“But that’s ridiculous!” cried Pender, warmly.
“You think so, do you? That’s what most people would say. But I wouldn’t trust ’em. Not with sulphate of thanatol to be bought for two pence at any chemist’s.”
“Sulphate of what?” asked Pender sharply.
“Ah! you think I’m giving something away. Well, it’s a mixture of that and one or two other things—all equally ordinary and cheap. For nine pence you could make up enough to poison the entire Cabinet. Though of course one wouldn’t polish off the whole lot at once; it might look funny if they all died simultaneously in their baths.”
“Why in their baths?”
“That’s the way it would take them. It’s the action of the hot water that brings on the effect of the stuff, you see. Any time from a few hours to a few days after administration. It’s quite a simple chemical reaction and it couldn’t possibly be detected by analysis. It would just look like heart failure.”
Pender eyed him uneasily. He did not like the smile; it was not only derisive, it was smug, it was almost gloating, triumphant! He could not quite put the right name to it.
“You know,” pursued the man, pulling a pipe from his pocket and beginning to fill it, “it is very odd how often one seems to read of people being found dead in their baths. It must be a very common accident. Quite temptingly so. After all, there is a fascination about murder. The thing grows upon one—that is, I imagine it would, you know.”
“Very likely,” said Pender.
“I’m sure of it. No, I wouldn’t trust anybody with that for-mula—not even a virtuous young man like yourself.”
The long white fingers tamped the tobacco firmly into the bowl and struck a match.
“But how about you?” said Pender, irritated. (Nobody cares to be called a virtuous young man.) “If nobody is fit to be trusted—”
“I’m not, eh?” replied the man. “Well, that’s true, but it can’t be helped now, can it? I know the thing and I can’t unknow it again. It’s unfortunate, but there it is. At any rate you have the comfort of knowing that nothing disagreeable is likely to happen to me. Dear me! Rugby already. I get out here. I have a little bit of business to do at Rugby.”
He rose and shook himself, buttoned his raincoat about him, and pulled the shabby hat more firmly down about his enigmatic glasses. The train slowed down and stopped. With a brief good night and a crooked smile the man stepped onto the platform. Pender watched him stride quickly away into the drizzle beyond the radius of the gas light.
“Dotty or something,” said Pender, oddly relieved. “Thank goodness, I seem to be going to have the compartment to myself.”
He returned to Murder at the Manse, but his attention still kept wandering from the book he held in his hand.
“What was the name of that stuff the fellow talked about? Sulphate of what?”
For the life of him he could not remember.
It was on the following afternoon that Pender saw the news item. He had bought the Standard to read at lunch, and the word “Bath” caught his eye; otherwise he would probably have missed the paragraph altogether, for it was only a short one.
WEALTHY MANUFACTURER DIES IN BATH WIFE’S TRAGIC DISCOVERY
A distressing discovery was made early this morning by Mrs. John Brittlesea, wife of the well-known head of Brittlesea’s Engineering Works at Rugby. Finding that her husband, whom she had seen alive and well less than an hour previously, did not come down in time for his breakfast, she searched for him in the bathroom,
where the engineer was found lying dead in his bath; life having been extinct, according to the medical men, for half an hour. The cause of the death is pronounced to be heart failure. The deceased manufacturer…
“That’s an odd coincidence,” said Pender. “At Rugby. I should think my unknown friend would be interested—if he is still there, doing his bit of business. I wonder what his business is, by the way.”
It is a very curious thing how, when once your attention is attracted to any particular set of circumstances, that set of circumstances seems to haunt you. You get appendicitis: immediately the newspapers are filled with paragraphs about statesmen suffering from appendicitis and victims dying of it; you learn that all your acquaintances have had it, or know friends who have had it and either died of it, or recovered from it with more surprising and spectacular rapidity than yourself; you cannot open a popular magazine without seeing its cure mentioned as one of the triumphs of modern surgery, or dip into a scientific treatise without coming across a comparison of the vermiform appendix in men and monkeys. Probably these references to appendicitis are equally frequent at all times, but you only notice them when your mind is attuned to the subject. At any rate, it was in this way that Pender accounted to himself for the extra-ordinary frequency with which people seemed to die in their baths at this period.
The thing pursued him at every turn. Always the same sequence of events: the hot bath, the discovery of the corpse, the inquest. Always the same medical opinion: heart failure following immersion in too hot water. It began to seem to Pender that it was scarcely safe to enter a hot bath at all. He took to making his own bath cooler and cooler each day, until it almost ceased to be enjoyable.
He skimmed his paper each morning for headlines about baths before settling down to read the news; and was at once relieved and vaguely disappointed if a week passed without a hot-bath tragedy.
One of the sudden deaths that occurred in this way was that of a young and beautiful woman whose husband, an analytical chemist, had tried without success to divorce her a few months previously. The coroner displayed a tendency to suspect foul play, and put the husband through a severe cross-examination. There seemed, however, to be no getting behind the doctor’s evidence. Pender, brooding over the improbable possible, wished, as he did every day of the week, that he could remember the name of that drug the man in the train had mentioned.
Then came the excitement in Pender’s own neighborhood. An old Mr. Skimmings, who lived alone with a housekeeper in a street just around the corner, was found dead in his bathroom. His heart had never been strong. The housekeeper told the milkman that she had always expected something of the sort to happen, for the old gentleman would always take his bath so hot. Pender went to the inquest.
The housekeeper gave her evidence. Mr. Skimmings had been the kindest of employers, and she was heartbroken at losing him. No, she had not been aware that Mr. Skimmings had left her a large sum of money, but it was just like his goodness of heart. The verdict of course was accidental death.
Pender, that evening, went out for his usual stroll with the dog. Some feeling of curiosity moved him to go around past the late Mr. Skimmings’s house. As he loitered by, glancing up at the blank windows, the garden gate opened and a man came out. In the light of a street lamp, Pender recognized him at once.
“Hullo!” he said.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the man. “Viewing the site of the tragedy, eh? What do you think about it all?”
“Oh, nothing very much,” said Pender. “I didn’t know him. Odd, our meeting again like this.”
“Yes, isn’t it? You live near here, I suppose.”
“Yes,” said Pender; and then wished he hadn’t. “Do you live in these parts too?”
“Me?” said the man. “Oh no. I was only here on a little matter of business.”
“Last time we met,” said Pender, “you had business at Rugby.” They had fallen into step together, and were walking slowly down to the turning Pender had to take in order to reach his house.
“So I had,” agreed the other man. “My business takes me all over the country. I never know where I may be wanted next, you see.”
“It was while you were at Rugby that old Brittlesea was found dead in his bath, wasn’t it?” remarked Pender carelessly.
“Yes. Funny thing, coincidence.” The man glanced up at him sideways through his glittering glasses. “Left all his money to his wife, didn’t he? She’s
a rich woman now. Good-looking girl—a lot younger than he was.”
They were passing Pender’s gate. “Come in and have a drink,” said Pender, and again immediately regretted the impulse.
The man accepted, and they went into Pender’s bachelor study.
“Remarkable lot of these bath deaths lately,” observed Pender as he squirted soda into the tumblers.
“You think it’s remarkable?” said the man, with his irritating trick of querying everything that was said to him. “Well, I don’t know. Perhaps it is. But it’s always a fairly common accident.”
“I suppose I’ve been taking more notice on account of that conversation we had in the train.” Pender laughed, a little self-consciously. “It just makes me wonder—you know how one does—whether anybody else had happened to hit on that drug you mentioned—what was its name?”
The man ignored the question.
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “I fancy I’m the only person who knows about that. I only stumbled on the thing by accident myself when I was looking for something else. I don’t imagine it could have been discovered simultaneously in so many parts
of the country. But all these verdicts just show, don’t they, what a safe way it would be of getting rid of a person.”
“You’re a chemist, then?” asked Pender, catching at the one phrase which seemed to promise information.
“Oh, I’m a bit of everything. Sort of general utility man. I do a good bit of studying on my own, too. You’ve got one or two interesting books here, I see.”
Pender was flattered. For a man in his position—he had been in a bank until he came into that little bit of money—he felt that he had improved his mind to some purpose, and he knew that his collection of modern first editions would be worth money some day. He went over to the glass-fronted bookcase and pulled out a volume or two to show his visitor.
The man displayed intelligence, and presently joined him in front of the shelves.
“These, I take it, represent your personal tastes?” He took down a volume of Henry James and glanced at the fly-leaf. “That your name? E. Pender?”
Pender admitted that it was. “You have the advantage of me,” he added.
“Oh! I am one of the great Smith clan,” said the other with a laugh, “and work for my bread. You seem to be very nicely fixed here.”
Pender explained about the clerkship and the legacy.
“Very nice, isn’t it?” said Smith. “Not married? No. You’re one of the lucky ones. Not likely to be needing any sulphate of…any useful drugs in the near future. And you never will, if you stick to what you’ve got and keep off women and speculation.”
He smiled up sideways at Pender. Now that his hat was off, Pender saw that he had a quantity of closely curled gray hair, which made him look older than he had appeared in the railway carriage.
“No, I shan’t be coming to you for assistance yet a while,” said Pender, laughing. “Besides, how should I find you if I wanted you?”
“You wouldn’t have to,” said Smith. “I should find you. There’s never any difficulty about that.” He grinned, oddly. “Well, I’d better be getting on. Thank you for your hospitality. I don’t expect we shall meet again—but we may, of course. Things work out so queerly, don’t they?”
When he had gone, Pender returned to his own armchair. He took up his glass of whiskey, which stood there nearly full.
“Funny!” he said to himself. “I don’t remember pouring that out. I suppose I got interested and did it mechanically.” He emptied his glass slowly, thinking about Smith.
What in the world was Smith doing at Skimmings’s house?
An odd business altogether. If Skimmings’s housekeeper had known about that money…But she had not known, and if she had, how could she have found out about Smith and his sulphate of…the word had been on the tip of his tongue, then.
“You would not need to find me. I should find you.” What had the man meant by that? But this was ridiculous. Smith was not the devil, presumably. But if he really had this secret—if he liked to put a price upon it—nonsense.
“Business at Rugby—a little bit of business at Skimmings’s house.” Oh, absurd!
“Nobody is fit to be trusted. Absolute power over another man’s life…it grows on you. That is, I imagine it would.”
Lunacy! And, if there was anything in it, the man was mad to tell Pender about it. If Pender chose to speak he could get the fellow hanged. The very existence of Pender would be dangerous.
That whiskey!
More and more, thinking it over, Pender became persuaded that he had never poured it out. Smith must have done it while his back was turned. Why that sudden display of interest in the bookshelves? It had had no connection with anything that had gone before. Now Pender came to think of it, it had been a very stiff whiskey. Was it imagination, or had there been something about the flavor of it?
A cold sweat broke out on Pender’s forehead.
A quarter of an hour later, after a powerful dose of mustard and water, Pender was downstairs again, very cold and shivering, huddling over the fire. He had had a narrow escape—if he had escaped. He did not know how the stuff worked, but he would not take a hot bath again for some days. One never knew.
Whether the mustard and water had done the trick in time, or whether the hot bath was an essential part of the treatment, at any rate Pender’s life was saved for the time being. But he was still uneasy. He kept the front door on the chain and warned his servant to let no strangers into the house.
He ordered two more morning papers and the News of the World on Sundays, and kept a careful watch upon their columns. Deaths in baths became an obsession with him. He neglected his first editions and took to attending inquests.
Three weeks later he found himself at Lincoln. A man had died of heart failure in a Turkish bath—a fat man, of sedentary habits. The jury added a rider to their verdict of accidental death to the effect that the management should exercise a stricter supervision over the bathers and should never permit them to be left unattended in the hot room.
As Pender emerged from the hall he saw ahead of him a shabby hat that seemed familiar. He plunged after it, and caught Mr. Smith about to step into a taxi.
“Smith,” he cried, gasping a little. He clutched him fiercely by the shoulder.
“What, you again?” said Smith. “Taking notes of the case, eh? Can I do anything for you?”
“You devil!” said Pender. “You’re mixed up in this! You tried to kill me the other day.”
“Did I? Why should I do that?”
“You’ll swing for this,” shouted Pender menacingly.
A policeman pushed his way through the gathering crowd.
“Here!” said he. “What’s all this about?”
Smith touched his forehead significantly.
“It’s all right, Officer,” said he. “The gentleman seems to think I’m here for no good. Here’s my card. The coroner knows me. But he attacked me. You’d better keep an eye on him.”
“That’s right,” said a bystander.
“This man tried to kill me,” said Pender.
The policeman nodded.
“Don’t you worry about that, sir,” he said. “You think better of it. The ’eat in there has upset you a bit. All right, all right.”
“But I want to charge him,” said Pender.
“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” said the policeman.
“I tell you,” said Pender, “that this man Smith has been trying to poison me. He’s a murderer. He’s poisoned scores of people.”
The policeman winked at Smith.
“Best be off, sir,” he said. “I’ll settle this. Now, my lad”—he held Pender firmly by the arms—“just you keep cool and take it quiet. That gentleman’s name ain’t Smith nor nothing like it. You’ve got a bit mixed up like.”
“Well, what is his name?” demanded Pender.
“Never mind,” replied the constable. “You leave
him alone, or you’ll be getting yourself into trouble.”
The taxi had driven away. Pender glanced around at the circle of amused faces and gave in.
“All right, Officer,” he said. “I won’t give you any trouble. I’ll come round with you to the police station and tell you about it.”
“What do you think o’ that one?” asked the inspector of the sergeant when Pender had stumbled out of the station.
“Up the pole an’ ’alfway round the flag, if you ask me,” replied his subordinate. “Got one o’ them ideez fix what they talk about.”
“H’m!” replied the inspector. “Well, we’ve got his name and address. Better make a note of ’em. He might turn up again. Poisoning people so as they die in their baths, eh? That’s a pretty good ’un. Wonderful how these barmy ones thinks it all out, isn’t it?”
The spring that year was a bad one—cold and foggy. It was March when Pender went down to an inquest at Deptford, but a thick blanket of mist was hanging over the river as though it were November. The cold ate into your bones. As he sat in the dingy little court, peering through the yellow twilight of gas and fog, he could scarcely see the witnesses as they came to the table. Everybody in the place seemed to be coughing. Pender was coughing too. His bones ached, and he felt as though he were about due for a bout of influenza.
Straining his eyes, he thought he recognized a face on the other side of the room, but the smarting fog which penetrated every crack stung and blinded him. He felt in his overcoat pocket, and his hand closed comfortably on something thick and heavy. Ever since that day in Lincoln he had gone about armed for protection. Not a revolver—he was no hand with firearms. A sandbag was much better. He had bought one from an old man wheeling a pushcart. It was meant for keeping out draughts from the door—a good, old-fashioned affair.
The inevitable verdict was returned. The spectators began to push their way out. Pender had to hurry now, not to lose sight of his man. He elbowed his way along, muttering apologies. At the door he almost touched the man, but a stout woman intervened. He plunged past her, and she gave a little squeak of indignation. The man in front turned his head, and the light over the door glinted on his glasses.
A Moment on the Edge:100 Years of Crime Stories by women Page 5
