed. Then
as this remark sank in, his former manner returned
to him. He eyed Alleyn nervously, blinked, and got
to his feet.
'I am sorry. I become somewhat absorbed when
my pet subject is under discussion.'
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'I too have been absorbed,' Alleyn told him. 'You
must forgive me for staying so long. I may have to
reconstruct the operation—perhaps if I do you will
be very kind and help me by coming along?'
'I—yes, if it is necessary. It will be very
distasteful.'
'I know. It may not be necessary, but if it is—'
'I shall do my part, certainly.'
'Right, I must bolt. This has been an
unpropitious sort of introduction. Dr. Roberts, but
I hope I may be allowed to renew our talk without
prejudice some time. The average bloke's ignorance
of racial problems is deplorable.'
'It's worse than that,' said Roberts crisply. 'It's
lamentable—criminal. I should have thought in
your profession it was essential to understand at
least the rudiments of the hereditary problem. How
can you expect—'• He scolded on for some time.
The servant looked in, cast up his eyes in pious
resignation and waited. Roberts gave Alleyn his
book. 'It's the soundest popular work on the
subject, though I do not pretend to cover a fraction
of the ground. You'd better come back here when
you've read it.'
'I will. Thank you a thousand times,' murmured
the inspector and made for the door. He waited
until the servant had gone into the hall and then
turned back.
'Look here,' he said quietly. 'Can I take it you
think the man committed suicide?'
Again Roberts turned into a rather frightened
little man.
'I can't say—I—sincerely hope so. In view of his
history, I think it's quite possible—but, of course,
the drug—hyoscine—it's very unusual.' He stopped
135
and seemed to think deeply for a moment. Then he
gave Alleyn a very earnest and somewhat pathetic
look. 'I hope very much indeed that it may be
found to be suicide,' he said quietly. 'The
alternative is quite unthinkable. It would cast the
most terrible slur conceivable upon a profession of
which I am an insignificant unit, but which I deeply
revere. I would hold myself in part responsible.
Self-interest is at the bottom of most motives, they
say, but something more than self-interest, I think,
prompts me to beg most earnestly that you explore
the possibility of suicide to its utmost limit. I have
kept you too long. Good night. Inspector Alleyn.'
'Good night. Dr. Roberts.'
Alleyn walked slowly down Wigmore Street. He
reflected that in some ways his last interview had
been one of the oddest in his experience. What a
curious little man! There had been no affectation in
that scientific outburst. The inspector could
recognise genuine enthusiasm when he met it.
Roberts was in a blue funk over the O'Callaghan
business, yet the mere mention of his pet subject
could drive any feeling of personal danger clean out
of his head. 'He's very worried about something,
though,' thought Alleyn, 'and it rather looks as
though it's Phillips. Phillips! Damn. I want my
Boswell. Also, I want my dinner.'
He walked to Frascati's and dined alone, staring
so fixedly at the tablecloth that his waiter grew quite
nervous about it. Then he rang up Fox and gave
him certain instructions, after which he took a taxi
to Chester Terrace to call on his Boswell.
'And I suppose the young ass will be out,'
thought Alleyn bitterly.
But Nigel Bathgate was at home. When the front
136
door opened Alleyn heard the brisk patter of a
typewriter. He walked sedately upstairs, pushed
open the sitting-room door and looked in. There
was Nigel, seated gloomily at his machine, with a
pile of copy-paper in a basket beside it.
'Hello, Bathgate,' said Alleyn. 'Busy?'
Nigel jumped, turned in his chair, and then
grinned.
'You!' he said happily. 'I'm glad to see you,
Inspector. Take a pew.'
He pushed forward a comfortable chair and
clapped down a cigarette-box on the broad arm.
The telephone rang. Nigel cursed and answered it.
'Hallo!' A beatific change came over him. 'Good
evening, darling.' Alleyn smiled. 'Who do you
imagine I've got here? An old friend of yours.
Inspector Alleyn. Yes. Why not hop into a taxi and
pay us a visit? You will? Splendid. He's probably in
difficulties and wants our help. Yes. Right.' He
hung up the receiver and turned, beaming, to
Alleyn.
'It's Angela,' he said. Miss Angela North was
Nigel's betrothed.
'So I imagined,' remarked the inspector. 'I shall
be delighted to see the minx again.'
'She's thrilled at the prospect herself,' Nigel
declared. He made up the fire, glanced anxiously at
his desk and made an effort to tidy it.
'I've just been writing you up,' he informed
Alleyn.
'What the devil do you mean? What have I got to
do with your perverted rag?'
'We're hard up for a story and you've got a
certain news value, you know. "The case is in the
hands of Chief Detective-Inspector Roderick
137
Alleyn, the most famous crime expert of the C.I.D.
Inspector Alleyn is confident—" Are you confident,
by the way?'
'Change it to "inscrutable". When I'm boxed I
fall back on inscrutability.'
'Are you boxed?' asked Nigel. 'That, of course, is
why you've come to me. What can I do for you,
Inspector?'
'You can take that inordinately conceited look off
your face and compose it into its customary mould
of startled incredulity. I want to talk and I can
think of no one who would really like to listen to
me. Possibly you yourself are too busy?'
'I've finished, but wait until Angela comes.'
'Is she to be trusted? All right, all right.'
Nigel spent the next ten minutes telling Alleyn
how deeply Miss Angela North was to be trusted.
He was still in full swing when the young woman
herself arrived. She greeted Alleyn as an old friend,
lit a cigarette, sat on the hearth, and said:
'Now—what have you both been talking about?'
'Bathgate has talked about you, Miss Angela. I
have not talked.'
'But you will. You were going to, and I can guess
what about. Pretend I'm not here.'
'Can Bathgate manage that?'
'He'll have to.'
'I won't look at her,' said Nigel.
'You'd better not,' said Angela. 'Please begin,
Inspector Alleyn.'
'Speak!' said Nigel.
'I will. List, list, oh list.'
'I will.'
'Don't keep interrupting. I am engaged on a
murder case in which the victim is not a relation of
138
yours, nor yet, as far as I know, is the murderer
your friend. In view of our past experiences, this is
very striking [See Enter a Murderer and A Man Lay
Dead} and remarkable.'
'Come off the rocks. I suppose you mean the
O'Callaghan business?'
'I do. The man was murdered. At least three
persons assisting at his operation had sufficient
motive. Two of them had actually threatened him.
No, that is not for publication. No, don't argue. I'll
let you know when it is. I have reached that stage in
the proceedings when, like heroines in French
dramas, I must have my confidante. You are she.
You may occasionally roll up your eyes and exclaim
"Helas, quelle horreur!" or, if you prefer it,
"Merciful Heaven, can I believe my ears?"
Otherwise, beyond making sympathetic noises,
don't interrupt.'
'Right ho.'
Alleyn smiled amiably at him.
'You're a patient cove, Bathgate, and I get much
too facetious. It's an infirmity—a disease. I do it
when I'm bothered and this is a bothering case.
Here's the cast of characters, and, look here, the
whole conversation is confidential.'
'Oh murder!' said Nigel. This was a favourite
ejaculation of his. 'It hurts, but again—Right you
are.'
'Thank you. As you know, O'Callaghan either
took or was given an overdose of hyoscine. At least
a quarter of a grain. He never recovered
consciousness after his operation. As far as the
experts can tell us, the stuff must have been given
within the four hours preceding his death, but I'm
not fully informed on that point. Now—dramatis
139
personae. You'll know most of them from the
inquest. Wife—the ice-maiden type. Knew her
husband occasionally kicked over the traces. Too
proud to fight. Urged inquest. Sister—rum to a
degree and I think has gone goofy on a chemist who
supplied her with patent medicines. Urged patent
medicines on brother Derek on bedder-sickness in
hospital prior to operation. Now very jumpy and
nervous. Private secretary—one of the new young
men. Semi-diplomatic aroma. All charm and
engaging manners. Friend of Mr. Bathgate, so may
be murderer. Name, Ronald Jameson. Any
comment?'
'Young Ronald? Gosh, yes I'd forgotten he'd
nailed that job. You've described him. He's all
right, really.'
'I can't bear the little creature,' said Angela
vigorously. 'Sorry!' she added hurriedly.
'Surgeon—Sir John Phillips. Distinguished gent.
Friend of victim till victim took his girl away for a
week-end and then dropped her. Severed
friendship. Visited victim and scolded him. In
hearing of butler expressed burning desire to kill
victim, who then died. That makes you blanch, I
see. Injected hyoscine which he prepared himself.
Very unusual in surgeons, but he always does it. No
real proof he didn't give overdose. No proof he did.
Assistant surgeon—Thorns. Comedian. Solemn
warning to Inspector Alleyn not to be facetious.
Injected serum with thing like a pump. Was in the
theatre alone before operation, but said he wasn't.
This may be forgetfulness. Could have doctored
serum-pump, but no known reason why he should.
Anaesthetist—Dr. Roberts. Funny little man.
Writes books about heredity and will talk on same
140
for hours. Good taste in books, pictures and house
decoration. Nervous. Very scared when murder is
mentioned. In past killed patient with overdose of
morphia, so won't give any injections now. Matron
of hospital—Sister Marigold. Genteel. Horrified.
Could have doctored serum, but imagination
boggles at thought. First theatre nurse—Banks, a
Bolshie. Expressed delight at death of O'Callaghan,
whom she considered enemy of proletariat. Attends
meetings held by militant Communists who had
threatened O'Callaghan. Gave camphor injection.
Second theatre nurse—Jane Harden. Girl friend
mentioned above. Spent week-end with deceased
and cut up rough when he ended affair. Very
good-looking. Threatened deceased in letter.
Brought anti-gas syringe to Thorns. Delayed over
it. Subsequently fainted. You may well look
startled. It's a rich field, isn't it?'
'Is that all—not that it isn't enough?'
'There's his special nurse. A nice sensible girl
who could easily have given him poison. She found
out about Miss O'Callaghan handing out the patent
medicine.'
'Perhaps she lied.'
'Oh, do you think so? Surely not.'
'Don't be facetious,' said Nigel.
'Thank you, Bathgate. No, but I don't think
Nurse Graham lied. Jane Harden did over her
letters. Well, there they all are. Have one of your
celebrated lucky dips and see if you can spot the
winner.'
'For a win,' Nigel pronounced at last, 'the special
n-urse. For a place the funny little man.'
'Why?'
'Oh, the crime-fiction line of reasoning. The two
141
outsiders. The nurse looks very fishy. And funny
little men are rather a favourite line in villains
nowadays. He might turn out to be Sir Derek's
illegitimate brother and that's why he's so
interested in heredity. I'm thinking of writing
detective fiction.'
'You should do well at it.'
'Of course,' said Nigel slowly, 'there's the other
school in which the obvious man is always the
murderer. That's the one you favour at the Yard,
isn't it?'
'Yes, I suppose it is,' agreed Alleyn.
'Do you read crime fiction?'
'I dote on it. It's such a relief to escape from
one's work into an entirely different atmosphere.'
'It's not as bad as that,' Nigel protested.
'Perhaps not quite as bad as that. Any faithful
account of police investigations, in even the most
spectacular homicide case, would be abysmally dull.
I should have thought you'd seen enough of the
game to realise that. The files are a plethora of drab
details, most of them entirely irrelevant. Your
crime novelist gets over all that by writing grandly
about routine work and then selecting the
essentials. Quite rightly. He'd be the world's worst
bore if he did otherwise.'
'May I speak?' inquired Angela.
'Do,' said Alleyn.
'I'm afraid I guess it's Sir John Phillips.'
'I've heard you say yourself that the obvious man
is usually the ace,' ruminated Nigel after a pause.
'Yes. Usually,' said Alleyn.
'I suppose, in this case, the obvious man is
Phillips.'
'That's what old Fox will say,' conceded Alleyn
142
with a curious reluctance.
'I suppose it's hopeless to ask, but have you made
up your mind yet, Inspector?'
Alleyn got up, walked to the fireplace, and then
swung round and stared at his friend.
'I regret to say,' he said, 'that I haven't the
foggiest notion who killed Cock Robin.'
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE LENIN HALL LOT
Tuesday, the sixteenth. Night.
'Of course,' said Angela suddenly, 'it may be the
matron. I always suspect gentility. Or, of course—'
She stopped.
'Yes?' asked Alleyn. 'There's still some of the
field left.'
'I knew you'd say that. But I do mistrust people
who laugh too much.'
Alleyn glanced at her sharply.
'Do you? I must moderate my mirth. Well,
there's the case, and I'm glad to have taken it out
and aired it. Shall we go to the Palladium?'
'Why?' asked Nigel, astonished.
'There's a sketch on the programme that I am
anxious to see. Will you both come? We'll only miss
the first two numbers.'
'We'd love to,' said Angela. 'Are you up to one of
your tricks?' she added suspiciously.
'I don't know what you mean, Miss Angela.
Bathgate, will you ring up for seats?'
They went to the Palladium and enjoyed
143
themselves. Thorns's sketch was the third number
in the second half. It had not run three minutes
before Nigel and Angela turned and stared owlishly
at the inspector. The sketch was well cast and the
actor who played the surgeon was particularly
clever. Alleyn sensed a strange feeling of alertness
in the audience. Here and there people murmured
together. Behind them a man's voice asked:
'Wonder if Sir John Phillips goes to the Palladium?'
'Ssh,' whispered a woman.
The great British public twitching its nose,'
thought Alleyn distastefully. The sketch drew to a
close. The surgeon came back from the operating
theatre, realistically bloody. A long-drawn 'Ooooo'
from the audience. He pulled off his mask, stood
and stared at his gloved hands. He shuddered. A
nurse entered up-stage. He turned to face her:
'Well, Nurse?' 'He's gone.' The surgeon walked
across to a practical basin and began to wash his
hands as a drop curtain, emblazoned with an
enormous question-mark, was drawn down like a
blind over the scene.
'So that's why we came?' said Angela, and
remained very quiet until the end of the show.
They had supper at Alleyn's flat, where Angela
was made a fuss of by Vassily.
'Curious coincidence, that little play, didn't you
think?' asked Alleyn.
'Very rum,' agreed Nigel. 'When did you hear
about it?'
'Thorns told me that he and Phillips discussed it
before the operation. Thorns seemed so anxious not
to talk about it I thought it might be worth seeing. I
can't help wondering if he meant to convey
precisely that suggestion.'
144
'Had Sir John seen it?' inquired Angela.
'No. Thorns told him about it.5
'I say,' said Nigel. 'Do you think that could have
given Phillips the big idea?'
'It might be that.'
'Or it might be—something quite different,'
added Angela, watching him.
'I congratulate you. Miss Angela,' said Alleyn.
'Did Mr. Thorns tell you quite frankly about
their conversation?'
'No, child, he didn't. He flustered like an old
hen.'
'And what did you deduce from that?' asked
Angela innocently.
'Perhaps he was afraid of incriminating his
distinguished colleague and senior.'
'Oh,' she said flatly. 'What's he like in other
ways?'
'Besides being a bit of a buffoon? Well, I should
say either rather forgetful or a bit of a liar. He says
he came out of the theatre with Phillips after the
latter had prepared the hyoscine injection. Phillips,
Matron and Banks say he didn't.'
'Oh,' said Angela, 'they do, do they.'
'I haven't the least idea what you're driving at,
Angela,' complained Nigel. 'I should like to hear
more about the funny little man. Didn't he behave
at all queerly?'
'He behaved very queerly indeed,' said Alleyn.
'He was as scary as a rabbit whenever the murder
was mentioned. He's obviously very frightened
whenever he thinks of it. And yet I don't think his
alarm is purely selfish. He said it was, I believe.
Thorns, in that asinine way of his, made very merry
over Roberts's alarm when he rang up.'
145
Alleyn looked steadily at Angela.
'Roberts is the man, depend upon it,'
pronounced Nigel. 'I'll back him with you for a
quid.'
'I won't,' said Angela. 'I'll back—'
'I'm afraid the official conscience won't allow me
to join in this cold-blooded gamble,' said Alleyn.
He looked at them both curiously. 'The attitude of
the intelligent layman is very rum,' he observed.
'I lay you two to one the field, bar Roberts,
Angela,' said Nigel.
'Done,' said Angela. 'In guineas,' she added
grandly. 'And what were you saying. Inspector?'
'I was only reflecting. Does the decision rest with
the judge?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well_if it does, you are betting on a man or
woman who, if you're right, will presumably be
hanged. I can't imagine you doing this over any
other form of death. That's what I mean about the
attitude of the layman.'
Angela turned red.
'That's the second time in our acquaintanceship
you've made me feel a pig,' she said. 'The first was
because I was too sensitive. The bet's off, Nigel.'
'You can be pretty cold-blooded yourself,
Alleyn,' said Nigel indignantly.
'Oh, yes,' said Alleyn, 'but I'm an official.'
'Anyway,' argued Angela, 'I was betting on Dr.
Roberts's innocence.'
'So you were.'
'And, anyway,' said Nigel, 'I think he did it.'
'How?'
'Er—well—somehow. With an injection.'
'He gave no injections.'
146
'Who could have done it?' asked Angela. 'I mean
who had the opportunity?'
'Phillips, who prepared and gave an injection.
The special, who was alone with the patient. Ruth,
ditto. Banks, who prepared and gave an injection.
Thorns gave an injection, but did not prepare it. He
was alone in the theatre for a few minutes if Phillips
and the matron are telling the truth. He used the
big syringe, and as he quite frankly pointed out, he
could hardly have palmed another. Jane Harden
had time to empty and refill with hyoscine.
'Which of them do you say were alone in the
theatre before the operation?'
'All the nurses. Thorns and Phillips had the
chance to be there, I suppose.'
'Not Roberts?' asked Nigel.
'I think not. He went straight to the
anaesthetic-room, where he was joined by the
special with the patient.'
'Bad luck, darling,' said Angela. 'It really looks
as though he's the only man who couldn't have
murdered Sir Derek.'
'Then he's a certainty,' declared Nigel. 'Isn't it
true that when there's a cast-iron alibi the police
always prick up their ears?'
'Personally, I let mine flop with a thankful purr,'
said Alleyn. 'But you may be right. This is scarcely
an alibi. Roberts was there, he merely had no
hypodermic to give and no syringe to use.'
'And no motive,' added Angela.
'Look for the motive,' said Nigel.
'I will,' said Alleyn. 'There's precious little else
to look for. Has it occurred to you, if the lethal
injection was given during the operation, how
extraordinarily favourable the mise en scene was for
147
the murderer? As soon as a patient is wheeled away
they set to work, and as far as I can see, they
literally scour out the theatre. Nothing is
left--everything is washed, sterilised, polished. The
syringes--the dishes--the instruments--the floor--
the tables. Even the ampoules that held the
injections are cast into outer darkness. If you
wanted to think of a perfect place to get rid of your
tracks, you couldn't choose a likelier spot.' He got
up and looked at his watch.
'He wants us to go,' remarked Angela calmly.
'It's only eleven o'clock,' murmured Alleyn. 'I
wondered if you'd both care to do a job of work for
me?'
'What sort of job?' they asked.
'Attend a Bolshevik meeting at midnight.'
Tonight?'
'I'd adore to,' said Angela quickly. 'Where is it?
What's the time? What do we do?'
'It'll be a bit of copy for you, Bathgate,' said
Alleyn. 'Mr. Nicholas Kakaroff, agent of a certain
advanced section of Soviet propagandists, is holding
a meeting at Lenin Hall, Saltarrow Street,
Blackfriars. Lenin Hall is a converted warehouse.
Mr. Kakaroff is a converted minor official,
originally from Krakov. I feel sure Kakaroff is a
made-up name. "Kakaroff of Krakov"--it's too
good to be really true, don't you feel? There's an air
of unreality about his whole gang. As far as we
know, they are not officially recognised by Russia
or any other self-respecting country. Your genuine
Soviet citizen is an honest-to-God sort of chap in his
own way, once you get past his prejudices. But
these fellows are grotesques--illegitimate offsprings
of the I.W.W. You'll see. Nurse Banks attends the
148 1, t
meeting. So do we. Myself disguised and feeling
silly. Banks might penetrate my disguise, which
would not be in the great tradition, so you sit next
to her and get her confidence. You have been given
your tickets by one Mr. Marcus Barker, who will
not be there. He's an English sympathiser at
present in custody for selling prohibited literature.
He has a bookshop in Long Acre. Don't talk about
him; you'd get into a mess if you did. I want you to
pump the lady. You are enthusiastic converts. Let
her hear that from your conversation together and
leave it to her to make friends. If you can do it
artistically, rejoice over O'Callaghan's death. Now
wait a moment—I want to ring Fox up. Here, read
this pamphlet and see if you can get down some of
the line of chat.'
He looked in his desk, produced a pamphlet
bound in a vermilion folder, entitled 'The Soviet
Movement in Britain, by Marcus Barker.' Angela
and Nigel sat side by side and began to read it.
Alleyn rang up Fox, who was at the Yard.
'Hallo, Brer Fox. Any news?'
'Hallo, sir. Well^ I don't know that I've got
anything much for you. Inspector Boys checked up
on that heredity business. It seems to be quite O.K.
Sir Derek's father was what you might call a bit
wanting, very queer old gentleman he seems to have
been. There's a great-uncle who fancied he was
related to the Royal Family and did himself in in a
very peculiar manner with a hedger's knife, and a
great-aunt who started some religious affair and had
to be shut up over it. She was always undressing
herself, it seems.'
'Really? What about Ruth?'
'Well, as soon as you rang off I called at Miss
149
O'Callaghan's house to inspect the hot-water cistern
and I had a cup of tea with the cook and the
housemaid. They were both rather talkative ladies
and full of Vaffaire O'Callaghan^ said Fox with one
of his excursions into French. 'They like Miss
O'Callaghan all right, but they think she's a bit
eccentric. It seems she was very much attached to
her brother and it seems she's very thick with this
chemist affair—Mr. Harold Sage. It seems he visits
her a great deal. The housemaid gave it as her
opinion that they were courting. Miss O'Callaghan
takes a lot of his medicines.'
'Say it with soda-mints? Anything more?'
'One useful bit of information, sir. Mr. Sage is a
Communist.'
'The devil he is! Bless me. Fox, that's a plum.
Sure?'
'Oh, yes—quite certain, I should say. He's
always leaving his literature about. Cook showed
me a pamphlet. One of the Marcus Barker lot, it
was.'
Alleyn glanced through the study door at Nigel
and Angela sitting very close together, their heads
bent over the vermilion leaflet.
'Did you gather if Miss O'Callaghan sympathised
with these views?' he asked.
At the other end of the telephone Fox blew his
nose thoughtfully.
'Well, no; it seems not. Nina, that's the
housemaid, said she thought the lady was trying to
influence him the other way. She gave it as her
opinion that Sir Derek would have had a fit if he'd
known what was going on.'
'Highly probable. You've done a good bit of
work there, Fox. What a success you are with the
150
ladies!'
'I'm more at home below-stairs,' said Fox simply,
'and the cook was a very nice sort of woman. Is that
all, sir?'
'Unless you've any more gossip. See you later.'
'That's right, sir Au revoir.'
'Bung-oh, you old devil.'
Alleyn returned to the study and repeated the gist
of Fox's information. 'See if you can hear anything
of this Sage who is Miss O'Callaghan's soul-mate,'
he said. 'He may be there tonight. Bathgate, I'm
just going to change. Won't be five minutes. Ask
Vassily to call a taxi and give yourself a drink.'
He vanished into his tiny dressing-room, where
they heard him whistling very sweetly in a high key.
'Darling,' said Nigel, 'this is like old times. You
and I on the warpath.'
'I won't have you getting into trouble,' said
Angela. 'You did last time, you know.'
'That was because I was so much in love I
couldn't think.'
'Indeed? And I suppose that no longer applies?'
'Do you? Do you?'
'Nigel—darling, this is no moment for dalliance.'
'Yes, it is.'
Alleyn's whistling drifted into the silent room.
'Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, tell me how thy lady
does,' whistled the inspector. In a very short time
he was back again, incredibly changed by a dirty
chin, a very ill-cut shoddy suit, a cheap-smart
overcoat, a cap, a dreadful scarf, and pointed shoes.
His hair was combed forward under the cap.
'Oh!' exclaimed Angela, 'I can't bear it—you
always look so frightfully well turned out and
handsome.'
151
To Nigel's amusement Inspector Alleyn turned
red in the face, and for the first time in their
acquaintance seemed at a loss for an answer.
'Has no one ever told you you are handsome,
Inspector?' pursued Angela innocently.
'Fox raves over me,' said Alleyn. 'What are you
standing there for, Bathgate, with that silly grin on
your face? Have you ordered the taxi? Have you
had a drink?'
Nigel had done neither of these things. However,
this was soon remedied and a couple of minutes
later they were in a taxi, heading for the
Embankment.
'We'll walk the last part of the way,' said Alleyn.
'Here are your tickets. We got these three with a
good deal of difficulty. The brethren are becoming
rather exclusive. Now do be careful. Remember
The Times criticised me for employing Bright
Young People in the Frantock case. Repeat your
lesson.'
They did this, interrupting each other a good
deal, but giving the gist of his instructions.
'Right. Now it's only eleven-twenty. We're early,
but there will be plenty of people there already.
With any luck I'll spot Banks and you may get near
her. If not, drift in her direction afterwards. I'll be
near the door. As you come out brush up against
me, and if you've been shown the Sage, point him
out to each other so that I can hear you. See? Good.
Here's where we get out, for fear of seeming
proud.'
He stopped the taxi. They were still down by the
river. The air felt chilly and dank, but exciting. The
river, busy with its night traffic, had an air of being
apart and profoundly absorbed. There were the wet
152
black shadows, broken lights, and the dark, hurried
flow of the Thames towards the sea. London's
water-world was about its nightly business. The
roar of the streets became unimportant and remote
down here, within sound of shipping sirens and the
cold lap of deep water against stone.
Alleyn hurried them along the Embankment for a
short way and then turned off somewhere near
Blackfriars Underground Station. They went up a
little dark street that resembled a perspective in a
woodcut. A single street lamp, haloed in mist, gave
accent to shadows as black as printer's ink. Beyond
the lamp a flight of stone steps led dramatically
downwards. They followed these steps, came out in
a narrow alley, took several more turns and fetched
up at last by an iron stairway.
'Up you go,' said Alleyn. 'We've arrived.'
The stairs ended in an iron landing which rang
coldly under their feet. Here, by a closed door,
stood a solitary man, who struck his hands together
and blew on his fingers. Alleyn showed him his
ticket, which he inspected by the light of an electric
torch. Nigel and Angela followed. The man flashed
his torch on their faces, a disconcerting business.
'New, aren't you?' he said to Nigel.
'Yes,' said Angela quickly, 'and terribly excited.
Will it be a good meeting?'
'Should be,' he answered, and opened the door
behind him. They went through and found
themselves in a narrow passage lit by a solitary
globe at the far end. Under this lamp stood another
man, who watched them steadily as they came
towards him. Angela took Nigel's arm.
"Evening,' said Alleyn.
"Evening, comrade,' said the man self153

consciously. 'You're early tonight.'
'That's right. Many here?'
'Not many yet. Show your tickets, please.' He
turned to the others. 'You newcomers?'
'Yes,' said Nigel.
'I'll have to take your names, comrades.'
'That's new,' remarked Alleyn.
'Instructions from headquarters. We've got to be
more careful.'
'Just as well. I'm bringing Miss Northgate and
Mr. Batherston. Friends of Comrade Marcus
Barker.' He spelt the names while the man wrote
them down. 'They come from ClearminsterStorton,
Dorset, and are both right-minded.'
'Anything doing in your part of the world?' asked
the man.
'Gosh, no!' said Nigel. 'All landed gentry,
bourgeoisie and wage-slaves.'
'Bone from the eyes up,' added Angela perkily.
The man laughed loudly.
'You've said it! Just sign these cards, will you?'
With an effort they remembered their new names
and wrote them at the foot of two pieces of
pasteboard that seemed to be inscribed with some
sort of profession of secrecy. Angela felt rather
guilty. While they did this someone came in at the
outside door and walked along the passage. The
man took their cards, pulled open the door and
turned to the newcomer. Led by Alleyn, they all
walked through the door, which immediately was
shut behind them.
They found themselves in a large room that still
looked like a warehouse. Six office lamps with china
shades hung from the ceiling. The walls were
unpapered plaster in bad condition. A few Soviet
154
propagandist posters, excellent in design, had been
pasted on the walls. The Russian characters looked
strange and out of place. At the far end a rough
platform had been run up. On the wall behind it
was an enlarged photograph of Lenin draped in a
grubby festoon of scarlet muslin. There were some
thirty people in the room. They stood about in
small groups, talking quietly together. One or two
had seated themselves among the chairs and
benches that faced the platform. Nigel, who prided
himself on this sort of thing, tried to place some of
them. He thought he detected a possible newsagent,
two under-graduates, three Government school
teachers, compositors, shopkeepers, a writing bloke
or two, and several nondescripts who might be
anything from artists to itinerant hawkers. There
| were one or two women of the student type, but as
Alleyn made no sign, Nigel concluded that none of
these was Nurse Banks. Evidently the inspector had
been to former meetings. He went up to a
middle-aged, vehement-looking man with no teeth,
who greeted him gloomily and in a little while
began to talk very excitedly about the shortcomings
of someone called Sage. 'He's got no guts,' he
repeated angrily, 'no guts at all.'
More people came in at intervals; a few looked
like manual labourers, but the majority seemed to
belong to that class abhorred of Communists, the
bourgeoisie. Nigel and Angela saw Alleyn point
them both out to his gloomy friend, who stared
morosely at them for a moment and then burst into
an offensive guffaw. Presently Alleyn rejoined
them.
'My friend has just come in,' he said quietly.
'She's that tall woman in a red hat.'
155
They looked towards the door and saw the tall
woman. Her face, as well as her hat, was red, and
was garnished with pince nez and an expression of
general truculence. Banks was as formidable out of
uniform as she was in it. Alley n reflected. She
glanced round the room and then marched firmly
towards the second row of chairs.
'Off you go,' murmured AlJeyn. 'Remember, you
come from O'Callaghan's county, but are not of it.'
They walked down the centre aisle and seated
themselves alongside Nurse Banks.
She produced an uncompromising mass of wool,
grey in colour, and began to knit.
'Don't you feel ever so excited, Claude?' asked
Angela loudly in a very second-rate voice.
Nigel suppressed a slight start and checked an
indignant glance.
'It's a wonderful experience, Pippin,' he replied.
He felt Angela quiver.
'I wish I knew who everyone was,' she said.
'We're so out of touch. These are the people who
are really getting things done and we don't know
their names. If only Mr. Barker had been here.'
'Ye gods, it makes me wild!' apostrophised
Nigel. 'And they call this a free country. Free!'
Angela, who was next to Banks, dared not look at
her. Banks's needles clicked resolutely.
'Do you think,' ventured Angela after a pause,
'do you think we could ever make any headway
down in the dear old village?'
'The dear old village, so quaint and old-world,'
gibed Nigel. 'So typically English, don't you know.
No, I don't. The only headway you could make
there would be with a charge of dynamite. God, I'd
like to see it done!'
156
'They'll all be in heavy mourning now, of
course.'
'Yes—for Sir Derek Bloody O'Callaghan.'
They both laughed uproariously and then Angela
said: 'Ssh—be careful,' and glanced apprehensively
at Banks. She was smiling.
'I wonder if he's here yet?' whispered Angela.
'Who?'
'Kakaroff.'
'There's someone going on to the platform-now.'
'Claude! Can it be he?'
This exclamation sounded so incredible that she
instantly regretted it and was infinitely relieved to
hear Miss Banks remark in a firm baritone:
'Comrade Kakaroff isn't here yet. That's
Comrade Robinson.'
'Thanks ever so,' said Angela brightly. 'We're
strangers ourselves and don't know anybody, but
we're terribly keen.'
Banks smiled.
'You see,' continued Angela, 'we come from the
backwoods of Dorset, where everything died about
the time Anne did.'
'The counties,' said Banks, 'are moribund, but in
the North there are signs of rebirth.'
'That's right!' ejaculated Nigel fervently. 'I
believe it will come from the North.'
'I hope you were not very shocked at what my
gentleman-friend said just now about O'Callaghan?'
Angela ventured.
'Shocked!' said Banks. 'Scarcely!' She laughed
shortly.
'Because, you see, we come from the same place
as his family and we're about fed to the back teeth
with the mere name. It's absolutely feudal—you
157
can't imagine.'
'And every election time,' said Nigel, 'they all
trot along like good little kids and vote for dear Sir
Derek once again.'
'They won't do that any more.'
The other seats in their row filled up with a party
of people engaged in an earnest and rather
bloodthirsty conversation. They paid no attention
to anyone but themselves. Nigel continued the
approach of Banks.
'What did you think about the inquest?' he asked
blandly.
She turned her head slowly and looked at him.
'I don't know,' she said. 'What did you?'
'I thought it rather peculiar myself. Looks as if
the police know something. Whoever had the guts
to fix O'Callaghan I reckon was a national hero. I
don't care who knows it either,' said Nigel
defiantly.
'You're right,' cried Banks, 'you're right. You
can't heal a dog-bite without a cautery.' She
produced this professional analogy so slickly that
Nigel guessed it was a standardised argument. 'All
the same,' added Banks with a slight change of
voice, 'I don't believe anyone could, if they would,
claim the honour of striking this blow for freedom.
It was an accident—a glorious accident.'
Her hands trembled and the knitting-needles
chattered together. Her eyes were wide open and
the pupils dilated.
'Why, she's demented,' thought Angela in alarm.
'Hyoscine,' murmured Nigel. 'Wasn't that the
drug Crippen used?'
'I believe it was,' said Angela. 'Isn't that the same
as Twilight Sleep?'
158
She paused hopefully. Banks made no answer. A
young man came and sat in front of them. He
looked intelligent and would have been rather a
handsome fellow if his blond curls had been shorter
and his teeth less aggressively false.
'I don't know,' said Nigel; 'I'm no chemist. Oh!
Talking of chemists, we must see if we can find that
chap Harold Sage here. I'd like to meet him.'
'Well, it's so difficult. They never said what he
was like. Perhaps—er—' Angela turned towards
Miss Banks. 'Perhaps you could help us. There's a
gentleman here who knows a friend of ours.' She
wondered if this was risky. 'His name's Harold
Sage. He's a chemist, and we thought if we could
see him—'
The young man with the blond curls turned
round and flashed a golden smile at her.
'Pardon,' he fluted throatily. 'That won't be very
difficult. May neem's Hawrold Seege.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SURPRISING ANTICS
OF A CHEMIST
Tuesday to Wednesday. The small hours
To say that Nigel and Angela were flabbergasted by
this announcement is to give not the slightest
indication of their derangement. Their mouths fell
open and their eyes protruded. Their stomachs, as
the saying is, turned over. Mr. Sage continued the
while to smile falsely upon them. It seemed as if
they took at least three minutes to recover. Actually
159
about five seconds elapsed before Angela, in a small
voice that she did not recognise, said:
'Oh--fancy! What fun!'
'Oh,' echoed Nigel, 'fancy! What luck! Yes.'
'Yes,' said Angela.
'I thought I heard someone taking my name in
vain,' continued Mr. Sage playfully. It would be
tedious to attempt a phonetic reproduction of Mr.
Sage's utterances. Enough to say that they were
genteel to a fantastic degree.
'Aye That Aye heeard somewon teeking may
neem in veen,' may give some idea of his rendering
of the above sentence. Let it go at that.
'I was just going to make you known to each
other,' said Nurse Banks. So great was their
dilemma they had actually forgotten Nurse Banks.
Mr. Sage cast a peculiarly reluctant glance upon
her and then turned to his quarry. 'And who,' he
asked gaily, 'is the mutual friend?'
Frantic alternatives chased each other through
Angela's and Nigel's brains. Suppose they risked
naming Marcus Barker again--he of the vermilion
pamphlet. He had a shop. He was in prison. That
was all they knew of Comrade Barker. Suppose--
Nigel drew a deep breath and leant forward.
'It is--' he began.
'Comrades!' shouted a terrific voice. 'We will
commence by singing the Internationale.'
They turned, startled, to the platform. A gigantic
bearded man, wearing a Russian blouse, confronted
the audience. Comrade Kakaroff had arrived.
The comrades, led by the platform, instantly
burst into a deafening rumpus. Nigel and Angela,
pink with relief, made grimaces indicative of
thwarted communication at Mr. Sage, who made a
160
suitable face in return and then stood to attention
and, with a piercing headnote, cut into the
Internationale.
When they talked the affair over afterwards with
Inspector Alleyn they could not remember one
utterance of Comrade Kakaroff during the first half
of his speech. He was a large Slav with a beautiful
voice and upright hair. That was all they took in.
When the beautiful voice rose to an emotional
bellow they managed to exchange a panicky
whisper.
'Shall we slip away?'
'We can't. Not now.'
'Afterwards?'
'Yes—perhaps too fishy.'
'What do you mean?'
'Ssh! I'm going to—'
'Ssh!'
They glared at each other. To his horror, Nigel
saw that Angela was about to get the giggles. He
frowned at her majestically and then folded his
arms and stared, with an air of interest, at Comrade
Kakaroff. This unfortunately struck Angela, who
was no doubt hysterical, as being intolerably funny.
Her blood ran cold, her heart sank, she was
panic-stricken, but she felt she must laugh.
'Shut up,' breathed Nigel out of the corner of his
mouth. He was foolish enough to kick her. Her
chair quivered. She looked round wildly to the four
corners of the room. In the fourth corner, between
a diagonal vista of rapt faces, she saw someone who
watched her. It was the man to whom Alleyn had
spoken when they first arrived. Her throat quivered
no longer. It went dry. Suddenly nothing seemed
funny. Perhaps no one had noticed her. Banks,
161
uttering an occasional 'Hear! hear! in a tone of
magisterial approval, gazed only at Nicholas
Kakaroff. Mr. Sage's back was towards them.
Angela was herself again and gently ashamed. She
began to think coherently and presently she formed
a plan. Alley n had talked at some length about Ruth
O'Callaghan. He had a vivid trick of description
and Angela felt she knew exactly what Miss
O'Callaghan was like. Suppose—? She stared like
an attentive angel at Comrade Kakaroff and as she
stared she made up her mind. As if in echo of her
thoughts, she suddenly became aware of his
utterances.
'The death of the late Home Secretary—Derek
O'Callaghan,' boomed Comrade Kakaroff. Jerked
out of their unhappy meditation, they began to
listen with a will.
'—not for us the sickly sentiment of an effete and
decadent civilisation. Not for us the disgusting tears
of the wage-slave hypocrite. It was in a good hour
that man died. Had he lived he would have worked
us great evil. He was struck down with the words of
tyranny on his lips. I say it was in a good hour he
died. We know it. Let us boldly declare it. He was
the enemy of the people, a festering sore that
drained the vitality of the proletariat. Listen to me,
all of you. If he was deliberately exterminated and I
knew the man who had done it, I would greet that
man with the outstretched hand of brotherhood. I
would hail that man as—Comrade.'
He sat down amidst loud noises of
encouragement. Mr. Sage had sprung excitedly to
his feet.
'Comrade!' he shouted excitedly. It was as if he
had touched a spring. The age-old yeast of
162
mob-hysteria was at work. Half of them were on
their feet yelling. Miss Banks cast down her
knitting and made curious staccato gestures with
her hands. 'Up, the anarchists!' someone screamed
behind them. The uproar lasted for some minutes
while Kakaroff gazed intently at his work. Then
Comrade Robinson walked to the edge of the
platform and held up his hands. It was not until the
Russian, half contemptuously, had joined him that
the din died away.
'Friends,' said Kakaroff, 'have patience. It will
not be for long. In the meantime—be patient. It is
with difficulty we manage to hold these meetings.
Let us not arouse too much suspicion in the
brilliant brains of those uniformed automatons who
guard the interests of the capitalist—our wonderful
police.'
The comrades made merry. Angela distinctly
heard the rare laugh of Inspector Alley n. The
meeting broke up after a brief word from Comrade
Robinson about outstanding subscriptions. Mr.
Sage, a winning smile upon his face, turned eagerly
towards them.
'Magnificent, wasn't it?' he cried.
'Marvellous!'
'Wonderful!'
'And now,' continued Mr. Sage, looking
admiringly upon Angela, 'please tell me—who is
our mutual friend?'
'Well, she's not exactly a close friend,' said
Angela, 'although we both like her ever so much.'
She glanced round her and leant forward. Mr. Sage
gallantly inclined his curls towards her.
'Miss Ruth O'Callaghan,' said Angela, just loud
enough for Nigel to hear. He instantly supposed she
163
had gone crazy.
Mr. Sage must have tilted his chair too far
backwards, for he suddenly clutched at the air in a
very singular manner. His feet shot upwards and
the next instant he was decanted over their feet.
'Murder!' ejaculated Nigel, and hurriedly bent
over him. Mr. Sage fought him off with great
violence, and after a galvanic struggle, regained his
feet. 'I say,' said Angela, remembering her new
voice, 'I do hope you haven't hurt yourself. I'm
ever so sorry.'
Mr. Sage gazed at Nigel in silence for some
moments. At last he drew in his breath and said:
'No, thanks. Aye'm quate O.K.'
'But you've gone pale. It was an awful bump you
came. Sit down for a moment.'
'Thanks,' he said, and sank into a chair. 'Dear
me, that was a very silly thing to do.'
'Very painful, I should say,' remarked Nigel
solemnly.
Suddenly Angela began to laugh.
'Oh,' she said, 'I'm awfully sorry. It's just horrid
of me, but I can't help it.'
'Really, An—Pippin!' scolded Nigel.
'The instinct to laugh at bodily injury,' said Mr.
Sage, who had recovered his colour, 'is a very old
one. Possibly it goes back to the snarl of the animal
about to engage an adversary. You can't help
yourself.'
'It's nice of you to take it like that,' said Angela
through her tears. 'It was rather a funny
introduction.'
'Yes.'
'I'd better explain,' continued Angela. Nigel,
who had regarded the upsetting of Mr. Sage as a
164
dispensation of Providence, listened in horror. 'We
come from Clearminster-Storton in Dorset, near the
holy ancestral home of the O'Callaghans. We've no
time for the others and let it be known frankly. But
she's different, isn't she, Claude?'
'Quite different.'
'Yes. We've seen her in London and tried to
make her look at things in the enlightened way, and
j although she'e hide-bound by the tradition of her
class, she doesn't refuse to listen. She told us about
you, Mr. Sage. She thinks you're awfully clever,
doesn't she, Claude?'
'That's right,' said poor Nigel.
'So that is the way of it?' said Mr. Sage. 'I have
too attempted to make Miss O'Callaghan think, to
open her eyes. She is a customer of mine and is
interested in my work. I accept patronage from
nobody, mind. She has not offered patronage, but
I comradeship. I don't really know her well, and—'
: He paused and then, looking straight at Nigel, he
J added: 'To be frank with you, I have not seen much
; of her since O'Callaghan introduced his infamous
I Bill. I felt the situation would be too severe a strain
on our friendship. We have never discussed her
brother. She knows my views and would
understand. Er—quite.'
'Oh, quite,' murmured Angela.
\ 'Just so,' said Nigel.
I 'As a matter of fact,' continued Mr. Sage, 'I must
[ own I don't go as far as Comrade Kakaroff in the
[ matter of O'Callaghan's death. Undoubtedly it is
well he is gone. I realise that theoretically there is
such a thing as justifiable extermination, but
murder—as this may have been—no.'
L'This was justifiable extermination,' said Nigel
165
fiercely.
'Then it should have been done openly for the
Cause.'
'No one fancies the rope.'
'Claude, you are awful. I agree with Mr. Sage.'
'Thank you Miss—er. Pardon, I'm afraid I don't
know—'
'Pippin!' exclaimed Nigel suddenly. 'We're
keeping our pal waiting. He's hanging round
outside the door there. Murder! It's half-past one
and we swore we'd meet those other chaps before
then.'
'Ow, gracious, how awful!' said Angela. They
grasped Mr. Sage's hand, said hurriedly they hoped
they'd meet again, and scuttled away.
The comrades had broken up into groups. Many
of them had gone. Nigel and Angela saw Alleyn at
the door with his gloomy friend. A short,
well-dressed man followed them out, passed them,
walked quickly to the outer door, and ran noisily
down the iron stairs. Alleyn stood and stared after
him. He and the truculent man exchanged a glance.
'Come on,' said Alleyn.
As they all walked out Nigel and Angela kept up
a rather feverish conversation in their assumed
voices. Alleyn was completely silent and so was his
friend. Angela felt rather frightened. Did this man
suspect them?
'I thought it was a perfectly marvellous meeting,'
she said loudly as they walked down the empty
street.
'Stimulating—that's what it was, stimulating,'
gushed Nigel.
The man grunted. Alleyn was silent.
'I was so pleased to meet Comrade Sage,'
166
continued Angela with an air of the greatest
enthusiasm.
'He's all right,' conceded Nigel, 'but I wouldn't
say he was quite sound.'
'You mean about O'Callaghan? Oh, I don't
know. What did you think about O'Callaghan,
comrade?' Angela turned desperately to Alleyn.
'Oh, I'm all for bloodshed,' said Alleyn dryly.
'Aren't you, comrade?' He turned to his friend.
The man uttered a short sinister laugh. Angela
took Nigel's hand. 'He was an ulcer,' she said
confusedly, but with energy. 'When we find an
ulcer we—we—'
'Poultice it?' suggested Alleyn.
'We cut it out.'
'Paw onzcourager les autres,' said the man in
diabolical French.
'Oh,' said Nigel, 'not exactly that,
comrade—er—?'
'Fox,' said Alleyn. 'You've met before.'
'^ir
• • •
'It's all right, sir,' said Inspector Fox soothingly.
'It's the removal of my dentures that did it. Rather
confusing. You were getting on very nicely. It was
quite a treat to listen to you.'
'Stimulating—that's what it was, stimulating,'
added Alleyn.
'Inspector Alleyn,' said Angela furiously, 'I'll
never forgive you for this—never.'
'Hist!' said Alleyn. 'The very walls have ears.'
'Oh!' stormed Angela. 'Oh! Oooo! Oh!'
'Murder!' said Nigel very quietly.
They walked on in silence until they came out by
the river. A taxi drew up alongside them and they
got in. Inspector Fox took a cardboard box from his
167
pocket, turned delicately aside, and inserted his
plates.
'Begging your pardon, miss,' he said, 'but it's
pleasanter to have them.'
'And now,' said Alleyn, 'just exactly what have
you been up to?'
'I won't tell you.'
'Won't you. Miss Angela? That's going to make
it rather difficult.'
'Oh, come on, Angela,' said Nigel resignedly.
'He'll have to know. Let's come clean.'
They came clean. The two policeman listened in
silence.
'Yes,' said Alleyn when they had finished. 'That's
all very interesting. It's informative too. Let me get
it straight. You say that when you quoted Miss
O'Callaghan as your friend—a very dangerous trick,
Miss Angela—Sage fell over backwards. Do you
think he did this accidentally or deliberately? Do
you think he got such a shock he over-balanced and
crashed, or did you feel he used this painful ruse to
distract your attention? Or were you both acting
your socks off so enthusiastically that you did not
notice?'
'Certainly not. At least—'
'I think he got a shock,' said Nigel.
'Well, yes,' agreed Angela, 'so do I. But he
seemed more upset, oddly enough, afterwards,
when he was lying there. His face went pea-green.
Oh dear, he did look dreadfully funny.'
'No doubt. What did you say—did you say
anything that would account for this diverting
phenomenon?'
'I—no. Nigel said something. We both
exclaimed, you know.'
168
'I grabbed hold of him and he fairly fought me
off.'
'And then, you know, he got up and we asked if
he was hurt and he said he was "quate O.K." and
seemed to get better.'
'What was it you said, Bathgate?'
'I dunno. "Gosh!" or "Help!" or "Oh fie!"
Something.'
'Subsequently he said that he did not altogether
respond to Comrade Kakaroff's wave of brotherly
love for O'Callaghan's murderer—that it?'
'He seemed to think that was going a bit far.'
'And yet'—Alleyn went on—'and yet I seem to
remember that at the conclusion of Kakaroff's jolly
little talk, Comrade Sage leapt to his feet and yelled
"Comrade".'
'Yes—he did,' Nigel agreed, 'but he may have
been all carried away. He's not a bad little tick
really, I should say, once you've got past his
frightful refinement.'
'He spoke quite decently about Miss
O'Callaghan,' added Angela.
'So it appears. Did he and my girl-friend Banks
have anything to say to each other?'
'Not a word.'
'Well, Fox?'
'Well, sir?'
'I suppose I visit Mr. Sage at his shop
to-morrow—oh. Lord, it's to-day, isn't it? What's
the time?'
Inspector Fox drew his watch from the inside
pocket of the threadbare coat he was wearing. He
held it up in a large and filthy paw. 'Just on two, I
make it,' he said. 'Listen.'
He lowered the window of the taxi. The lost,
169
woe-begone voice of a siren sounded out on the
river. Then Big Ben, up in the cold night air, tolled
two.
Inspector Fox regarded his watch with grave
approval, put it away, and laid his hands on his
knees.
'Longing for your bed, Fox?' asked Alleyn.
'I am for mine,' said Angela.
'Suppose we let Bathgate take the taxi on, and
turn into the office for half an hour?'
'Right ho, sir.'
'Here we are.'
He tapped on the window and the taxi stopped.
The two detectives got out. Their breath hung
mistily on the frosty air. Alleyn spoke for a moment
to the driver and then looked inside.
'Thank you so much for your help, both of you,'
he said.
'I say, Alleyn, I hope you don't think we've made
awful mugs of ourselves?' said Nigel lugubriously.
Alleyn thought for a moment.
'It was a very spirited effort, I consider,' he said
at last.
'We shall have to get you both in the Force, sir,'
added Fox. His matter-of-fact voice sounded oddly
remote out there in the cold.
'Ah, Inspector Fox,' said Nigel suspiciously, 'I've
heard you say that before.'
'Good night, Comrade Angela,' said Alleyn,
'sleep well.'
'Good night. Inspector; I don't grudge you your
joke.'
'Bless you,' answered Alleyn gently and slammed
the door.
The taxi drove off. Farther along the
170
Embankment men were hosing down the street
surface. A great fan of water curved out and made
all the sound there was except for the siren and the
distant toot of the taxi. The two men stared at one
another.
'I wonder just how much harm they've done,'
said Alleyn.
'None at all, sir, I should say.'
'I hope you're right. My fault if they have. Come
on, let's have a smoke.'
In Alleyn's room they lit their pipes. Alleyn
wrote at his desk for some time. Fox stared gravely
at the opposite wall. They looked a queer couple
with their dreadful clothes, grimy faces and
blackened hands.
'She seems a very nice young lady,' Fox said
presently. 'Is she Mr Bathgate's fiancee, sir, if I
may ask?'
'She is.'
'A very pleasant young couple.'
Alleyn looked at him affectionately.
'You're a quaint old bag of nonsense.' He laid
down his pen. 'I don't think, really, I took too big a
risk with them. The little man was nowhere near
them. You recognised him, of course?'
'Oh, yes—from the inquest. I didn't see who it
was till he passed us in the doorway, but I'd noticed
him earlier in the evening. He had his back towards
us.'
'Yes, I saw him, too. His clothes were good
enough to shine out in that assembly. No attempt
made to dress down to comrade level.'
'No,' said Fox. 'Funny—that.'
'It's altogether very rum. Passing strange. He
walked straight past Sage and Nurse Banks. None
171
of them batted an eyelash.'
'That's so. If they are in collusion, it might be
deliberate.'
'You know. Fox, I can't think this Communist
stuff is at the root of it. They're a bogus lot, holding
their little meetings, printing little pamphlets,
making their spot of trouble. A nuisance from our
point of view, but not the stuff that assassins are
made of. Of course, given one fanatic—' He
stopped and shook his head.
'Well,' said Fox, 'that's so. They don't amount to
much. Perhaps he's different, though. Perhaps he's
the fanatic.'
'Not that sort, I'd have thought. I'll go and see
him again. To-morrow. To-day. I rather like the
bloke. We'll have to get hold of the expert who's
doing the Kakaroff bunch and find out if he's deep
in. It's been a field day, this. It seems an age since
we sat here and waited for the report on the
post-mortem. Damn. I feel we are as one about to
be had. I feel we are about to give tongue and run
off on a false scent. I feel we are about to put two
and two together and make a mess.'
'That's a pity,' said Fox.
'What's the time? Half-past two. Perhaps
Bathgate will be back in his own flat by now, having
dropped Miss Angela, who looked tired, at her
uncle's house. I think I shall send him to bed
happy.'
He dialled a number on his telephone and waited.
'Hallo, Bathgate. How much are you betting on
your funny little man?'
'Roberts?' quacked Nigel's voice clearly.
'Yes, Roberts.'
'Two to one, wasn't it? Why? What's up?'
172
FR1;'Did you notice he was at the meeting tonight?'
'Roberts!5
'Yes, Roberts. Good night.'
He hung up the receiver. 'Come on,' he said wearily. 'Let's put two and
two together and make a mess.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
'FULVITAVOLTS'
Wednesday, the seventeenth. Morning and afternoon. The following morning Chief Inspector Alleyn and
Inspector Fox reviewed their discussion.
'The Lenin Hall theory looks even shoddier by
the light of day,' said Alleyn.
'Well, sir,' said Fox, 'I won't say it isn't weak in
places, but we can't ignore the thing, can we?'
'No. I suppose not. No.'
'If there's nothing in it, it's a peculiar
coincidence. Here's this lady, deceased's sister----'
'Oh yes. Fox, and by the way, I'm expecting the
family solicitor. Mr. Rattisbon, of Knightley,
Knightley and Rattisbon, an uncle of Lady
O'Callaghan's, I believe. Unusually come-toish
advance--rang up and suggested the visit himself.
He mentioned Miss O'Callaghan so guardedly that I
can't help feeling she plays a star part in the will.
You were saying?'
'I was going to say here's this lady, deceased's
sister, giving him patent medicines. Here's the Sage
affair, the chemist, a member of the advanced party
that threatened deceased, supplying them. Here's
173
the doctor that gave the anaesthetic turning up at
the same meeting as the chemist and the nurse that
gave the injection. The nurse knows the chemist;
the chemist, so Mr. Bathgate says, isn't so keen to
know the nurse. The doctor, seemingly, knows
neither of them. Well now, that may be bluff on the
doctor's part. Suppose they were all working in
collusion? Sage wouldn't be very keen on
associating himself with Nurse Banks. Dr. Roberts
might think it better to know neither of them.
Suppose Sage had supplied Miss O'Callaghan with a
drug containing a certain amount of hyoscine,
Nurse Banks had injected a bit more, and Dr.
Roberts had made a job of it by injecting the rest?'
'All of them instructed by Comrade Kakaroff?'
'Well—yes.'
'But why? Why involve three people when one
might do the trick? And anyway, none of them
knew O'Callaghar was going to throw a fit and
lie-for-dead in the House of Commons and then be
taken to Sir John Phillips's nursing-home.'
'That's so, certainly, but Sage would know,
through Miss O'Callaghan, that her brother
intended having Sir John to look at him as soon as
the Bill was read. It seems they knew it was
appendix. Mightn't they even have said he'd better
go to the hospital and have it out? The lady tells
Mr. Sage about this. He reports. He and Nurse
Banks and Dr. Roberts think they'll form a plan of
action.'
'And, lo and behold, it all comes to pass even as
they had said. I don't like it, Fox. And anyway, my
old one, how did Dr. Roberts give the injection
with no syringe? Why didn't he take the golden
opportunity of exercising his obvious right of giving
174
the hypodermic? To establish his innocence, you
will say. He gave it on the sly, all unbeknown. But
how? You can't carry a syringe all ready for use,
complete with lethal dose, in your trouser pocket.
And anyway, his trousers, like all the rest of him,
were covered with a white nightie. And he was
never alone with the patient.5
'That's so, and I admit it's a bit of a facer.
Well—perhaps he simply arranged the matter with
Miss Banks and she gave the injection, using
hyoscine instead of camphor.'
'Subsequently letting everyone know how
delighted she was at the death. Do you think that
was subtlety or stupidity?'
Fox shook his head solemnly.
'I don't say I support the theory, chief, but it is a
theory.'
'Oh, yes. There's another point about the
hyoscine. It's kept in a bottle, which Thorns tells
me is very out of date—it should be in an ampoule.
Phillips, I suppose, doesn't object, as he always
uses his own tablets. Now Jane Harden says that
the bottle was full and that one injection has since
been used. I've checked that. When I saw the bottle
it was almost full. Thorns brought it to me.'
'Thorns did?' repeated Fox in his slow way.
'Yes. I got a sample and am having it analysed. If
anyone has added water, the solution will be below
strength.'
'Yes—but they might have managed to add more
solution.'
'I don't see how. Where would they get it from?
It would have to be done there and then.'
Alleyn got up and walked about the room.
'You've never told me your views on intuition,'
175
he said.
'I can't say I've got any. No views, I mean—and
no intuition either, for a matter of that. Very
unimaginitive I've always been. I recollect at school
I was a poor hand at writing compositions, as they
called them. Still I wouldn't say,' said Fox
cautiously, 'that there is no such thing as intuition.
I've known you come out rather strong in that line
yourself.'
Thank you. Fox. Well, the weird is upon me
now, if that's the expression. By the pricking of my
thumbs, something wicked this way comes. I've got
a hunch that the Bolshie lot is not one of the
principal factors. It's a secondary theme in the
bloody cantata. And, yet, blast it, we'll have to
follow it up.'
'Oh well,' Fox rose to his feet. 'What's my job of
work for to-day, sir?'
'Get hold of Boys or whoever has been watching
the comrades and see if Roberts's connection with
them can be traced. If there's anything in this we'll
have to try and get evidence of collusion. Since the
Krasinky-Tokareff affair Sumiloff has had to fade
out, but there's Comrade Robinson. He seems to
have wormed his way into the foreground. You'd
better call him in. We pay the brute enough; let
him earn it. Call him in, Fox, and tell him to ferret.
He might tell the comrades we've been asking
questions and see how they respond. And, talking
about ferreting, I've been going through the reports
on the medical gentlemen. It's the devil's own game
beating it all up and there's a lot more to be done.
So far there's nothing very much to excite us.' He
pulled forward a sheaf of papers. 'Here you are.
Phillips—Educated at Winchester and Cambridge.
176
Medical training at Thomas's. Brilliant record.
Distinguished war service. You can read it.
Inspector Allison has spent days on this stuff.
Thomas's was full of enthusiasm for one of its
brightest boys. No bad marks anywhere. Here's
Detective-Sergeant Bailey on Roberts. Educated at
home. Delicate child. Medical training at
Edinburgh and abroad, in Vienna. After qualifying
went to Canada, Australia, and New Zealand,
returning to England after war. Red Cross work,
during war, in Belgium. Books on heredity—he lent
me one and it seems damn' good. I suppose we'll
have to go into the history abroad. I'll ring up
Toronto to-night. We'll have to check up on that
story about the overdose. Talk about routine! How
long, 0 Lord, how long! Thorns—Educated St
Bardolph's, Essex, and Guy's. I rang up a friend of
mine at Guy's who was his contemporary. Very
good assistant surgeon and never likely to get much
farther than that. Undistinguished but blameless
career, punctuated by mild scandals about women.
Little devil! My friend was rather uncomplimentary
about Thorns. He called him a "lecherous little
blight." That's as far as we've got.'
The telephone rang and Alley n answered it.
'It's Mr. Rattisbon. Go down and make much of
him. Fox. Bring him up tenderly, treat him with
care. If he's anything like the rest of his family,
he'll need warming. Use your celebrated charm.'
'O.K.' said Fox. ^Toojoor la politesse. I'm on to
the third record now, chief, but their peculiar ways
of pronunciation give me a lot of trouble. Still, it's a
sort of hobby, as you might say.'
He sighed and went, returning to usher in Mr.
James Rattisbon, of Knightley, Knightley and
177
he said.
'I can't say I've got any. No views, I mean—and
no intuition either, for a matter of that. Very
unimaginitive I've always been. I recollect at school
I was a poor hand at writing compositions, as they
called them. Still I wouldn't say,' said Fox
cautiously, 'that there is no such thing as intuition.
I've known you come out rather strong in that line
yourself.'
'Thank you, Fox. Well, the weird is upon me
now, if that's the expression. By the pricking of my
thumbs, something wicked this way comes. I've got
a hunch that the Bolshie lot is not one of the
principal factors. It's a secondary theme in the
bloody cantata. And, yet, blast it, we'll have to
follow it up.'
'Oh well,' Fox rose to his feet. 'What's my job of
work for to-day, sir?'
'Get hold of Boys or whoever has been watching
the comrades and see if Roberts's connection with
them can be traced. If there's anything in this we'll
have to try and get evidence of collusion. Since the
Krasinky-Tokareff affair Sumiloff has had to fade
out, but there's Comrade Robinson. He seems to
have wormed his way into the foreground. You'd
better call him in. We pay the brute enough; let
him earn it. Call him in, Fox, and tell him to ferret.
He might tell the comrades we've been asking
questions and see how they respond. And, talking
about ferreting, I've been going through the reports
on the medical gentlemen. It's the devil's own game
beating it all up and there's a lot more to be done.
So far there's nothing very much to excite us.' He
pulled forward a sheaf of papers. 'Here you are.
Phillips—Educated at Winchester and Cambridge.
176
Medical training at Thomas's. Brilliant record.
Distinguished war service. You can read it.
Inspector Allison has spent days on this stuff.
Thomas's was full of enthusiasm for one of its
brightest boys. No bad marks anywhere. Here's
Detective-Sergeant Bailey on Roberts. Educated at
home. Delicate child. Medical training at
Edinburgh and abroad, in Vienna. After qualifying
went to Canada, Australia, and New Zealand,
returning to England after war. Red Cross work,
during war, in Belgium. Books on heredity—he lent
me one and it seems damn' good. I suppose we'll
have to go into the history abroad. I'll ring up
Toronto to-night. We'll have to check up on that
story about the overdose. Talk about routine! How
long, 0 Lord, how long! Thorns—Educated St
Bardolph's, Essex, and Guy's. I rang up a friend of
mine at Guy's who was his contemporary. Very
good assistant surgeon and never likely to get much
farther than that. Undistinguished but blameless
career, punctuated by mild scandals about women.
Little devil! My friend was rather uncomplimentary
about Thorns. He called him a "lecherous little
blight." That's as far as we've got.'
The telephone rang and Alleyn answered it.
'It's Mr. Rattisbon. Go down and make much of
him. Fox. Bring him up tenderly, treat him with
care. If he's anything like the rest of his family,
he'll need warming. Use your celebrated charm.'
'O.K.' said Fox. ^Toojoor la politesse. I'm on to
the third record now, chief, but their peculiar ways
of pronunciation give me a lot of trouble. Still, it's a
sort of hobby, as you might say.'
He sighed and went, returning to usher in Mr.
James Rattisbon, of Knightley, Knightley and
177
Rattisbon, uncle to Lady O'Callaghan and solicitor
to the deceased and his family. Mr. Rattisbon was
one of those elderly solicitors whose appearance
explains why the expression 'dried-up' is so
inevitably applied by novelists to men of law. He
was desiccated. He was dressed in clothes of a dated
type that looked rather shabby, but were actually in
good repair. He wore a winged collar, rather high,
and a dark tie, rather narrow. He was discreetly
bald, somewhat blind, and a little tremulous. He
had a kind of quick shuttering utterance, and a
curious trick of thrusting out his pointed tongue
and rattling it exceedingly rapidly between his thin
lips. This may have served as an antidote to the
stutter or it may have signified a kind of
professional relish. His hands were bird-like claws
with very large purplish veins. It was impossible to
picture him in any sort of domestic surroundings.
As soon as the door had been closed behind him
he came forward very nimbly and said with
incredible speed:
'Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn?'
'Good morning, sir,' said Alleyn. He advanced a
chair towards Mr. Rattisbon and offered to take his
hat.
'Good morning, good morning,' said Mr.
Rattisbon. Thank-yer, thank-yer. No, thank-yer.
Thank-yer.'
He clung to his hat and took the chair.
'It's good of you to call. I would have been
delighted to save you the trouble by coming to your
office. I believe you want to see me about the
O'Callaghan business?'
'That is the business—that is the reason—it is in
connection with that matter that I have waited upon
178
you, yes,' rattled Mr. Rattisbon. He stopped short,
darted a glance at Alleyn, and beat a finicky tattoo
on the crown of his hat.
'Oh yes,' said Alleyn.
'As no doubt you are aware, Inspector Alleyn, I
was the late Sir Derek O'Callaghan's solicitor. I am
also his sister's. Miss Catherine Ruth
O'Callaghan's, solicitor, and of course his
wife's—his wife's—ah, solicitor.'
Alleyn waited.
'I understand from my clients that certain
representations made by Lady O'Callaghan were
instrumental in prompting you to take the course
you have subsequently adopted.'
'Yes.'
'Yes. I understand that is the case. Inspector
Alleyn, this is not, strictly speaking, a professional
call. Lady O'Callaghan is my niece. Naturally I
have a personal as well as a professional interest in
the matter.'
He looked, thought Alleyn, as though he was
incapable of any interest that was not professional.
'Of course, sir,' said Alleyn.
'My niece did not consult me before she. took this
step. I must confess that had she done so I
should—I should have entertained grave doubts as
to the advisability of her action. However, as
matters have turned out, she was fully justified. I
was, of course present at the inquest. Since then I
have had several interviews with both these ladies.
The last took place yesterday afternoon and
was—was of a somewhat disquieting nature.'
'Really, sir?'
'Yes. It is a matter of some delicacy. I have
hesitated—I have hesitated for some time before
179
making this appointment. I learn that since the
inquest Miss O'Callaghan has visited you and
has--has suggested that you go no farther with your
investigation.'
'Miss O'Callaghan,' said Alleyn, 'was extremely
distressed at the idea of the postmortem.'
'Quite. Quite so. It is at her request that I have
come to see you myself.'
'Is it, by Jove!' thought Alleyn.
'Miss O'Callaghan,' continued Mr Rattisbon,
'fears that in her distress she spoke foolishly. I
found it difficult to get from her the actual gist of
her conversation, but it seems that she mentioned a
young protege of hers, a Mr. Harold Sage, a
promising chemist, she tells me.'
'She did speak of a Mr. Sage.'
'Yes.' Mr. Rattisbon suddenly rubbed his nose
very hard and then agitated his tongue. 'She
appears to think she used somewhat ambiguous
phrasing as regards the young man, and she--in
short. Inspector, the lady has got it into her head
that she may have presented him in a doubtful
light. Now I assured her that the police are not to
be misled by casual words spoken at a time of
emotional stress, but she implored me to come and
see you, and though I was disinclined to do so, I
could scarcely refuse.'
'You were in a difficult position, Mr. Rattisbon.'
'I am in a difficult position Inspector Alleyn, I
feel it my duty to warn you that Miss Ruth
O'Callaghan, though by no means non compos
mentis, is at the same time subject to what I can only
call periods of hysterical enthusiasm and equally
hysterical depression. She is a person of singular ly
naive intelligence. This is not the first occasion on
180
which she has raised an alarm about a matter which
subsequently proved to be of no importance
whatever. Her imagination is apt to run riot. I think
it would not be improper to attribute this
idiosyncrasy to an unfortunate strain in her
heredity.'
'I quite appreciate that,' Alleyn assured him. 'I
know something of this family trait. I believe her
father—'
'Quite so. Quite,' said Mr. Rattisbon, shooting a
shrewd glance at him. 'I see you take my point.
Now, Inspector Alleyn, the only aspect of the
matter that causes me disquietude is the possibility
of her calling upon you again, actuated by further
rather wild and, I'm afraid, foolish motives. I did
think that perhaps it would be well to—'
'To put me wise, sir? I'm grateful to you for
having done so. I should in any case have called on
you, as I shall be obliged to make certain inquiries
as regards the deceased's affairs.'
Mr. Rattisbon appeared to tighten all over. He
darted another glance at the inspector, took off his
glasses, polished them, and in an exceedingly dry
voice said:
'Oh, yes.'
'We may as well get it over now. We have not yet
got the terms of Sir Derek's will. Of course, sir, we
shall have to know them.'
'Oh, yes.'
'Perhaps you will give me this information now.
Just the round terms, you know.'
It is perfectly true that people more often
conform to type than depart from it. Mr. Rattisbon
now completed his incredibly classical portrait of
the family lawyer by placing together the tips of his
181
fingers. He did this over the top of his bowler. He
then regarded Alleyn steadily for about six seconds
and said:
There are four legacies of one thousand pounds
each and two of five hundred. The residue is
divided between his wife and his sister in the
proportion of two-thirds to Lady O'Callaghan and
one-third to Miss Catherine Ruth O'Callaghan.'
'And the amount of the entire estate? Again in
round terms?'
'Eighty-five thousand pounds.'
'Thank you so much, Mr. Rattisbon. Perhaps
later on I may see the will, but at the moment that
is all we want. To whom do the legacies go?'
'To the funds of the Conservative Party, to the
London Hospital, to his godchild. Henry Derek
Samond, and to the Dorset'Benevolent Fund, one
thousand in each instance. To Mr. Ronald
Jameson, his secretary, five hundred pounds. To be
divided among his servants in equal portions of one
hundred each, the sum of five hundred pounds.'
Alleyn produced his notebook and took this
down. Mr. Rattisbon got up.
'I must keep you no longer. Inspector Alleyn.
This is an extremely distressing affair. I trust that
the police may ultimately—um—'
'I trust so, sir,' said Alleyn. He rose and opened
the door.
'Oh, thank-yer, thank-yer,' ejaculated Mr.
Rattisbon. He shot across the room, paused, and
darted a final look at Alleyn.
'My nephew tells me you were at school
together,' he said. 'Henry Rattisbon, Lady
O'Callaghan's brother.'
'I believe we were,' answered Alleyn politely.
182
'Yes. Interesting work here? Like it?'
'It's not a bad job.5
'Um? Oh, quite. Well, wish you success,' said
Mr. Rattisbon, who had suddenly become
startlingly human. 'And don't let poor Miss Ruth
mislead you.'
'I'll try not to. Thank you so much, sir.'
'Um? Not at all, not at all. Quite the reverse.
Good morning. Good morning.'
Alleyn closed the door and stood in a sort of
trance for some minutes. Then he screwed his face
up sideways, as though in doubt, appeared to come
to a decision, consulted the telephone directory,
and went to call upon Mr. Harold Sage.
Mr. Sage had a chemist's shop in Knightsbridge.
Inspector Alleyn walked to Hyde Park Corner and
then took a bus. Mr. Sage, behind his counter,
served an elderly lady with dog powders designed,
no doubt, for a dyspeptic pug which sat and
groaned after the manner of his kind at her feet.
'These are our own, madam,' said Mr. Sage. 'I
think you will find they give the little fellow
immediate relief.'
'I hope so,' breathed the elderly lady. 'And you
really think there's no need to worry?'
The pug uttered a lamentable groan. Mr. Sage
made reassuring noises and tenderly watched them
out.
'Yes, sir?' he said briskly, turning to Alleyn.
'Mr. Harold Sage?' asked the inspector.
'Yes,' agreed Mr. Sage, a little surprised.
'I'm from Scotland Yard. Inspector Alleyn.'
Mr. Sage opened his eyes very wide, but said
nothing. He was naturally a pale young man.
'There are one or two questions I should like to
183
ask you, Mr. Sage,' continued Alleyn. 'Perhaps we
could go somewhere a little more private? I shan't
keep you more than a minute or two.'
'Mr. Brayght,' said Mr. Sage loudly.
A sleek youth darted out from behind a
pharmaceutical display.
'Serve, please,' said Mr. Sage. 'Will you just walk
this way?' he asked Alleyn and led him down a
flight of dark steps into a storeroom which smelt of
chemicals. He moved some packages off the only
two chairs and stacked them up, very methodically,
in a dark corner of the room. Then he turned to
Alleyn.
'Will you take a chair?' he asked.
'Thank you. I've called to check up one or two
points that have arisen in my department. I think
you may be able to help us.'
'In what connection?'
'Oh, minor details,' said Alleyn vaguely.
'Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid. I don't want to
take up too much of your time. It's in connection
with certain medicines at present on the market. I
believe you sell a number of remedies made up from
your own prescriptions—such as the pug's powders,
for instance?' He smiled genially.
'Oh—quayte,' said Mr. Sage.
'You do? Right. Now with reference to a certain
prescription which you have made up for a Miss
Ruth O'Callaghan.'
'Pardon?'
'With reference to a certain prescription you
made up for a Miss Ruth O'Callaghan.'
'I know the lady you mean. She has been a
customer for quite a while.'
'Yes. This was one of your own prescriptions?'
184
'Speaking from memory, I think she has had
several of my little lines--from tayme to tayme.'
'Yes. Do you remember a drug you supplied three weeks ago?'
'I'm afraid I don't remember offhand--'
'This is the one that contained hyoscine,' said
AHeyn. In the long silence that followed Alleyn
heard the shop door buzzer go, heard footsteps and
voices above his head, heard the sound of the
Brompton Road train down beneath then and felt
its vibration. He watched Harold Sage. If there was
no hyoscine in any of the drugs, the chemist would
say so, would protest, would be bewildered. If there
was hyoscine, an innocuous amount, he might or
might not be flustered. If there was hyoscine, a fatal
amount--what would he say?
'Yes,' said Mr. Sage.
'What was the name of this medicine?'
'"Fulvitavolts."'
'Ah, yes. Do you know if she used it herself or
bought it for anyone else?'
'I reely can't say. For herself, I think.'
'She did not tell you if she wanted it for her
brother?'
'I reely don't remember, not for certain. I think
she said something about her brother.'
'May I see a packet of this medicine?'
Mr Sage turned to his shelves, ferreted for some
time and finally produced an oblong package.
Alleyn looked at the spirited picture of a nude
gentleman against an electric shock.
'Oh, this is not the one, Mr. Sage,' he said
brightly. 'I mean the stuff in the round box--so
big--that you supplied afterwards. This has
hyoscine in it as well, has it? What was the other?'
185
'It was simply a prescription. I--I made it up for
Miss O'Callaghan.'
'From a doctor's prescription, do you mean?'
'Yes.'
'Who was the doctor?'
'I reely forget. The prescription was returned
with the powder.'
'Have you kept a record?'
'No.'
'But surely you have a prescription-book or
whatever it is called?'
'I--yes--but--er--an oversight--it should have
been entered.'
'How much hyoscine was there in this
prescription?'
'May I ask,' said Mr. Sage, 'why you think it
contained hyoscine at all?'
'You have made that quite clear yourself. How
much?'
'I--think--about one two-hundreth--something
very small.'
'And in "Fulvitavolts"?'
'Less. One two-hundredand-fiftieth.'
'Do you know that Sir Derek O'Callaghan was
probably murdered?'
'My Gawd, yes.'
'Yes . . . With hyoscine.'
'My Gawd, yes.'
'Yes. So you see we want to be sure of our facts.'
'He 'ad no hoverdose of 'yoscine from 'ere,' said
Mr. Sage, incontinently casting his aitches all over
the place.
'So it seems. But, you see, if he had taken
hyoscine in the minutest quantity before the
operation we want to trace it as closely as possible.
186
If Miss O'Callaghan gave him "Fulvitavolts" and
this other medicine, that would account for some of
the hyoscine found at the post-mortem. Hyoscine
was also injected at the operation. That would
account for more.'
'You passed the remark that he was murdered,'
said Mr. Sage more collectedly.
'The coroner did,' corrected Alleyn. 'Still, we've
got to explore the possibility of accident. If you
could give me the name of the doctor who
prescribed the powder, it would be a great help.'
'I can't remember. I make up hundreds of
prescriptions every week.'
'Do you often forget to enter them?'
Mr. Sage was silent.
Alleyn took out a pencil and an envelope. On the
envelope he wrote three names.
'Was it any of those?' he asked.
'No.'
'Will you swear to that?'
'Yes. Yes, I would.'
'Look here, Mr. Sage, are you sure it wasn't your
own prescription that you gave Miss O'Callaghan?'
'"Fulvitavolts" is my own invention. I told you
that.'
'But the other?'
'No, I tell you—no.'
'Very well. Are you in sympathy with Comrade
Kakaroff over the death of Sir Derek O'Callaghan?'
Mr. Sage opened his mouth and shut it again. He
put his hands behind him and leant against a shelf.
'To what do you refer?' he said.
'You were at the meeting last night.'
'I don't hold with the remarks passed at the
meeting. I never 'ave. I've said so. I said so last
187
night.'
'Right. I don't think there's anything else.'
Alleyn put the packet of 'Fulvitavolts' in his
pocket.
'How much are these?'
'Three and nine.'
Alleyn produced two half-crowns and handed
them to Mr. Sage, who, without another word,
walked out of the room and upstairs to the shop.
Alleyn followed. Mr. Sage punched the cash
register and conjured up the change. The sleek
young man leant with an encouraging smile towards
an incoming customer.
'Thank you very much, sir,' said Mr. Sage,
handing Alleyn one and threepence.
'Thank you. Good morning.'
'Good morning, sir.'
Alleyn went to the nearest telephone-booth and
rang up the Yard.
'Anything come in for me?'
'Just a moment, sir ... Yes. Sir John Phillips is
here and wants to see you.'
'Oh. Is he in my room?'
'Yes.'
'Ask him to speak to me, will you?'
A pause.
'Hallo.'
'Hallo. Is that Sir John Phillips?'
'Yes. Inspector Alleyn—I want to see you. I want
to make a clean breast of it.'
'I'll be there in ten minutes,' said Alleyn.
188
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE 'CLEAN BREAST' OF
SIR JOHN PHILLIPS
Wednesday to Thursday.
Phillips stared at Chief Inspector Alleyn's locked
desk, at his chair, at the pattern of thick yellow
sunlight on the floor of his room. He looked again
at his watch. Ten minutes since Alleyn had rung
up. He said he would be there in ten minutes.
Phillips knew what he was going to say. There was
no need to go over that again. He went over it
again. A light footstep in the passage outside. The
door handle turned. Alleyn came in.
'Good morning, sir,' he said. 'I'm afraid I've kept
you waiting.' He hung up his hat, pulled off his
gloves and sat down at his desk. Phillips watched
him without speaking. Alleyn unlocked the desk
and then turned towards his visitor.
'What is it you want to tell me. Sir John?'
'I've come to make a statement. I'll write it down
afterwards if you like. Sign it. That's what you have
to do, isn't it?'
'Suppose I hear what it's all about first,'
suggested Alleyn.
'Ever since you went away yesterday I've been
thinking about this case. It seems to me I must be
suspected of the murder. It seems to me things look
very black for me. You know what I wrote to
O'Callaghan. You know I injected a lethal drug. I
showed you the tablets—analysis will prove they
only contain the normal dosage, but I can't prove
189
the one I gave was the same as the ones you
analysed. I can't prove I only gave one tablet. Can
I?'
'So far as I know, you can't.'
'I've thought of all that. I didn't kill O'Callaghan.
I threatened to kill him. You've seen Thorns.
Thorns is a decent little ass, but I can see he thinks
you suspect me. He's probably told you I used a lot
of water for the injection and then bit his head off
because he said so. So I did. He drove me nearly
crazy with his bloody facetiousness. Jane—Nurse
Harden—told me what you'd said to her. You know
a hell of a lot—I can see that. You possibly know
what I'm going to tell you. I want her to marry me.
She won't, because of the other business with
O'Callaghan. I think she believes I killed him. I
think she was afraid at the time. That's why she was
so upset, why she hesitated over the serum, why she
fainted. She was afraid I'd kill O'Callaghan. She
heard Thorns tell me about that play. D'you know
about the play?'
Thorns mentioned that you discussed it.'
'Silly ass. He's an intelligent surgeon, but in
other matters he's got as much savoir-faire as a
child. He'd swear his soul away I didn't do it and
then blurt out something like that. What I want to
make clear to you is this. Jane Harden's distress in
the theatre was on my account. She thinks I
murdered O'Callaghan. I know she does, because
she won't ask me. Don't for God's sake, put any
other interpretation on it. She's got a preposterous
idea that she's ruined my life. Her nerves are all to
blazes. She's anaemic and she's hysterical. If you
arrest me, she may come forward with some damn'
statement calculated to drag a red herring across my
190
trail. She's an idealist. It's a type I don't pretend to
understand. She did nothing to the syringe
containing the serum. When Thorns cursed her for
delaying, I turned and looked at her. She simply
stood there dazed and half fainting. She's as
innocent as—I was going to say as I am, but that
may not carry much weight. She's completely
innocent.'
He stopped abruptly. To Alleyn it had seemed a
most remarkable little scene. The change in
Phillips's manner alone was extraordinary. The
smooth, guarded courtesy which had characterised
it during their former interview had vanished
completely. He had spoken rapidly, as if urged by
some appalling necessity. He now sat glaring at
Alleyn with a hint of resigned ferociousness.
'Is that all you came to tell me, Sir John?' asked
Alleyn in his most non-committal voice.
'All? What do you mean?'
'Well, you see, you prepared me for a bombshell,
I wondered what on earth was coming. You talked
of making a clean breast of it, forgive me, you've
told me little that we did not already know.'
Phillips took his time over answering this. At last
he said:
'I suppose that's true. Look here, Alleyn. Can
you give me your assurance that you entertain no
suspicions as regards Jane Harden?'
'I'm afraid I can't. I shall consider everything you
have told me very carefully, but I cannot, at this
stage, make a definite announcement of that sort.
Miss Harden is in a very equivocal position. I hope
she may be cleared, but I cannot put her aside
simply because, to put it baldly, you tell me she is
innocent.'
191
Phillips was silent. After a moment he clasped his
well-shaped, well-kept hands together, and looking
at them attentively, began to speak again.
'There's something more. Has Thorns told you
that I opened a new tube of tablets for the hyoscine
injection?'
Alleyn did not move, but he seemed to come to
attention.
'Oh yes,' he said quietly.
'He has! Lord, what an ingenuous little creature
it is! Did you attach any significance to this second
tube?'
'I remembered it.'
'Then listen. During the week before the
operation I'd been pretty well at the end of my
tether. I suppose when a man of my age gets it, he
gets it badly—the psychologists say so—and—well,
I could think of nothing but the ghastly position we
were in—Jane and I. That Friday when I went to
see O'Callaghan I was nearly driven crazy by his
damned insufferable complacence. I could have
murdered him then. I wasn't sleeping. I tried
alcohol and I tried hypnotics. I was in a bad way,
Alleyn. Then on top of it he came in, a sick man,
and I had to operate. Thorns rubbed it in with his
damn-fool story of some play or other. I scarcely
knew what I did. I seemed to behave like an
automaton.' He stopped short and raised his eyes
from the contemplation of his hands. 'It's possible,'
he said, 'that I may have made a mistake over the
first tube. It may not have been empty.'
'Even if the tube had been full,' suggested
Alleyn, 'would that explain how the tablets got into
the measure-glass?'
'I ... what do you say?'
192
'You say that the first tube may not have been
empty, and you wish me to infer from this that you
are responsible for Sir Derek's death?'
'I ... I ... That is my suggestion,' stammered
Phillips.
'Deliberately responsible or accidentally?'
'I am not a murderer,' said Phillips angrily.
'Then how did the tablets get into the
measure-glass?'
Phillips was silent.
The inspector waited for a moment and then,
with an unusual inflexion in his deep voice, he said:
'So you don't understand the idealistic type?'
'What? No!'
'I don't believe you.'
Phillips stared at him, flushed painfully and then
shrugged his shoulders. 'Do you want a written
statement of all this?' he asked.
'I don't think so. Later, if it's necessary. You
have been very frank. I appreciate both the honesty
and the motive. Look here—-what can you tell me to
help yourself? It's an unusual question from a
police officer, but—there it is.'
'I don't know. I suppose the case against me,
apart from the suggestion I have just made, is that I
gave him an overdose ofhyoscine. It looks fishy, my
giving the injection at all, but it is my usual
practice, especially when Roberts is the anaesthetist,
as he dislikes the business. It looks still more
suspicious using a lot of water. That, again, is my
usual practice. I can prove it. I can prove that I
suggested another surgeon to Lady O'Callaghan and
that she urged me to operate. That's all. Except that
I don't think—No, that's all.'
'Have you any theories about other people?'
193
'Who did it, you mean? None. I imagine it was
political. How it was done, I've no idea. I can't
possibly suspect any of the people who worked with
me. It's unthinkable. Besides--why? You said
something about patent medicines. Is there
anything there?'
'We're on that tack now. I don't know if there's
anything in it. By the way, why does Dr. Roberts
object to giving injections?'
'A private reason. Nothing that can have any
bearing on the case.'
'Is it because he once gave an overdose?'
'If you knew that, why did you ask me? Testing
my veracity?'
'Put it like that. He was never alone with the
patient?'
'No. No, never.'
'Was any one of the nurses alone in the theatre
before the operation?'
'The nurses? I don't know. I wouldn't notice
what they did. They'd been preparing for some
time before we came on the scene.'
'We?'
'Thorns, Roberts and myself.'
'What about Mr. Thorns?'
'I can't remember. He may have dodged in to
have a look round.'
'Yes. I think I must have a reconstruction. Can
you spare the time to-day or tomorrow?'
'You mean you want to go through the whole
business in pantomime?'
'If I may. We can hardly do it actually, unless I
discover a P.C. suffering from an acute abscess of
the appendix.'
Phillips smiled sardonically.
194
'I might give him too much hyoscine if you did,5
he said. 'Do you want the whole pack of them?'
'If it's possible.'
'Unless there's an urgent case, nothing happens
in the afternoon. I hardly think there will be an
urgent case. Business,' added Phillips grimly, 'will
probably fall off. My last major operation is
enjoying somewhat unfavourable publicity.'
'Well—will you get the others for me for
to-morrow afternoon?'
'I'll try. It'll be very unpleasant. Nurse Banks has
left us, but she can be found.'
'She's at the Nurses' Club in Chelsea.'
Phillips glanced quickly at him.
'Is she?' he said shortly. 'Very well. Will five
o'clock suit you?'
'Admirably. Can we have it all as closely
reproduced as possible—same impedimenta and so
on?'
'I think it can be arranged. I'll let you know.'
Phillips went to the door.
'Good-bye for the moment,' he said. 'I've no idea
whether or not you think I killed O'Callaghan, but
you've been very polite.'
'We are taught manners at the same time as
point-duty,' said Alleyn. Phillips went away and
Alleyn sought out Detective-Inspector Fox, to
whom he related the events of the morning. When
he came to Phillips's visit Fox thrust out his under
lip and looked at his boots.
'That's your disillusioned expression, Fox,' said
Alleyn. 'What's it in aid of?'
'Well, sir, I must say I have my doubts about this
self-sacrifice business. It sounds very nice, but it
isn't the stuff people hand out when they think it
195
may be returned to them tied up with rope.'
'I can't believe you were no good at composition.
Do you mean you mistrust Phillips's motive in
coming here, or Nurse Harden's hypothetical
attempt to decoy my attention?'
'Both, but more particularly number one. To my
way of thinking, we've got a better case against Sir
John Phillips than any of the others. I believe
you're right about the political side—it's not worth
a great deal. Now Sir John knows how black it
looks against him. What's he do? He comes here,
says he wants to make a clean breast of it, and tells
you nothing you don't know already. When you
point this out to him he says he may have made a
slip over the two tubes. Do you believe that, chief?'
'No—to do the job he'd have had to dissolve the
contents of a full tube. However dopey he felt he
couldn't do that by mistake.'
'Just so. And he knows you'll think of that. You
ask me, sir,' said Fox oratorically: '"What's the
man's motive?"'
'What's the man's motive?' repeated Alleyn
obediently.
'Spoof's his motive. He knows it's going to be a
tricky business bringing it home to him and he
wants to create a good impression. The young lady
may or may not have been in collusion with him.
She may or may not come forward with the same
kind of tale. "Oh, please don't arrest him; arrest
me. I never did it, but spare the boy-friend,"' said
Fox in a very singular falsetto and with dreadful
scorn.
Alleyn's mouth twitched. Rather hurriedly he lit
a cigarette.
'You seem very determined all of a sudden,' he
196
observed mildly. This morning you seduced me
with tales of Sage, Banks, and Roberts.'
'So I did, sir. It was an avenue that had to be
explored. Boys is exploring, and as far as he's got
it's a washout.'
'Alack, what news are these! Discover them.'
'Boys got hold of Robinson, and Robinson says
it's all my eye. He says he's dead certain the Bolshie
push hasn't an idea who killed O'Callaghan. He
says if they'd had anything to do with it he'd have
heard something. It was Kakaroff who told him
about it and Kakaroff was knocked sideways at the
news. Robinson says if there had been any
organisation from that quarter they'd have kept
quiet and we'd have had no rejoicing. They're as
pleased as punch and as innocent as angels.'
'Charming! All clapping their hands in childish
glee. How about Dr. Roberts?'
'I asked him about the doctor. It seems they
don't know anything much about him and look
upon him as a bit of an outsider. They've even
suspected him of being what they call "unsound".
Robinson wondered if he was one of our men. You
recollect Marcus Barker sent out a lot of pamphlets
on the Sterilisation Bill. They took it up for a time.
Well, the doctor is interested in the Bill.'
'Yes, of course,' agreed Alleyn thoughtfully. 'It's
in his territory.'
'From the look of some of the sons of the Soviet,'
said Fox, 'I'd say they'd be the first to suffer. The
doctor saw one of these pamphlets and went to a
meeting. He joined the Lenin Hall lot because he
thought they'd push it. Robinson says he's always
nagging at them to take it up again.'
'So that's that. It sounds reasonable enough. Fox,
197
and certainly consistent with Roberts's character.
With his views on eugenics he'd be sure to support
sterilisation. You don't need to be a Bolshie to see
the sense of it, either. It looks as though Roberts
had merely been thrown in to make it more
difficult.'
Fox looked profound.
'What about Miss Banks and little Harold?' asked
Alleyn.
'Nothing much. The Banks party has been
chucking her weight about ever since the operation,
but she doesn't say anything useful. You might call
it reflected glory.'
'How like Banks. And Sage?'
'Robinson hasn't heard anything. Sage is not a
prominent member.'
'He was lying about the second dose Miss
O'Callaghan gave O'Callaghan. He admitted he had
provided it, that it was from a doctor's prescription,
and that he had not noted it in his book. All my
eye. We can sift that out easily enough by finding
out her doctor, but of course Sage may simply be
scared and as innocent as a babe. Well, there we
are. Back again face to face with the clean breast of
Sir John Phillips.'
'Not so clean, if you ask me.'
'I wonder. I'm doing a reconstruction tomorrow
afternoon Phillips is arranging for me. Would you
say he was a great loss to the stage?'
'How do you mean, chief?'
'If he's our man, he's one of the best actors I've
ever met. You come along to-morrow to the
hospital, Fox, and see what you shall see. Five
o'clock. And now I'm going to lunch. I want to see
Lady O'Callaghan before the show, and Roberts
198
too, if possible. I may as well get his version of the
Lenin Hall lot. Au revoir, Fox.'
'Do you mind repeating that, sir?'
^Au revoir.'
'am revoir, monsieur,' said Fox carefully.
'I'm coming to hear those records of yours one of
these nights, if I may.'
Fox became plum-coloured with suppressed
pleasure.
'I'd take it very kindly,' he said stiffly and went
out.
Alleyn rang up the house in Catherine Street and
learnt that Lady O'Callaghan would be pleased to
receive him at ten to three the following afternoon.
He spent half an hour on his file of the case. The
analyst's report on Phillips's tablets and the
hyoscine solution had come in. Both contained the
usual dosage. He sent off the 'Fulvitavolts' and the
scrap of paper that had enclosed Ruth
O'Callaghan's second remedy. It was possible, but
extremely unlikely, that there might be a trace of
the drug spilt on the wrapper. At one o'clock he
went home and lunched. At two o'clock he rang up
the Yard and found there was a message from Sir
John Phillips to the effect that the reconstruction
could be held the following afternoon at the time
suggested. He asked them to tell Fox and then rang
Phillips up and thanked him.
Alleyn spent the rest of the day adding to the file
on the case and in writing a sort of resume for his
own instruction. He sat over it until ten o'clock and
then deliberately put it aside, read the second act of
Hamlet, and wondered, not for the first time, what
sort of a hash the Prince of Denmark would have
made of a job at the Yard. Then, being very weary,
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he went to bed.
The next morning he reviewed his notes,
particularly that part of them which referred to
hyoscine.
'Possible sources of hyoscine,' he had written:
"I. The bottle of stock solution.
'Probably Banks, Marigold, Harden, Thorns, Phillips, all had opportunity to get at this. All in
theatre before operation. Each could have filled
anti-gas syringe with hyoscine. If this was done,
someone had since filled up bottle with 10 c.c.'s of
the correct solution. No one could have done this
during the operation. Could it have been done
later? No good looking for prints.
'2. The tablets.
'Phillips could have given an overdose when he
prepared the syringe. May have to trace his
purchases of h.
'3. The patent medicines.
'(a) ^Fulvitavolts." Negligible quantity unless
Sage had doctored packet supplied to Ruth. Check
up.
'(b) The second p.m. (more p.m.'s!) supplied to
Ruth. May have been lethal dose concocted by
Sage, hoping to do in O'Callaghan, marry Ruth and
the money, and strike a blow for Lenin, Love and
Liberty.'
After contemplating these remarks with some
disgust Alleyn went to the hospital, made further
arrangements for the reconstruction at five and after
a good deal of trouble succeeded in getting no
farther with the matter of the stock solution. He
then visited the firm that supplied Sir John Phillips
with drugs and learnt nothing that was of the
remotest help. He then lunched and went to call on
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Lady O'Callaghan. Nash received him with that
particular nuance of condescension that hitherto he
had reserved for politicians. He was shown into the
drawing room, an apartment of great elegance and
no character. Above the mantelpiece hung a portrait
in pastel of Cicely O'Callaghan. The artist had dealt
competently with the shining texture of the dress
and hair, and had made a conscientious map of the
face. Alleyn felt he would get about as much change
from the original as he would from the picture. She
came in, gave him a colourless greeting, and asked
him to sit down.
'I'm so sorry to worry you again,' Alleyn began.
'It's a small matter, one of those loose ends that
probably mean nothing, but have to be tidied up.'
'Yes. I shall be pleased to give you any help. I
hope everything is quite satisfactory?' she said. She
might have been talking about a new hot-water
system.
'I hope it will be,' rejoined Alleyn. 'At the
moment we are investigating any possible sources of
hyoscine. Lady O'Callaghan, can you tell me if Sir
Derek had taken any drugs of any sort at all before
the operation?' As she did not answer immediately,
he added quickly: 'You see, if he had taken any
medicine containing hyoscine, it would be necesary
to try and arrive at the amount in order to allow for
it.'
'Yes,' she said, 'I see.'
'Had he, do you know, taken any medicine?
Perhaps when the pain was very bad?'
'My husband disliked drugs of all kinds.'
'Then Miss Ruth O'Callaghan's suggestion about
a remedy she was interested in would not appeal to
him?'
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'No. He thought it rather a foolish suggestion.'
'I'm sorry to hammer away at it like this, but do
you think there'a a remote possibility that he did
take a dose? I believe Miss O'Callaghan did actually
leave some medicine here—something called
"Fulvitavolts," I think she said it was?'
'Yes. She left a packet here.'
'Was it lying about where he might see it?'
'I'm afraid I don't remember. The servants,
perhaps—' Her voice trailed away. 'If it's at all
important—' she said vaguely.
'It is rather.'
'I am afraid I don't quite understand why.
Obviously my husband was killed at the hospital.'
'That,' said Alleyn, 'is one of the theories. The
"Fulvitavolts" are of some importance because they
contain a small amount of hyoscine. You will
understand that we must account for any
hyoscine—even the smallest amount—that was
given?'
'Yes,' said Lady O'Callaghan. She looked
serenely over his head for a few seconds and then
added: 'I'm afraid I cannot help you. I hope my
sister-in-law, who is already upset by what has
happened, will not be unnecessarily distressed by
suggestions that she was responsible in any way.'
'I hope not,' echoed Alleyn blandly. 'Probably, as
you say, he did not touch the "Fulvitavolts". When
did Miss O'Callaghan bring them?'
'I believe one night before the operation.'
'Was it the night Sir John Phillips called?'
'That was on the Friday.'
'Yes—was it then, do you remember?'
'I think perhaps it was.'
'Can you tell me exactly what happened?'
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'About Sir John Phillips?'
'No, about Miss O'Callaghan.'
She took a cigarette from a box by her chair.
Alleyn jumped up and lit it for her. It rather
surprised him to find that she smoked. It gave her
an uncanny resemblance to something human.
'Can you remember at all?' he said.
'My sister-in-law often came in after dinner. At
times my husband found these visits a little trying.
He liked to be quiet in the evenings. I believe on
that night he suggested that she should be told he
was out. However, she came in. We were in the
study.'
'You both saw her, then?'
'Yes.'
'What happened?'
'She urged him to try this medicine. He put her
off. I told her he expected Sir John Phillips and that
we ought to leave them alone. I remember she and I
met Sir John in the hall. I thought his manner very
odd, as I believe I told you.'
'So you went out, leaving the medicine in the
study?'
'I suppose so—yes.'
'Did you come across it again?'
'I don't think so.'
'May I speak to your butler—Nash, isn't it?'
'If you think it is any help.' She rang the bell.
Nash came in and waited.
'Mr. Alleyn wants to speak to you, Nash,' said
Lady O'Callaghan. Nash turned a respectful eye
towards him.
'I want you to think back to the Friday evening
before Sir Derek's operation,1 Alleyn began. 'Do
you remember that evening?'
203
'Yes, sir.'
'There were visitors?'
'Yes, sir. Miss O'Callaghan and Sir John
Phillips.'
'Exactly. Do you remember noticing a chemist's
parcel anywhere in the study?'
'Yes, sir. Miss O'Callaghan brought it with her, I
believe.'
'That's the one. What happened to it?'
'I had it removed to a cupboard in Sir Derek's
bathroom the following morning, sir.'
'I see. Had it been opened?'
'Oh, yes, sir.'
'Can you find it now, Nash, do you think?'
'I will ascertain, sir.'
'Do you mind. Lady O'Callaghan?' asked Alleyn
apologetically.
'Of course not.'
Nash inclined his head solemnly and left the
room. While he was away there was a rather
uncomfortable silence. Alleyn, looking very remote
and polite, made no effort to break it. Nash
returned after a few minutes with the now familiar
carton, on a silver salver. Alleyn took it and
thanked him. Nash departed.
'Here it is,' said the inspector cheerfully. 'Oh,
yes, Nash was quite right; it has been opened
and—let me see—one powder has been taken. That
doesn't amount to much.' He put the carton in his
pocket and turned to Lady O'Callaghan. 'It seems
ridiculous, I know, to worry about so small a
matter, but it's part of our job to pick up every
thread, however, unimportant. This, I suppose,
was the last effort Miss O'Callaghan made to
interest Sir Derek in any remedy?'
204
Again she waited for a few seconds.
'Yes,' she murmured at last. 'I believe so.'
'She did not mention another remedy to you after
he had been taken to the hospital?'
'Really, Inspector Alleyn, I cannot possibly
remember. My sister-in-law talks a great deal about
patent medicines. She tries to persuade everyone
she knows to take them. I believe my uncle, Mr.
James Rattisbon, has already explained this to you.
He tells me that he made it quite clear that we did
not wish the matter to be pursued.'
'I am afraid I cannot help pursuing it.'
'But Mr. Rattisbon definitely instructed you.'
'Please forgive me,' said Alleyn very quietly, 'if I
seem to be unduly officious.' He paused. She
looked at him with a kind of cold huffiness. After a
moment he went on. 'I wonder if you have ever
seen or read a play called Justice, by Galsworthy? It
is no doubt very dated, but there is an idea in it that
I think explains far better than I can the position of
people who become involved, whether voluntarily
or involuntarily, with the law. Galsworthy made
one of his characters—a lawyer, I think—say that
once you have set in motion the chariot wheels of
Justice, you can do nothing at all to arrest or deflect
their progress. Lady O'Callaghan, that is the exact
truth. You, very properly, decided to place this
tragic case in the hands of the police. In doing so
you switched on a piece of complicated and
automatic machinery which, once started, you
cannot switch off. As the police officer in charge of
this case I am simply a wheel in the machine. I
must complete my revolutions. Please do not think
I am impertinent if I say that neither you nor any
other lay person, however much involved, has the
205
power to stop the machine of justice or indeed to
influence it in any way whatever.' He stopped
abruptly. 'I am afraid you will think me
impertinent—I have no business to talk like this. If
you will excuse me—'
He bowed and turned away.
'Yes,' said Lady O'Callaghan, 'I quite
understand. Good afternoon.'
'There's one other thing,' said Alleyn. 'I had
nearly forgotten it. It's something that you can do,
if you will, to help us as regards the hospital side of
the problem.'
She listened, apparently without any particular
surprise or agitation, to his request, and agreed at
once to do as he suggested.
'Thank you very much indeed. Lady
O'Callaghan. You understand that we should like
Miss O'Callaghan to be with you?'
'Yes,' she said after a long pause.
'Shall I see her, or—perhaps you would rather
ask her yourself?'
'Perhaps that would be better. I would much
prefer her to be spared this unnecessary ordeal.'
'I assure you,' said Alleyn dryly, 'that it may save
her a more unpleasant one.'
'I'm afraid I do not understand you. However, I
shall ask her.'
In the hall he walked straight into Miss Ruth
O'Callaghan. When she saw him she uttered a noise
that was something between a whoop of alarm and a
cry of supplication, and bolted incontinently into
the drawing-room. Nash, who had evidently just
admitted her, looked scandalised.
'Is Mr. Jameson in, Nash?' asked Alleyn.
'Mr. Jameson has left us, sir.'
206
'Really?'
'Yes, sir. His duties, as you might say, have
drawn to a close.'
'Yes,' said Alleyn, unconciously echoing Lady
O'Callaghan. 'I quite understand. Good afternoon.'
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RECONSTRUCTION BEGUN
Thursday, the eighteenth. Afternoon.
Alleyn found he still had over an hour to wait
before the reconstruction. He had tea and then rang
up Dr. Roberts, found he was at home, and made
his way once more to the little house in Wigmore
Street. He wanted, if possible, to surprise Roberts
with an unexpected reference to the Lenin Hall
meeting. The diminutive man-servant admitted him
and showed him into the pleasant sitting-room,
where he found Roberts awaiting him.
'I hope I'm not a great nuisance,' said Alleyn.
'You did ask me to come back some time, you
know.'
'Certainly,' said Roberts, shaking hands. 'I am
delighted to see you. Have you read my book?' He
swept a sheaf of papers off a chair and pulled it
forward. Alleyn sat down.
'I've dipped into it—no time really to tackle it
yet, but I'm enormously interested. At Lord knows
what hour this morning I read the chapter in which
you refer to the Sterilisation Bill. You put the case
for sterilisation better than any other sponsor I have
heard.'
207
'You think so?' said Roberts acidly. Then you
will be surprised to hear that although I have urged
that matter with all the force and determination I
could command, I have made not one inch of
headway—not an inch! I am forced to the
conclusion that most of the people who attempt to
administer the government of this country are
themselves certifiable.' He gave a short falsetto
laugh and glared indignantly at Alleyn, who
contented himself with making an incredulous and
sympathetic noise.
'I have done everything—everything,' continued
Roberts. 'I joined a group of people professing
enlightened views on the matter. They assured me
they would stick at nothing to force this Bill
through Parliament. They professed the greatest
enthusiasm. Have they done anything?' He paused
oratorically and then in a voice of indescribable
disgust he said: 'They merely asked me to wait in
patience till the Dawn of the Proletariat Day in
Britain.'
Chief Inspector Alleyn felt himself to be in the
foolish position of one who sets a match to the dead
stick of a rocket. Dr. Roberts had most effectively
stolen his fireworks. He had a private laugh at
himself. Roberts continued angrily:
'They call themselves Communists. They have no
interest in the welfare of the community—none.
Last night I attended one of their meetings, and I
was disgusted. All they did was to rejoice for no
constructive or intelligent reason over the death of
the late Home Secretary.'
He stopped abruptly, glanced at Alleyn, and then
with that curious return to nervousness which the
inspector had noticed before he said: 'But, of
208
course, I had forgotten. That is very much your
business. Thorns rang me up just now to ask me if I
could attend at the hospital this afternoon.'
'Thorns rang you up?'
'Yes. Sir John had asked him to, I believe. I
don't know why,' said Dr. Roberts, suddenly
looking surprised and rather bewildered, 'but I
sometimes find Thoms's manner rather
aggravating.'
'Do you?' murmured Alleyn, smiling. 'He is
rather facetious.'
'Facetious! Exactly. And this afternoon I found
his facetiousness in bad taste.'
'What did he say?'
'He said something to the effect that if I wished
to make my get-away he would be pleased to lend
me a pair of ginger-coloured whiskers and a false
nose. I thought it in bad taste.'
'Certainly,' said Alleyn, hurriedly blowing his
own nose.
'Of course,' continued Dr. Roberts, 'Mr. Thorns
knows himself to be in an impregnable position,
since he could not have given any injection without
being observed, and had no hand in preparing the
injection which he did give. I felt inclined to point
out to him that I myself am somewhat similarly
situated, but do not feel, on that account, free to
indulge in buffoonery.'
'I suppose Mr. Thorns was in the anteroom all
the time until you went into the theatre?'
'I've no idea,' said Roberts stiffly. 'I myself
merely went to the anteroom with Sir John, said
what was necessary, and joined my patient in the
anaesthetic-room.'
'Ah, well—we shall get a better idea of all your
209
movements from the reconstruction.5
'I suppose so,' agreed Roberts, looking
perturbed. 'It will be a distressing experience for all
of us. Except, no doubt, Mr. Thorns.'
He waited a moment and then said nervously:
'Perhaps this is a question that I should not ask,
Inspector Alleyn, but I cannot help wondering if
the police have a definite theory as regards this
crime?'
Alleyn was used to this question.
'We've got several theories, Dr. Roberts, and all
of them more or less fit. That's the devil of it.'
'Have you explored the possibility of suicide?'
asked Roberts wistfully.
'I have considered it.'
'Remember his heredity.'
'I have remembered it. After he had the attack in
the House his physical condition would have
rendered suicide impossible, and he could hardly
have taken hyoscine while making his speech.'
'Again remember his heredity. He might have
carried hyoscine tablets with him for some time and
under the emotional stimulus of the occasion
suffered a sudden ungovernable impulse. In the
study of suicidal psychology one comes across many
such cases. Did his hand go to his mouth while he
was speaking? I see you look incredulous, Inspector
Alleyn. Perhaps you even think it suspicious that I
should urge the point. I—I—have a reason for
hoping you find that O'Callaghan killed himself,
but it does not spring from a sense of guilt.'
A strangely exalted look came into the little
doctor's eyes as he spoke. Alleyn regarded him
intently.
'Dr. Roberts,' he said at last, 'why not tell me
210
what is in your mind?'
'No,' said Roberts emphatically, 'no—not
unless—unless the worst happens.'
'Well,' said Alleyn, 'as you know, I can't force
you to give me your theory, but it's a dangerous
business, withholding information in a capital
charge.'
'It may not be a capital charge,' cried Roberts in
a hurry.
'Even suppose your suicide theory is possible, it
seems to me that a man of Sir Derek's stamp would
not have done it in such a way as to cast suspicion
upon other people.'
'No,' agreed Roberts. 'No. That is undoubtedly a
strong argument—and yet inherited suicidal mania
sometimes manifests itself very abruptly and
strangely. I have known instances—'
He went to his bookcase and took down several
volumes, from which he read in a rapid, dry and
didactic manner, rather as though Alleyn was a
collection of students. This went on for some time.
The servant brought in tea, and with an air of
patient benevolence, poured it out himself. He
placed Roberts's cup on a table under his nose,
waited until the doctor closed the book with which
he was at the moment engaged, took it firmly from
him and directed his attention to the tea. He then
moved the table between the two men and left the
room.
'Thank you,' said Roberts vaguely some time
after he had gone.
Roberts, still delivering himself of his learning,
completely forgot to drink his tea or to offer some
to Alleyn, but occasionally stretched out a hand
towards the toast. The time passed rapidly. Alleyn
211
looked at his watch.
'Good Lord!' he exclaimed, 'It's half-past four.
We'll have to collect ourselves, I'm afraid.'
'Teh!' said Roberts crossly.
'I'll call a taxi.'
'No no. I'll drive you there, Inspector. Wait a
moment.' He darted out into the hall and gave
flurried orders to the little servant who silently
insinuated him into his coat and gave him his hat.
Roberts shot back into the sitting room and fetched
his stethoscope.
'What about your anaesthetising apparatus?'
ventured Alleyn.
'Eh?' asked Roberts squinting round at him.
'Your anaesthetising apparatus.'
'D'you want that?'
'Please—if it's not a great bore. Didn't Sir John
tell you?'
'I'll get it,' said Roberts. He darted off across the
little hall.
'Can I assist you, sir?' asked the servant.
'No, no. Bring out the car.'
He reappeared presently, wheeling the cruet-like
apparatus with its enormous cylinders.
'You can't carry that down the steps by yourself,'
said Alleyn. 'Let me help.'
'Thank you, thank you,' said Roberts. He bent
down and examined the nuts that fastened the
frame at the bottom. 'Wouldn't do for these nuts to
come loose,' he said. 'You take the top, will you?
Gently. Ease it down the steps.'
With a good deal of bother they got the thing into
Roberts's car and drove off to Brook Street, the
little doctor talking most of the time.
As they drew near the hospital, however, he grew
212
quieter, seemed to get nervous, and kept catching
Alleyn's eye and hurriedly looking away again.
After this had happened some three or four times
Roberts laughed uncomfortably.
'I—I'm not looking forward to this experiment,'
he said. 'One gets moderately case-hardened in our
profession, I suppose, but there's something about
this affair'—he blinked hard twice—'something
profoundly disquieting. Perhaps it is the element of
uncertainty.'
'But you have got a theory. Dr. Roberts?'
'I? No. I did hope it might be suicide. No—I've
no specific theory.'
'Oh, well. If you won't tell me, you won't,'
rejoined Alleyn.
Roberts looked at him in alarm, but said no
more.
At Brook Street they found Fox placidly
contemplating the marble woman in the
waiting-room. He was accompanied by Inspector
Boys, a large red-faced officer with a fruity voice
and hands like hams. Boys kept a benevolent but
shrewd eye on the activities of communistic
societies, on near-treasonable propagandists, and on
Soviet-minded booksellers. He was in the habit of
alluding to such persons who came into these
categories as though they were tiresome but
harmless children.
'Hallo,' said Alleyn. 'Where are the star turns?'
'The nurses are getting the operating theatre
ready,' Fox told him. 'Sir John Phillips asked me to
let him know when we are ready. The other ladies
are upstairs.'
'Right. Mr. Thorns here?'
'Is that the funny gentleman, sir?' asked Boys.
213
'It is.'
'He's here.'
'Then in that case we're complete. Dr. Roberts
has gone up to the theatre. Let us follow him. Fox, let Sir John know, will you?'
Fox went away and Alleyn and Boys took the lift
up to the theatre landing, where they found the rest
of the dramatis personae awaiting them. Mr. Thorns
broke off in the middle of some anecdote with
which he was apparently regaling the company.
'Hallo, 'allo, 'allo!' he shouted. 'Here's the Big
Noise itself. Now we shan't be long.'
'Good evening, Mr. Thorns,' said Alleyn. 'Good
evening, Matron. I hope I haven't kept you all
waiting.'
'Not at all,' said Sister Marigold.
Fox appeared with Sir John Phillips. Alleyn
spoke a word to him and then turned and surveyed
the group. They eyed him uneasily and perhaps
inimically. It was a little as though they drew
together, moved by a common impulse of
self-preservation. He thought they looked rather
like sheep, bunched together, their heads turned
watchfully towards their protective enemy, the
sheepdog.
'I'd better give a warning bark or two,' thought
Alleyn and addressed them collectively.
'I'm quite sure,' he began, 'that you all realise
why we have asked you to meet us here. It is, of
course, in order to enlist your help. We are faced
with a difficult problem in this case and feel that a
reconstruction of the operation may go far towards
clearing any suspicion of guilt from innocent
individuals. As you know. Sir Derek O'Callaghan
died from hyoscine poisoning. He was a man with
214
many political enemies, and from the outset the
affair has been a complicated and bewildering
problem. The fact that he, in the course of the
operation, was given a legitimate injection of
hyoscine has added to the complications. I am sure
you are all as anxious as we are to clear up this
aspect of the case. I ask you to look upon the
reconstruction as an opportunity to free yourselves
of any imputation of guilt. As a medium in
detection the reconstruction has much to commend
it. The chief argument against it is that sometimes
innocent persons are moved, through nervousness
or other motives, to defeat the whole object of the
thing by changing the original circumstances.
Under the shadow of tragedy it is not unusual for
innocent individuals to imagine that the police
suspect them. I am sure that you are not likely to do
anything so foolish as this. I am sure you realise
that this is an opportunity, not a trap. Let me beg
you to repeat as closely as you can your actions
during the operation on the deceased. If you do
this, there is not the faintest cause for alarm.' He
looked at his watch.
'Now then,' he said. 'You are to imagine that
time has gone back seven days. It is twenty-five
minutes to four on the afternoon of Thursday
February 4th. Sir Derek O'Callaghan is upstairs in
his room, awaiting his operation. Matron, when you
get word will you and the nurses who are to help
you begin your preparations in the anteroom and
the theatre? Any dialogue you remember you will
please repeat. Inspector Fox will be in the anteroom
and Inspector Boys in the theatre. Please treat them
as pieces of sterile machinery.' He allowed himself a
faint smile and turned to Phillips and Nurse
215
Graham, the special.
'We'll go upstairs.5
They went up to the next landing. Outside the
door of the first room Alleyn turned to the others.
Phillips was very white, but quite composed. Little
Nurse Graham looked unhappy, but sensibly
determined.
'Now, Nurse, we'll go in. If you'll just wait a moment, sir. Actually you are just coming upstairs.'
'I see,' said Phillips.
Alleyn swung open the door and followed Nurse
Graham into the bedroom.
Cicely and Ruth O'Callaghan were at the
window. He got the impression that Ruth had been
sitting there, perhaps crouched in that armchair,
and had sprung up when the door opened. Cicely
O'Callaghan stood erect, very grande dame and
statuesque, a gloved hand resting lightly on the
windowsill.
'Good evening. Inspector Alleyn,' she said. Ruth
gave a loud sob and gasped 'Good evening.'
Alleyn felt that his only hope of avoiding a scene
was to hurry things along at a business-like canter.
'It was extremely kind of you both to come,' he
said briskly. 'I shan't keep you more than a few
minutes. As you know, we are to go over the events
of the operation, and I thought it better to start
from here.' He glanced cheerfully at Ruth.
'Certainly,' said Lady O'Callaghan.
'Now.' Alleyn turned towards the bed,
immaculate with its smooth linen and tower of
rounded pillows. 'Now, Nurse Graham has brought
you here. When you come in you sit--where? On
each side of the bed? Is that how it was, Nurse?'
'Yes. Lady O'Callaghan was here,' answered the
216
special quietly.
Then if you wouldn't mind taking up those
positions—'
With an air of stooping to the level of a rather
vulgar farce. Lady O'Callaghan sat in the chair on
the right-hand side of the bed.
'Come along, Ruth,' she said tranquilly.
'But why? Inspector Alleyn—it's so dreadful—so
horribly cold-blooded—unnecessary. I don't
understand . . . You were so kind . . .' She boggled
over her words, turned her head towards him with a
gesture of complete wretchedness. Alleyn walked
quickly towards her.
'I'm so sorry,' he said. 'I know it's beastly. Take
courage—your brother would understand, I think.'
She gazed miserably at him. With her large
unlovely face blotched with tears, and her pale eyes
staring doubtfully up into his, she seemed
dreadfully vulnerable. Something in his manner
may have given her a little help. Like an obedient
and unwieldy animal she got up and blundered
across to the other chair.
'What now, Nurse?'
'The patient half regained consciousness soon
after we came in. I heard Sir John and went out.'
'Will you do that, please?'
She went away quietly.
'And now,' Alleyn went on, 'what happened?
Did the patient speak?'
'I believe he said the pain was severe. Nothing
else,' murmured Lady O'Callaghan.
'What did you say to each other?'
'I—I told him it was his appendix and that the
doctor would soon be here—something of that sort.
He seemed to lose consciousness again, I thought.'
217
'Did you speak to each other?'
'I don't remember.'
Alleyn made a shot in the dark.
'Did you discuss his pain?'
'I do not think so,' she said composedly.
Ruth turned her head and gazed with a sort of
damp surprise at her sister-in-law.
'You remember doing so, do you, Miss
O'Callaghan?' said Alleyn.
'I think—yes—oh. Cicely!'
'What is it?' asked Alleyn gently.
'I said something—about—how I wished—oh,
Cicely!'
The door opened and Nurse Graham came in
again.
'I think I came back about now to say Sir John
would like to see Lady O'Callaghan,' she said with a
troubled glance at Ruth.
'Very well. Will you go out with her, please,
Lady O'Callaghan?' They went out and Ruth and
the inspector looked at each other across the smug
little bed. Suddenly Ruth uttered a veritable howl
and flung herself face-down among the
applique-work on the counterpane.
'Listen,' said Alleyn, 'and tell me if I'm wrong.
Mr. Sage had given you a little box of powders that
he said would relieve the pain. Now the others have
left the room, you feel you must give your brother
one of these powders. There is the water and the
glass on the table by your side. You unwrap the
box, drop the paper on the floor, shake out one of
the powders and give it to him in a glass of water. It
seems to relieve the pain and when they return he's
easier? Am I right?'
'Oh,' wailed Ruth, raising her head. 'Oh, how
218
did you know? Cicely said I'd better not say. I told
her. Oh, what shall I do?'
'Have you kept the box with the other powders?'
'Yes. He—they told me not to, but—but I
thought if they were poison and I'd killed him—'
Her voice rose with a shrill note of horror. 'I
thought I'd take them—myself. Kill myself. Lots of
us do, you know. Great-Uncle Eustace did, and
Cousin Olive Casebeck, and—'
'You're not going to do anything so cowardly.
What would he have thought of you? You're going
to do the brave thing and help us to find the truth.
Come along,' said Alleyn, for all the world as if she
were a child, 'come along. Where are these terrible
powders? In that bag still, I don't mind betting.'
'Yes,' whispered Ruth, opening her eyes very
wide. 'They are in that bag. You're quite right.
You're quite right. You're very clever to think of
that. I thought if you arrested me—' She made a
very strange gesture with her clenched hand,
jerking it up across her mouth.
'Give them to me,' said Alleyn.
She began obediently to scuffle in the vast bag.
All sorts of things came shooting out. He was in a
fever of impatience lest the others should return,
and moved to the door. At last the round cardboard
box appeared. He gathered up the rest of Ruth's
junk and bundled it back as the door opened. Nurse
Graham stood aside to let Phillips in.
'I think it was about now,' she said.
'Right,' said Alleyn. 'Now, Sir John, I believe
Miss O'Callaghan left the room while you examined
the patient, diagnosed the trouble, and decided on
an immediate operation.'
'Yes. When Lady O'Callaghan returned I
219
suggested that Somerset Black should operate.'
'Quite so. Lady O'Callaghan urged you to do it
yourself. Everyone agree to that?'
'Yes,' said Nurse Graham quietly. Ruth merely
sat and gaped. Lady O'Callaghan turned with an
unusual abruptness and walked to the window.
'Then you, Sir John, went away to prepare for
the operation?'
'Yes.'
'That finishes this part of the business, then.'
'No!'
Cicely O'Callaghan's voice rang out so fiercely
that they all jumped. She had faced round and
stood with her eyes fixed on Phillips. She looked
magnificent. It was as if a colourless facade had
been floodlit.
'No! Why do you deliberately ignore what we all
heard, what I myself have told you? Ask Sir John
what my husband said when he saw who it was we
had brought here to help him.' She turned
deliberately to Phillips. 'What did Derek say to
you--what did he say?'
Phillips looked at her as though he saw her for
the first time. His face expressed nothing but a
profound astonishment. When he answered it was a
kind of reasonableness and with no suggestion of
heroics.
'He was frightened,' he said.
'He cried out to us: "Don't let--" You
remember'--she appealed with assurance to Nurse
Graham--'you remember what he looked like--you
understood what he meant?'
'I said then,' said Nurse Graham with spirit, 'and
I say now, that Sir Derek did not know what he was
saying.'
220
'Well,' remarked Alleyn mildly, 'as we all know
about it I think you and I, Sir John, will go
downstairs.' He turned to the O'Callaghans.
'Actually, I believe you both stayed on in the
hospital during the operation, but, of course, there
is no need for you to do so now. Lady O'Callaghan,
shall I ask for your car to take you back to
Catherine Street? If you will forgive me, I must go
to the theatre.'
Suddenly he realised that she was in such a fury
that she could not answer. He took Phillips by the
elbow and propelled him through the door.
'We will leave Nurse Graham,' he said, 'alone
with her patient.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
RECONSTRUCTION CONCLUDED
Thursday, the eighteenth. Late afternoon.
The 'theatre party' appeared to have entered
heartily into the spirit of the thing. A most
convincing activity was displayed in the anteroom,
where Sister Marigold, Jane Harden and a very
glum-faced Banks washed and clattered while
Inspector Fox, his massive form wedged into a
corner, looked on with an expressionless
countenance and a general air of benignity. A faint
bass drone from beyond the swing-door informed
Alleyn of the presence in the theatre of Inspector
Boys.
'All ready, Matron?' asked Alleyn.
'Quite ready. Inspector.'
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'Well, here we all are.' He stood aside and
Phillips, Thorns and Roberts walked in.
'Are you at about the same stage as you were
when the doctors came in?'
'At exactly the same stage.'
'Good. What happens now?' He turned to the
men. No one spoke for a moment. Roberts turned
deferentially towards Phillips, who had moved
across to Jane Harden. Jane and Phillips did not
look at each other. Phillips appeared not to have
heard Alleyn's question. Thorns cleared his throat
importantly.
'Well now, let's see. If I'm not speaking out of
my turn, I should say we got down to the job
straight away. Roberts said he'd go along to the
anaesthetic-room and Sir John, I believe, went into
the theatre? That correct, sir?'
'Did you go into the theatre immediately, Sir
John?' asked Alleyn.
'What? I? Yes, I believe so.'
'Before you washed?'
'Naturally.'
'Well, let's start, shall we? Dr. Roberts, did you
go alone to the anaesthetic-room?'
'No. Nurse—er—?' Roberts blinked at Banks.
'Nurse Banks went with me. I looked at the
anaesthetising apparatus and asked Nurse Banks to
let Sir Derek's nurse know when we were ready.'
'Will you go along, then? Fox, you take over with
Dr. Roberts. Now, please. Sir John.'
Phillips at once went through into the theatre,
followed by Alleyn. Boys broke off his subterranean
humming and at a word from Alleyn took his place
in the anteroom. Phillips, without speaking, crossed
to the side table, which was set out as before with
222
the three syringes in dishes of water. The surgeon
took his hypodermic case from his pocket, looked at
the first tube, appeared to find it empty, took out
the second, and having squirted a syringeful of
water into a measure-glass, dropped in a single
tablet.
'That is what—what I believe I did,' he said.
'And then? You returned to the anteroom? No.
What about Mr. Thorns?'
'Yes. Thorns should be here now.'
'Mr. Thorns, please!' shouted Alleyn.
The doors swung open and Thorns came in.
'Hallo, hallo. Want me?'
'I understood you watched Sir John take up the
hyoscine solution into the syringe.'
'Oh! Yes, b'lieve I did,' said Thorns, rather less
boisterously.
'You commented on the amount of water.'
'Yes, I know, but—look here, you don't want me
to go thinking—'
'I simply want a reconstruction without
comment, Mr. Thorns.'
'Oh, quite, quite.'
Phillips stood with the syringe in his hand. He
looked gravely and rather abstractedly at his
assistant. At a nod from Alleyn he filled the syringe.
'It is now that Thorns remarks on the quantity of
water,' he said quietly. 'I snub him and go back
into the anaesthetic-room, where I give the
injection. The patient is there with the special
nurse.'
He took up the syringe and walked away. Thorns
moved away with a grimace at Alleyn, who said
abruptly:
'Just a moment, Mr. Thorns. I think you stayed
223
behind in the theatre for a minute or two.'
'No, I didn't—beg your pardon. Inspector. I
thought I went out to the anteroom before Sir John
moved.'
'Sir John thought not, and the nurses had the
impression you came in a little later.'
'Maybe,' said Thorns. 'I really can't remember.'
'Have you no idea what you did during the two or
three minutes?'
'None.'
'Oh. In that case I'll leave you. Boys!'
Inspector Boys returned to the theatre and Alleyn
went out. In about a minute Thorns joined him.
Sir John appeared in the anteroom and washed
up, assisted by Jane Harden and the matron, who
afterwards helped the surgeons to dress up.
'I feel rather an ass,' said Thorns brightly.
Nobody answered him.
'It is now,' said Phillips in the same grave,
detached manner, 'that Mr. Thorns tells me about
the play at the Palladium.'
'All agreed?' Alleyn asked the others. The
women murmured an assent.
'Now what happens?'
'Pardon me, but I remember Mr. Thorns went
into the theatre and then called me in to him,'
murmured Sister Marigold.
'Thank you. Matron. Away you go, then,' Alleyn
waited until the doors had swung to and then
turned to where Phillips, now wearing his gown and
mask, stood silently beside Jane Harden.
'So you were left alone together at this juncture?'
he said, without stressing it.
'Yes,' said Phillips.
'Do you mind telling me what was said?'
224
'Oh, please,' whispered Jane. 'Please, please!' It
was the first time she had spoken.
'Can't you let her off this?' said Phillips. There
was a sort of urgency in his voice now.
'I'm sorry—I would if I could.'
'I'll tell him, Jane. We said it was a strange
situation. I again asked her to marry me. She said
no—that she felt she belonged to O'Callaghan.
Something to that effect. She tried to explain her
point of view.'
'You've left something out—you're not thinking
of yourself.' She stood in front of him, for all the
world as though she was prepared to keep Alleyn
off. 'He said then that he didn't want to operate and
that he'd give anything to be out of it. His very
words. He told me he'd tried to persuade—her—his
wife—to get another surgeon. He hated the idea of
operating. Does that look as though he meant any
harm? Does it? He never thinks of himself—he only
wants to help me, and I'm not worth it. I've told
him so a hundred times—'
'Jane, my dear, don't.'
There was a tap on the outer door and Roberts
looked in.
'I think it's time I came and washed up,' he said.
'Come in. Dr. Roberts.'
Roberts glanced at the others.
'Forgive me, Sir John,' he began with the
deference that he always used when he spoke to
Phillips, 'but as I remember it, Mr. Thorns came in
with me at this juncture.'
'You're quite right, Roberts,' agreed Phillips
courteously.
'Mr. Thorns, please,' called Alleyn again.
Thorns shot back into the room.
225
'Late again, am I?' he remarked. Truth of the
matter is I can't for the life of me remember all the
ins and outs of it. I suppose I wash up now? What?'
'If you please,' said Alleyn sedately.
At last they were ready and Roberts returned to
Inspector Fox and the anaesthetic-room. The
others, accompanied by Alleyn, went to the theatre.
The cluster of lights above the table had been
turned up and Alleyn again felt that sense of
expectancy in the theatre. Phillips went
immediately to the window end of the table and
waited with his gloved hands held out in front of
him. Thorns stood at the foot of the table. Sister
Marigold and Jane were farther away.
There was a slight vibratory, rattling noise. The
door into the anaesthetic-room opened and a trolley
appeared, propelled by Banks. Dr. Roberts and
Nurse Graham walked behind it. His hands were
stretched out over the head of the trolley. On it was
a sort of elongated bundle made of pillows and
blankets. He and Banks lifted this on the table and
Banks put a screen, about two feet high, across the
place that represented the patient's chest. The
others drew nearer. Banks pushed the trolley away.
Now that they had all closed round the table the
illusion was complete. The conical glare poured
itself down between the white figures, bathing their
masked faces and the fronts of their gowns in a
violence pf light, and leaving their backs in sharp
shadow, so that between shadow and light there was
a kind of shimmering border that ran round their
outlines. Boys and Fox had come in from their
posts and stood impassive in the doorways. Alleyn
walked round the theatre to a position about two
yards behind the head of the table.
226
Roberts wheeled forward the anaesthetising
apparatus. Suddenly, entirely without warning, one
of the white figures gave a sharp exclamation,
something between a cry and a protest.
'It's too horrible—really—I can't—!'
It was the matron, the impeccable Sister
Marigold. She had raised her hands in front of her
face as if shutting off some shocking spectacle. Now
she backed away from the table and collided with
the anaesthetising apparatus. She stumbled, kicked
it so that it moved, and half fell, clutching at it as
she did so.
There was a moment's silence and then a portly
little figure in white suddenly screamed out an oath.
'What the bloody hell are you doing? Do you
want to kill—'
'What's the matter?' said Alleyn sharply. His
voice had an incisive edge that made all the white
heads turn. 'What is it, Mr Thorns?'
Thorns was down on his knees, an absurd figure,
frantically reaching out to the apparatus. Roberts,
who had stooped down to the lower framework of
the cruet-like stand and had rapidly inspected it,
thrust the little fat man aside. He tested the nuts
that held the frame together. His hands shook a
little and his face, the only one unmasked, was very
pale.
'It's perfectly secure Thorns,' he said. 'None of
the nuts are loose. Matron, please stand away.'
'I didn't mean—I'm sorry,' began Sister
Marigold.
'Do you realise—' said Thorns in a voice that was
scarcely recognisable—'do you realise that if one of
those cylinders had fallen out and burst, we'd none
of us be alive. Do you know that?'
227
'Nonsense, Thorns,' said Roberts in an unsteady
voice. 'It's most unlikely that anything of the sort
could occur. It would take more than that to burst a
cylinder, I assure you.'
'I'm sure I'm very sorry, Mr. Thorns,' said
Matron sulkily. 'Accidents will happen.'
'Accidents mustn't happen,' barked Thorns. He
squatted down and tested the nuts.
'Please leave it alone, Mr. Thorns,' said Roberts
crisply. 'I assure you it's perfectly safe.'
Thorns did not answer. He got to his feet and
turned back to the table.
'And now what happens?' asked Alleyn. His deep
voice sounded like a tonic note. Phillips spoke
quietly.
'I made the incision and carried on with the
operation. I found peritonitis and a ruptured abcess
of the appendix. I proceeded in the usual way. At
this stage, I think, Dr. Roberts began to be uneasy
about the pulse and the general condition. Am I
right, Roberts?'
'Quite right, sir. I asked for an injection of
camphor.'
Without waiting to be told. Nurse Banks went to
the side table, took up the ampoule of camphor,
went through the pantomime of filling a syringe and
returned to the patient.
'I injected it,' she said concisely.
Through Alleyn's head ran the old jingle: 'A
made an apple pie, B bit it, C cut it—I injected it,'
he added mentally.
'And then?' he asked.
'After completing the operation I asked for the
anti-gas serum.'
'I got it,' said Jane bravely.
228
She walked to the table.
'I stood, hesitating. I felt faint. I—I couldn't
focus things properly.'
'Did anybody notice this?'
'I looked round and saw something was wrong,'
said Phillips. 'She simply stood there swaying a
little.'
'You notice this, Mr. Thorns?'
'Well, I'm afraid. Inspector, I rather disgraced
myself by kicking up a rumpus. What, nurse? Bit
hard on you, what? Didn't know how the land lay.
Too bad, wasn't it?'
'When you had finished. Nurse Harden brought
the large syringe?'
'Yes.'
Jane came back with the syringe on a tray.
'Thorns took it,' went the jingle in Alleyn's head.
'I injected it,' said Thorns.
'Mr. Thorns then asked about the condition,'
added Roberts. 'I said it was disquieting. I
remember Sir John remarked that although he
knew the patient personally he had had no idea he
was ill. Nurse Banks and I lifted the patient on to
the trolley and he was taken away.'
They did this with the dummy.
'Then I fainted,' said Jane.
'A dramatic finish—what?' shouted Thorns, who
seemed to have quite recovered his equilibrium.
'The end,' said Alleyn, 'came later. The patient
was then taken back to his room, where you
attended him. Dr. Roberts. Was anyone with you?'
'Nurse Graham Was there throughout. I left her
in the room when I returned here to report on the
general condition, which I considered markedly
worse.'
229
'And in the meantime Sir John and Mr. Thorns
washed up in the anteroom?'
'Yes,' said Phillips.
'What did you talk about?'
'I don't remember.'
'Oh yes, sir, you do, surely,' said Thorns. 'We
talked about Nurse Harden doing a faint, and I said
I could see the operation had upset you, and you—'
he grinned—'you first said it hadn't, you know, and
then said it had. Very natural, really,' he explained
to Alley n, who raised one eyebrow and turned to
the nurses.
'And you cleaned up the theatre, and Miss Banks
gave one of her well-known talks on the Dawn of
the Proletariat Day?'
'I did,' said Banks with a snap.
'Meanwhile Dr. Roberts came down and
reported, and you and Mr. Thorns, Sir John, went
up to the patient?'
'Yes. The matron, Sister Marigold, joined us. We
found the patient's condition markedly worse. As
you know, he died about half an hour later, without
regaining consciousness.'
'Thank you. That covers the ground. I am
extremely grateful to all of you for helping us with
this rather unpleasant business. I won't keep you
any longer.' He turned to Phillips. 'You would like
to get out of your uniforms, I'm sure.'
'If you're finished,' agreed Phillips. Fox opened
the swing-door and he went through, followed by
Thorns, Sister Marigold, Jane Harden, and Banks.
Dr. Roberts crossed to the anaesthetising apparatus.
'I'll get this out of the way,' he said.
'Oh—do you mind leaving it while you change?'
said Alleyn. 'I just want to make a plan of the floor.'
230
'Certainly,' said Roberts.
'Would you be very kind and see if you can beat
me up a sheet of paper and a pencil, Dr. Roberts?
Sorry to bother you, but I hardly like to send one of
my own people hunting for it.'
'Shall I ask?' suggested Roberts.
He put his head round the door into the
anteroom and spoke to someone on the other side.
'Inspector Alleyn would like—'
Fox walked heavily across from the other end of
the theatre.
'I can hear a telephone ringing its head off out
there, sir,' he said, looking fixedly at Alleyn.
'Really? I wonder if it's that call from the Yard?
Go and see, will you, Fox? Sister Marigold won't
mind, I'm sure.'
Fox went out.
'Inspector Alleyn,' ventured Roberts, 'I do hope
that the reconstruction has been satisfactory—' He
broke off. Phillips's resonant voice could be heard
in the anteroom. With a glance towards it Roberts
ended wistfully:—'from every point of view.'
Alleyn smiled at him, following his glance.
'From that point of view. Dr. Roberts, most
satisfactory.'
'I'm extremely glad.'
Jane Harden came in with a sheet of paper and
pencil which she gave Alleyn. She went out.
Roberts watched Alleyn lay the paper on the side
table and take out his steel tape measure. Fox
returned.
'Telephone for Dr. Roberts, I believe, sir,' he
announced.
'Oh—for you, is it?' said Alleyn.
Roberts went out through the anaesthetic room.
231
'Shut that door, quick,' said Alleyn urgently.
Evidently he had changed his mind about making
a plan. He darted like a cat across the room and
bent over the frame of the anaesthetic apparatus.
His fingers were busy with the nuts.
Boys stood in front of one door. Fox by the
other.
'Hell's teeth, it's stiff,' muttered Alleyn.
The double doors from the anteroom opened
suddenly, banging Inspector Boys in the broad of
his extensive back.
'Just a minute, sir, just a minute,' he rumbled.
Under his extended arm appeared the face of Mr.
Thorns. His eyes were fixed on Alleyn.
'What are you doing?' he said. 'What are you
doing?'
'Just a minute, if you please, sir,' repeated Boys,
and with an enormous but moderate paw he thrust
Thorns back and closed the doors.
'Look at this!' whispered Alleyn.
Fox and Boys, for a split second, glimpsed what
he held in his hand. Then he bent down again and
worked feverishly.
'What'll we do?' asked Fox quietly. 'Go right into
it—now?'
For an instant Alleyn hesitated. Then he said:
'No—not here. Wait! Work it this way.'
He had given his instructions when Roberts
returned from the telephone.
'Nobody there,' he told them. 'I rang up my
house, but there's no message. Whoever it was
must have been cut off.'
'Bore for you,' said Alleyn.
Sister Marigold came in, followed by Thorns.
Marigold saw the Yard men still in possession, and
232
hesitated.
'Hallo, 'allo,' shouted Thorns, 'what's all this!
Caught Roberts in the act?'
'Really, Mr. Thorns,' said Roberts in a rage and
went over to his apparatus. 'All right, matron,' said
Alleyn, 'I've done. You want to clear up, I expect.'
'Oh, well--yes.'
'Go ahead. We'll make ourselves scarce. Fox, you
and Boys give Dr. Roberts a hand out with that
cruet-stand.'
'Thank you,' said Roberts, 'I'll manage.'
'No trouble at all, sir,' Fox assured him.
Alleyn left them there. He ran downstairs and
out into Brook Street, where he hailed a taxi.
In forty minutes the same taxi put him down in
Wigmore Street. This time he had two plainclothes
sergeants with him. Dr. Roberts's little butler
opened the door. His face was terribly white. He
looked at Alleyn without speaking and then stood
aside. Alleyn, followed by his men, walked into the drawing room. Roberts stood in front of the
fireplace. Above him the picture of the little lake
and the Christmas trees shone cheerfully in the
lamplight. Fox stood inside the door and Boys near
the window. The anaesthetic apparatus had been
wheeled over by the desk.
When Roberts saw Alleyn he tried to speak, but
at first could not. His lips moved as though he was
speaking, but there were no words. Then at last
they came.
'Inspector Alleyn--why--have you sent these
men--after me?'
For a moment they looked at each other.
'I had to,' said Alleyn. 'Dr. Roberts, I have a
warrant here for your arrest. I must warn you--'
233
'What do you mean?' screamed Roberts. 'You've
no grounds—no proof—you fool—what are you
doing?'
Alleyn walked over to the thing like a cruet. He
stooped down, unscrewed something that looked
like a nut and drew it out. With it came a
hypodermic syringe. The 'nut' was the top of the
piston.
'Grounds enough,' said Alleyn.
It took the four men to hold Roberts and they
had to put handcuffs on him. The insane are
sometimes physically very strong.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RETROSPECTIVE
Saturday, the twentieth. Evening.
Two evenings after the arrest Alleyn dined with
Nigel and Angela. The inspector had already been
badgered by Nigel for copy and had thrown him a
few bones to gnaw. Angela, however, pined for
first-hand information. During dinner the inspector
was rather silent and withdrawn. Something
prompted Angela to kick Nigel smartly on the shin
when he broached the subject of the arrest. Nigel
suppresed a cry of pain and glared at her. She shook
her head slightly.
'Was it very painful, Bathgate?' asked Alleyn.
'Er—oh—yes,' said Nigel sheepishly.
'How did you know I kicked him?' Angela
inquired. 'You must be a detective.'
'Not so that you would notice it, but perhaps I
234
am about to strike form again.'
'Hallo—all bitter, are you? Aren't you pleased
with yourself over this case, Mr. Alleyn?' Angela
ventured.
'One never gets a great deal of gratification from a
fluke.'
'A fluke!' exclaimed Nigel.
'Just that.5
He held his glass of port under his nose, glanced
significantly at Nigel and sipped it.
'Go on,' he said resignedly. 'Go on. Ask me. I
know perfectly well why I'm here and you don't
produce a wine like this every evening. Bribery.
Subtle corruption. Isn't it, now?'
'Yes,' said Nigel simply.
'I won't have Mr. Alleyn bullied,' said Angela.
'You would if he could,' rejoined Alleyn
cryptically. 'I know your tricks and your manners.'
The others were silent.
'As a matter of fact,' Alleyn continued, 'I have
every intention of talking for hours.'
They beamed.
'What an angel you are, to be sure,' said Angela.
'Bring that decanter next door. Don't dare sit over
it in here. The ladies are about to leave the
dining-room.'
She got up, Alleyn opened the door for her, and
she went through into Nigel's little sitting-room,
where she hastily cast four logs on the fire, pulled
up a low table between two armchairs, and sat down
on the hearthrug.
'Come on!' she called sternly.
They came in. Alleyn put the decanter down
reverently on the table, and in a moment they were
all settled.
235
'Now,' said Angela, 'I do call this fun.'
She looked from Nigel to Alley n. Each had the
contented air of the well-fed male. The fire blazed
up with a roar and a crackle, lighting the inspector's
dark head and his admirable hands. He settled
himself back and, easing his chin, turned and
smiled at her.
'You may begin,' said Angela.
'But—where from?'
'From the beginning—well, from the operating
theatre.'
'Oh. The remark I invariably make about the
theatre is that it afforded the ideal setting for a
murder. The whole place was cleaned up
scientifically—hygienically—completely—as soon as
the body of the victim was removed. No chance of a
fingerprint, so significant bits and pieces left on the
floor. Nothing. As a matter of fact, of course, had it
been exactly as it was, we should have found
nothing that pointed to Roberts,' Alleyn fell silent
again.
'Begin from where you first suspected Roberts,'
suggested Nigel.
'From where you suspected him, rather. The
funny little man, you know.'
'By gum, yes. So I did.'
'Did youT Angela asked.
'I had no definite theory about him,' said Alleyn.
'That's why I talked about a fluke. I was uneasy
about him. I had a hunch, and I hate hunches. The
first day I saw him in his house I began to feel
jumpy about him, and fantastic ideas kept dodging
about at the back of my mind. He was, it seemed, a
fanatic. That long, hectic harangue about hereditary
taints—somehow it was too vehement. He was
236
obviously nervous about the case and yet he
couldn't keep off it. He very delicately urged the
suicide theory and backed it up with a lecture on
eugenics. He was certainly sincere, too sincere,
terribly earnest. The whole atmosphere was
unbalanced. I recognised the man with an idee fixe.
Then .he told me a long story about how he'd once
given an overdose, and that was why he never gave
injections. That made me uncomfortable, because it
was such a handy proof of innocence. ^He can't
have done the job, because he never gives an
injection." Then I saw his stethoscope with rows of
notches on the stem, and again there was a perfect
explanation. He said it was a sort of tally for every
anaesthetic he gave successfully to patients with
heart disease. I was reminded of Indian tomahawks
and Edward S. Ellis, and more particularly of a
catapult I had as a boy and the notches I cut in the
handle for every bird I killed. The fantastic notion
that the stethoscope was that sort of tally-stick
nagged and nagged at me. When we found he was
one of the Lenin Hall lot I wondered if he could
possibly be their agent, and yet I didn't somehow
think there was anything in the Lenin Hall lot.
When we discovered he had hoped to egg them on
over the Sterilisation Bill I felt that accounted
perfectly for his association with them. Next time I
saw him I meant to surprise him with a sudden
question about them. He completely defeated me
by talking about them of his own accord. That
might have been a subtle move, but I didn't think
so. He lent me his book and here again I found the
fanatic. I don't know why it is that pursuit of any
branch of scientific thought which is greatly
concerned with sex so often leads to morbid
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obsession. Not always, by any means--but very
often. I've met it over and over again. It's an
interesting point and I'd like to know the
explanation. Roberts's book is a sound, a
well-written plea for rational breeding. It is not in
the least hysterical, and yet, behind it, in the
personality of the writer, I smelt hysteria. There
was one chapter where he said that a future
civilisation might avoid the expense and trouble of
supporting its a-ments and de-ments by eliminating
them altogether. "Sterilisation," he wrote, "might
in time be replaced by extermination." After
reading that I forced myself to face up to that
uneasy idea that had worried me ever since I first
spoke to him. O'Callaghan came of what Roberts
would regard as tainted stock. Suppose--suppose, thought I, blushing at my own credulity, suppose
Roberts had got the bright idea of starting the good
work by destroying such people every time he got
the opportunity? Suppose he had brought if off
several times before, and that every time he'd had a
success he ticked it up on his stethoscope?'
'Oh, murder!' Nigel apostrophised.
'You may say so.'
'Have some port.'
'Thank you. It sounded so incredibly farfetched
that I simply hadn't the nerve to confide in Fox. I
carried on with all the others--Mr. Sage and his
remedies, Phillips and his girl. Banks and the
Bolshies. Well, the patent medicine Sage provided
through Miss O'Callaghan--"Fulvitavolts," he calls
it--has an infinitesimal amount of hyoscine. The
second lot that Miss O'Callaghan administered in
the hospital was an unknown quantity until I got
the remnant from her. Of course, the fact that he
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had been responsible for O'Callaghan taking any
hyoscine at all threw our Harold into a fearful
terror, especially as he was one of the Lenin Hall
lot. He tried to get me to believe the second
concoction was a doctor's prescription, and very
nearly led himself into real trouble. We have since
found that this drug, too, only contained a very
small amount of hyoscine. Exit Mr. Sage. Banks
might have substituted hyoscine for camphor when
she prepared the syringe, but I found that the stock
solution of hyoscine contained the full amount
minus one dose that was accounted for. She might
have smuggled in another somehow, or she might
have filled up the jar afterwards, but it didn't seem
likely. Phillips remained and Phillips worried me
terribly. He loomed so large with his threats, his
opportunity, his motive. Roberts paled beside him.
I caught myself continually opposing these two
men. After all, as far as one could see, Roberts had
had no chance of giving a hypodermic injection,
whereas Phillips, poor devil, had had every
opportunity. I staged the reconstruction partly to
see if there was any way in which Roberts could
have done it. I called for him at his house. Now,
although I had asked Phillips specifically to have
the anaesthetic appliance, Roberts was coming away
without it. When I reminded him, he went and got
it. I noticed that he wasn't keen on my handling it,
and that several times he touched the nuts. It was
perfectly reasonable, but it made me look at them
and kept them in my mind. Remember I was by no
means wedded to my fantastic idea—rather the
reverse. I was ashamed of it and I still reasoned,
though I did not feel, that Phillips was the principal
suspect. We watched them all closely. Then came
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the fluke—the amazing, the incredible fluke. Old
Marigold lost her nerve and did a trip over the
cruet-thing that holds the gasometers. Thorns
helped Roberts, in a way, by a spirited rendering of
the jack-in-office. Thorns is a bit of a funk and he
was scared. He made a rumpus. If it hadn't been for
my "idea," I shouldn't have watched Roberts. As it
was, he gave a magnificent performance. But he
went green round the gills and he was most careful
to let no one touch the nuts. As a matter of fact, I
believe Thoms's funk was entirely superfluous—it
is most unlikely that the cylinder would blow up.
Think what a shock it must have been to Roberts.
Suppose the syringe had fallen out! Practically an
impossibility—but in the panic of the moment his
imagination, his "guilty knowledge" if you like,
would play tricks with his reason. I rather felt I had
allowed mine to do the same. My dears, my head
was in a whirl, I promise you.'
'But when,' asked Angela, 'did Dr. Roberts
inject the hyoscine?'
'I think soon after the patient was put on the
table. The screen over the chest would hide his
hands.'
'I see.'
'After the reconstruction Roberts wouldn't leave
us alone. He hung about in the theatre, intent, of
course, on keeping me away from the cruet. Fox,
bless his heart, rumbled this ruse and staged a
bogus telephone call. He saw I wanted to be rid of
Roberts. As soon as we were alone I fell on the
cruet, and, after a nerve-racking fumble, unearthed
the syringe. Eureka! Denouement! Fox nearly had a
fit of the vapours.'
'So you arrested him there and then!' cried
240
Angela.
'No. No, I didn't. For one thing I hadn't a
warrant and for another—oh, well—'
Alleyn rested his nose on his clasped hands.
'Now what's coming?' asked Angela.
'I rather liked the little creature. It would have
been an unpleasant business pulling him in there.
Anyway, I went off and got a warrant and Fox and
Boys accompanied him home. They watched him
carefully in case he tried to give himself the coup de
grace, but he didn't. When I arrested him he had, I
believe, a sudden and an appalling shock, a kind of
dreadful moment of lucidity. He fought us so
violently that he seemed like a sane man gone mad,
but I believe he was a madman gone sane. It only
lasted a few minutes. Now I don't think he cares at
all. He has made a complete confession. He's batty.
He'll have to stand his trial, but I think they'll find
that the nut in the cruet-stand is not the only one
loose. It may even be that Roberts, recognising the
taint of madness in himself, felt the eugenic urge
the more strongly and the need for eliminating the
unfit. In that point of view there is precisely the
kind of mad logic one would expect to find in such a
case.'
'If it hadn't been for the matron's trip, would you
never have got him?' asked Nigel.
'I think we should—in the end. We should have
got his history from Canada and Australasia. It's
coming through now. When it's complete I am
pretty certain we shall find a series of deaths after
anaesthetics given by Roberts. They will all prove to
be cases where there were signs of hereditary
insanity. I shouldn't mind betting they correspond
with the notches on the stethoscope—minus one.'
241
'Minus one?' asked Nigel.
'He added a fresh notch, no doubt, on Thursday,
the eleventh. The last one does look more recent,
although he'd rubbed a bit of dirt into it. You may
think, as judges say when they mean you ought to
think, that it was an extremely rum thing for him to
leave the syringe in the cruet after the job was done.
Not so rum. It was really the safest place
imaginable. Away from there it would have been a
suspicious-looking object, with a nut, instead of the
ordinary top, to the piston. I believe that
extraordinary little man filled it up with hyoscine
whenever he was called out to give an anaesthetic to
someone he did not know, just on the off-chance
the patient should turn out to be what I understand
sheep-farmers call a "cull". It's a striking example
of the logic of the lunatic.'
'Oh,' cried Angela, 'I do hope they find him
insane.'
'Do you?'
'Don't you?'
'I hardly know. That means a criminal lunatic
asylum. It's a pity we are not allowed to hand him
one of his own hypodermics.'
There was a short silence.
'Have some port?' said Nigel.
'Thank you,' said Alleyn. He did not pour it out,
however, but sat looking abstractedly into the fire.
'You see,' he murmured at last, 'he's done his
job. From his point of view it's all a howling
success. He does nothing but tell us how clever he's
been. His one anxiety is lest he may not be
appreciated. He's busy writing a monograph for
which all your gods of Fleet Street, Bathgate, will
offer fabulous prices. At least he is assured of
242
competent defence.'
'What about Sir John Phillips and Jane Harden?'
asked Angela.
'What about them. Miss Angela?'
'Is she going to marry him now?'
'How should I know?'
'She'll be a fool if she doesn't,' said Angela
emphatically.
'I'm afraid you've got the movie-mind. You want
a final close-up. "John--I want you to know
that--that--" Ecstatic glare at short distance into
each other's faces. Sir John utters an amorous
growl: "You damned little fool," and snatches her
to his bosom. Slow fadeout.'
'That's the stuff,' said Angela. 'I like a happy
ending.'
'We don't often see it in the Force,' said Alleyn.
'Have some port?'
'Thank you.'
Photoset, printed and bound in Great Britain by
redwood burn limited, Trowbridge, Wiltshire
243