Five Roundabouts to Heaven

by John Bingham

  “I’ll get it for you,” said Bartels.

  “I’ve got enough to last tonight and tomorrow.”

  “I’ll get you some today,” said Bartels dully.

  “Oh, don’t bother, Barty. There’s no hurry.”

  “I’ll get it for you today,” said Bartels again. “I’ve got to go to the chemist anyway to get some blades.”

  He heard the postman’s knock, and went out and fetched the letters. There was nothing of interest, except a letter from a cousin of Beatrice’s saying her sister had had a baby. It was strange that they had never had a child, Beatrice and himself. The doctors could find no reason for it. He wondered if a child would have made any difference, and thought it probably would have done. Strange, then, that a hidden physical defect, some small maladjustment, accidental, invisible, inherited, could make so much difference to three people: could cause a man, indeed, to risk the hangman’s noose.

  He had the information he wished now. She was taking the powder once a day, before going to bed; and she was taking about two teaspoonsful, as he had surmised.

  “I think I’ll have my bath,” he said, and went out.

  He passed the wardrobe where his suits were hanging. It was in the breast pocket of the oldest one, the one he rarely wore, that the bottle of altrapeine was secreted. It was quite safe there. Beatrice hardly ever went to his wardrobe, and if she did, while he was having his bath, she would have no cause to search the pockets of that old and dilapidated suit.

  Bartels shaved and bathed, slowly, taking his time, and thinking out his next move.

  He was still quite calm. Later, his nerves were to cause him trouble. But not yet. He was still enjoying the relief which comes from taking a decision after a period of mental struggle.

  During the day, he would have to buy a bottle of Beatrice’s medicine.

  This, when he returned and found Beatrice no longer alive, he would substitute for the one which had contained the poison. He paused in the act of cleaning his teeth: strange how he baulked at the word “dead.” “Beatrice dead.”

  It was hard to imagine that forceful and well-organized woman dead. All life stilled, all plans cut short. It seemed utterly impossible.

  He glanced at his wristwatch on the shelf above the handbasin. It was nearly 8 a.m. She usually went to bed at 11 p.m.

  So in fifteen hours Beatrice would be dead. There was no doubt about it now. Even if he wished to do so, he could not call a halt now because he felt irresistibly caught in a moving band of events from which he knew himself to be no longer psychologically able to escape. He had set the machinery going. He couldn’t stop it now. It was stronger than him.

  He continued to make detailed mental plans.

  He would have to empty all the powder out of the new bottle except for about half a teaspoonful; no more and no less, for in case of investigation, he must guard against the possibility that the “daily help” might comment, however innocent her remarks, upon the fact that a comparatively new bottle of stomach powder stood by Beatrice’s bedside. He did not want the attention of the police, or Dr Anderson, to be drawn unduly to that bottle, though it was possible that they might wish to analyse the remains. That would be all right, of course. He did not wish them to search the dustbin, however, for the old one, and he did not wish to have to explain where it was, when they failed to find it.

  It was on small points like that, thought Bartels, combing his hair in the bathroom, that a chap could come badly unstuck.

  Like all murderers who plan their crimes, he was supremely confident. He couldn’t face a dead moth, he was afraid of being locked in a room. He even felt suffocated when a train in which he was travelling passed through a long, dark tunnel, unless the compartment was lighted. But he could pit his wits, gamble his life, risk his reputation in the eyes of posterity, against the most efficient police force in the world. Odd, really.

  Now he began to consider the question of disposing of the bottle which had contained the poison. Almost at once a number of difficulties occurred to him.

  He pictured the scene on his return. In his hand would be the new bottle, the label suitably rubbed to take away its freshness; by the bedside, the old bottle which had contained the altrapeine. He replaces it with the new bottle. Now he is standing there with the other one in his hand. Within a few minutes he must telephone the doctor, who might be on the scene in a quarter of an hour; perhaps less.

  Bartels sat down on the edge of the bath and tried to think clearly. You had to guard against the time factor in these things; more, the time factor, combined with an unfortunate coincidence, with the unforeseen: the thing which upset your plans and sent you to the gallows. But how could you guard against something which you could not foresee?

  He shook his head impatiently. He was getting abstruse. He must confine himself to difficulties which were real. There were enough of them.

  Again he visualized the scene, again saw himself standing there with the bottle in his hand: Philip Bartels, with an incriminating article in his hand; and a telephone nearby which he would have to use at once; and a doctor who would be arriving at any moment.

  But the Philip Bartels he saw wasn’t moving. He was standing still, his brain bewildered by the problem. Now fear was forming in his mind; and panic.

  He came back to reality with an effort, took a turn up and down the bathroom; then sat down again and compelled his mind to think calmly. He began to analyse the problem, step by step, beginning with the simplest facts.

  He had only two places in which to hide the thing: outside the house or inside.

  Was it practical to remove the bottle from the house?

  No. It was not.

  Why? What’s wrong with that?

  Because a nosy neighbour might see him throwing it in a street refuse-basket, and connect the action with any later development.

  But why not take it out of the house and drop it in the Thames or the Serpentine? That’s safe, surely?

  No, it isn’t. It’s even more silly.

  Oh? Why?

  Because, you fool, they would be able to tell very accurately the time at which Beatrice died. If you were seen to arrive after her death, and to leave the house again a few minutes later, and not return for some time, and if you still had not telephoned the doctor, you would be in a spot, wouldn’t you? Some of the questions you would have to answer about that little excursion would be a bit difficult, wouldn’t they?

  But surely the neighbours, if they saw you at all, would later think that you had gone to fetch the doctor personally?

  Plain wishful thinking. They might think it, or they might not: supposing a man taking his dog out saw you go out alone and return alone? And he, or somebody else, saw the doctor arrive later, by himself? And the two knew each other, or Dr Anderson knew one or the other, or both, or treated them professionally, or treated their wives or their children, or the whole dam’ lot?

  Things could leak out that way, couldn’t they?

  Better not take the bottle out of the house. Not that night, anyway. The following day, yes. But not that night.

  So it will have to stay in the house.

  Where?

  Well, anywhere, really. Anywhere out of the sight of Dr Anderson. In a cupboard in the kitchen, perhaps. Or in a drawer somewhere. A drawer in the writing bureau. That’s it. Dr Anderson will sign the death certificate and go, and that will be that: coronary thrombosis, that’s what he would diagnose. That’s what the medical book said.

  Bartels got up from the side of the bath. The problem seemed to be solved. He was about to leave the bathroom when he stopped dead.

  But would that be the diagnosis? The phrase in the book ran: “The circumstances of death are to all intents and purposes similar to those associated with coronary thrombosis.”

  To all intents and purposes? What was meant by that? Were there, in certain cases, symptoms which could raise even the smallest doubt? Complexion, for instance; or the age factor?

  S
upposing Dr Anderson did not at once diagnose thrombosis of the heart? He was a cautious old stick; unhurried, methodical, and pig-headed. A death certificate could be a dangerous thing to a doctor; wrongly given, it could damage his reputation. Bartels, a layman, could say nothing to put the idea of thrombosis into the doctor’s head. Anderson would have to come to his own conclusions in the matter.

  He wouldn’t suspect murder, of course. That was out of the question.

  But suicide? What if he suspected suicide?

  Bartels, his head pressed against the bathroom door in an effort to concentrate, imagined Dr Anderson leading him into the drawing room. Imagined him speaking:

  “Not entirely satisfied…presume your wife had nothing on her mind?…No, no, not as far as you are aware…of course not, of course not, highly improbable…nevertheless…stresses and strains of modern life…terrible wear and tear on the nerves, Mr Bartels…odd, unaccountable things do happen…case in the paper the other day…have to be so careful, you know…feel sure you won’t mind if…another opinion…set my mind at rest…police surgeon…accustomed to things…purely a formality, of course…headaches might have unduly distressed her…possibility that Mrs Bartels did not wish to embarrass you…her last thoughts not to create a scandal…police surgeon…yes, Mr Bartels…if you don’t mind…just use your telephone?”

  The police car, black, smoothly purring, sinister, would draw up outside. The police surgeon would come in, accompanied by a sergeant and a constable. Questions, questions, questions.

  Your name? Your wife’s christian names? Age? All the rest of it.

  While the doctors conferred, the sergeant and constable would be talking to you; polite, deferential, formally sympathetic.

  Would you have any objections if they just looked around the flat while they were waiting? A search? Oh, no. Just look around. Just in case “the unfortunate lady may have had a nervous breakdown, sir.”

  No, sir. Of course not, sir. Most unlikely, sir.

  Nevertheless, if you don’t mind, sir.

  We won’t make the place untidy, sir.

  It won’t take long, sir.

  Perhaps you could do with a cup of tea, sir?

  That’s right, sir, sit down there, we’ll bring you one. You can drink it while we’re having a quick look around.

  A quick look around. But it would be a search just the same. By experienced, observant men. First the medicine cupboard, of course. Nothing there, nothing of interest there. Then the bedroom: the cupboard in the bedside table, the bottles on the mantelpiece-lotions, perfumes, and the rest. Then the dressing table, and its drawers. Then the kitchen. Nothing there, either.

  Then the drawing room.

  The bureau. The bureau drawers.

  Did your wife suffer a lot from indigestion, sir? Did she usually keep her old stomach-powder bottles?

  Can you think of any reason why she should keep one among her boxes of writing paper, sir?

  Sniff, sniff. No smell, of course. Nothing suspicious at all. Just the usual small amount of white powder in the bottom of the bottle.

  We’d better just take it along, sir. You don’t mind, do you, sir?

  Altrapeine, that’s what the analysis would show. What woman, what normal housewife would think of committing suicide by taking such a comparatively unknown drug as altrapeine. And if his love for Lorna Dickson became known-“association,” the police would call it-what then?

  What then, indeed.

  For a few moments Bartels found the problem of the disposal of the bottle the same night too baffling to solve. He stood in the bathroom, staring at the locked door, while the idea grew in his mind that he would have to abandon the whole thing.

  It was too risky.

  There was not only himself to consider. Lorna would be involved. She would certainly be investigated: the police never forgot the Thompson-Bywater case. Word would get round, that was quite certain. It always did. At the best, her business would be ruined, and she would have to leave the district. Start afresh somewhere else, on practically nothing.

  “Too risky,” said Bartels softly. “Too bloody risky.”

  Thank heavens he had tried to plan every detail in advance.

  Thank God he had had enough imagination to picture every incident which could happen before it happened. Thus Bartels, feeling in his dressing-gown pocket for his lighter to light a cigarette, decided that he would have to give the whole idea up, not only for that night, but perhaps for always. The same problem would always arise.

  He lit his cigarette. Human nature being what it is, a very slight feeling of relief came over him; a man’s philosophy of life and death may make him indifferent to humane killing, in special conditions, but to risk the long-drawn-out rigmarole of a trial and the scaffold is a different matter.

  Circumstances beyond his control were preventing him from carrying out his plan. What the future held he could not tell; he had not had time to think. But for the moment he need do nothing; and because he need do nothing, he felt the tension relax within him. The machine had stopped, and with it the moving band of events.

  He replaced the lighter in his pocket. A simple enough action, but important, for there was the solution: his pocket. It was as simple as that, he thought, and at once the burden of events closed in on him again and he saw that there was no further delay open to him.

  He could conceal the bottle that had contained the poison in his trousers pocket. Next day he could walk out with it and dispose of it how he wished.

  Whatever Dr Anderson thought, whatever the police surgeon thought, if he came to the flat, there could not possibly be enough evidence to justify the police in holding him and searching him.

  Arrests in poison cases take some time. There is an autopsy to be performed, motive and opportunity to be proved, senior officers and law officers consulted. It all takes time.

  Without an arrest there would be no body-search of the suspect. No officer would have the audacity to request him to turn out his pockets for inspection, within an hour or two of his wife’s death from a probable attack of coronary thrombosis, without most damning evidence.

  Bartels saw the wheels begin to turn again, the machine start, and the moving band slide forward once. There was no escape. He would go forward because he had to do so.

  He had committed himself, not in other people’s eyes, who might have been prepared to understand, but in the court of his own self-esteem.

  He realized now that there was an important side issue to the act which he had planned. He had been a failure in life; he had lacked courage, self-confidence, and that self-assertiveness which is needful for success.

  The act of murder which he planned, the proof that he, Philip Bartels, could if necessary beat the police and society, would bring him not only Lorna Dickson, but, in a twisted kind of way, balm to the self-esteem which had been damaged over the years.

  If he drew back now, from fear or lack of tenacity, he was finished forever in his own eyes. He would have had his supreme test, dark and secret though it was, and he would have failed.

  Uneasily, his hand on the door of the bathroom, Bartels for the first time began to question his motive. Hitherto, he had felt sure that they were based upon love for Lorna, pity for her in her loneliness, and an overwhelming desire to save Beatrice from being hurt and distressed.

  Now he had glimpsed something else. Something which he had choked back into his subconscious; something mean and slimy; ignoble, based upon vanity and frustration. A desire to equate himself with others who had defeated their fellow men, had had their triumphs in the world of commerce, or art, or sport.

  But they had won their victories openly. At the best, he would be the victor on a secret battlefield, a battle darkly fought, in which the only victim would be Beatrice, a woman who trusted him.

  He hesitated to open the door, because he knew that once he passed through it he would be committed to act. There would be no turning back. The depression which had descended upon him was
the greater because it followed so swiftly upon the heels of his earlier relief.

  He heard the voice of Beatrice calling from the bedroom, asking if he had nearly finished with the bathroom. He glanced at his watch. He had been in there over three-quarters of an hour.

  Bartels wrenched the door open.

  He went along to the bedroom. Beatrice was up, sitting in front of the dressing table in her dressing gown, filing her nails. She looked round as he came in.

  “You’ve been a long time, Barty.”

  “Have I? Sorry.”

  “What on earth have you been doing?”

  “Thinking,” said Bartels.

  “Well, I wish you would think somewhere else. What were the great thoughts?”

  “Nothing much,” said Bartels. “Just about this and that. By the way, I shan’t be in this evening. I’ve got some ghastly dinner in Colchester with some local wine society. What’ll you do?”

  Beatrice thought for a moment. “I’ll probably go and see that film at the local. I’ve been wanting to see it for some time.”

  “Don’t wait up for me. You know what these things are.”

  When Beatrice had gone into the bathroom, he finished dressing, and went to the wardrobe, and found the bottle of altrapeine. He had bound some adhesive tape round the neck and stopper, lest a few grains should leak out, and, in the event of things going wrong, be found on analysis of his pocket dust by the police laboratory.

  You couldn’t be too careful.

  Then, having nothing further to do at the moment, he went to the kitchen and started cooking the breakfast. There were two eggs in the refrigerator. He fried them, and added two rashers of bacon, and two tomatoes. He also fried some bread. When he had finished, he put the food on a dish, and placed it in the oven to keep warm, and made some toast and coffee.

  He had finished the toast when Beatrice came into the kitchen, and he helped her to lay the table.

  Beatrice enjoyed her meal. She said so.

  “Though what we’re going to eat for the rest of the week for breakfast, Barty, I don’t know.”