“Certainly not! How dared he tell you such a thing!”
It was mid-afternoon, and Henry was in the drawing-room of the Holder-Wattses’ rented house, trying to get some information from Eleanor. He was not being very successful. She stood facing him, trembling with fury, two bright spots on her normally pale cheeks. Then she began to cry, pressing an inadequate handkerchief to her eyes. “It’s typical of him . . . trying to put me in a bad light. . . telling you lies about me . . .”
“But you did have a drinking problem, didn’t you?” Henry persisted.
“Of course not. I admit I used to take a drink now and again when I was so . . . so terribly lonely and depressed . . . but as soon as we moved to Tampica, everything was different. I simply stopped drinking because I’d never really enjoyed it. . .”
“You didn’t consult a doctor in London, then?”
“I consulted nobody.” Eleanor was recovering from her tears, and the anger was coming back. “Why Michael should go out of his way to discuss such a thing with you, and to tell you such lies . . .”
“I asked him because I thought it might have some bearing on Lady Ironmonger’s death—but it’s not important.” Henry glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand. “Now, to get back to the reception. There’s one small thing puzzling me, Mrs. Holder-Watts. If I’ve understood correctly, you took the Barringtons out into the garden at about a quarter to seven.”
“I suppose so. I didn’t make a special note of the time.”
“You then left them in the garden, saying you had to return to the reception.”
“That’s right,” said Eleanor.
“Now—” Henry tapped the paper. “I don’t want to split hairs, but the Barringtons arrived in the small library at seven, whereas you didn’t get back to the reception until about five past—after Lady Ironmonger’s outburst. Can you tell me how you spent that ten minutes or so?”
Eleanor Holder-Watts looked coldly at Henry. “Since this is a police investigation, I suppose I must answer impertinent questions, even though they have nothing to do with Mavis’s suicide. I went to the bathroom, as the Americans say. Does that satisfy you?”
“It’ll have to, won’t it?” said Henry.
At that moment, the telephone rang. Eleanor said, “Excuse me—” and went to answer it. Henry watched her as she walked across the room. She was thin, pale and parched, like a sheet of paper. Her feet seemed so light that the deep pile of the carpet did not register her tread. She picked up the telephone, and said, “Hello . . . yes, he is . . . yes, I’ll tell him . . . at once . . . yes, I understand . . . thank you . . .”
She rang off, and turned to face Henry. “That was a Mrs. Colville,” she said. “I believe you are staying with her. She’s been notified that there’s a call coming through for you in about ten minutes, from Dr. Duncan in Tampica. The Embassy told her you were here with me.”
“Oh, well,” said Henry cheerfully, “then I’d better get back to Margaret’s place right away. Dr. Duncan, you say? I wonder if it’s important.”
“Anything that would induce Dr. Duncan to make a long distance telephone call would have to be important,” said Eleanor, icily. “He’d almost as soon get on an aeroplane.”
“In that case,” said Henry, “I’ll say good-bye. I’m sorry we had to cut short our talk. Perhaps we can resume it another time.”
Eleanor stood up a little straighten “I very much hope not,” she said. “I will, of course, tell you anything I know which is relevant, but if you are interested in somebody with a drinking problem, I think you will find more fruitful avenues to explore. You must know what I mean.”
“Perhaps I do, Mrs. Holder-Watts.”
11
“Mr. Henry Tibbett! Please put Mr. Henry Tibbett on the line!” the long distance operator was displaying the near-incomprehensible bossiness characteristic of her profession. “Speaking,” said Henry.
“I have a person-to-person call for Mr. Tibbett from Tampica.”
“I know you do,” said Henry. “I’m waiting.”
“Tampica? Is Dr. Duncan there? Kindly tell Dr. Duncan that his party is waiting.” The operator was behaving like an overanxious sheep dog, and with the same results.
“Tibbett? Are you there, Tibbett? Duncan here!” The doctor’s voice came loud and clear down the line, but before Henry could answer, the operator said tetchily, “Please do not speak at this time. I am trying to connect you.”
“We are connected,” Henry protested. “Hello, Duncan!”
“Tibbett—”
But the operator was not going to let them get away so easily. Henry just had time to hear her say, “Tampica! Please give me your area code and number”—before a switch was thrown which disconnected his line from that of Dr. Duncan, and substituted a cacophony of clicks and buzzes. Then the operator returned to Henry, demanding his identity, his current telephone number and address, and other irrelevant information, before she announced triumphantly, “I’m putting you through now!”—and Henry found himself talking to Sir Samuel Drake-Frobisher’s secretary, who was trying to make a call to the State Department in Washington. The operator, like a games’ mistress trying to control an unruly hockey game, ordered everybody to hang up and start again from the beginning. And at long last Henry found himself talking to Dr. Duncan.
“Tibbett. Duncan. Thought I must call you.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Information. Disturbing information. Such a dear girl, and I don’t like to tell tales, but there it is. You’ll have to know.”
“Tell me, then,” suggested Henry.
“I hardly know how to. These people are my friends, you see. That’s the whole trouble.”
“What’s the whole trouble, Dr. Duncan?”
“Why, that I knew her too well. And her family. That’s why she went to another island.”
“Who did?”
“Are you connected?” broke in the fluting tones of the operator. “Yes, by the grace of God, so don’t interfere!” shouted Duncan. “Now, where was I?”
“Somebody went to another island. Who?”
“Dorrie Hamilton, of course. Because she wouldn’t have wanted to come to me, you see.”
“But Miss Hamilton is here in Washington,” said Henry, raising his voice against what sounded like the waters of the Atlantic Ocean pounding down the line.
“I’m talking about a couple of years ago. When she had a serious drinking problem. Can you hear me, Tibbett?”
“Yes, I can. Go on.”
“Well, if she’d come to me for help, it would have been all round the island in no time, professional secrecy or no,” said the doctor. “You can’t hush things up in a small, enclosed society like that. So she went off to a doctor on St. Mark’s—there’s a plane every day, only takes a quarter of an hour—and he put her on disulfirame. Alcodym, to be precise. So there’s your source of the stuff, right in the Embassy.”
Henry said, “If she was drinking so heavily, surely people on the island must have known about it?”
Duncan hesitated. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Some may have, but I never heard of it, and I know most things that go on. Seems she was a solitary drinker. Of course, she was all broken up by Eddie’s marriage. That’ll have been the root of it all.”
“So how did you finally find out?” Henry asked.
“Pure luck. If you can call it that. I was round at the Hamilton house taking a look at one of the smaller children—suspected measles. I said the child should be isolated—they all live in each other’s pockets, these big families—and Dorrie’s mother said that fortunately Dorrie’s room was now free, and that she’d clear it out for the kid. Well, the clearing out must have been pretty rudimentary, because when I called this morning to see the child, it was obvious that most of Dorrie’s things were still there. And the first thing I set eyes on was this empty Alcodym bottle on the dressing table. I asked Cassie about it—that’s the mother—and after a bit the w
hole story came out.
“Dorrie’s cured now, and very seldom needs to use the Alcodym, but she keeps a bottle with her, just in case.” Dr. Duncan paused, and sighed. “I really can’t believe that Dorrie would have . . . she was jealous, of course, and that creates tensions . . . all the same . . . somebody might have taken the bottle from her room . . . oh, well. I’ll have to leave all that to you, Tibbett.” Suddenly, the doctor sounded very old and tired. “Give my love to Dorrie and—please be gentle with her.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Henry.
“Yes . . . well . . . there it is. Let me know what happens. Good-bye, Tibbett.”
The line went dead. For a moment, Henry sat quite still, frowning to himself. Then he picked up the telephone again, called the Tampican Embassy and asked to speak to Inspector Bartholomew.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. Hope I’m not interrupting your work.”
“No, no, sir. I have already made the inquiries, as you asked me to.”
“Any result?”
“Just what we expected. I have questioned every one of the waiters who served food and drinks at the reception. Including those who were hired from outside. They all agree Lady Ironmonger was served nothing but straight tomato juice.”
“How can they be so sure?”
“Well . . . the fact is that only one waiter served her. He’s a member of the Embassy staff, by the name of . . . just a minute . . Henry could hear the rustle of paper as Bartholomew thumbed through his notes. “Ah . . . here we are . . . Walter Jenkins. It seems that the staff was briefed by Dorrie—by Miss Hamilton, I should say—before the reception. They were all told that Lady Ironmonger would be drinking nothing but tomato juice throughout the evening, and that if she asked for a drink, only tomato juice was to be served her. However, Jenkins was allotted the special task of looking after His Excellency and Lady Ironmonger, to make sure they had everything they wanted and wouldn’t need to ask for anything.”
“Jenkins came with the Ironmongers from Tampica, did he?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Then presumably you must have known him back home,” Henry said.
There was a little pause. Then Bartholomew said, “Not really, sir. He’s not Tampican, you see. He’s from St. Mark’s. Came over to work for Miss Pontefract-Deacon—the English lady who lives out on Sugar Mill Bay, and that’s far out, I can tell you. Jenkins didn’t come into town much. He seems a nice enough guy—when you consider that he’s from St. Mark’s.”
Henry tried to keep the smile out of his voice. “I see. And what did he tell you?”
“He says he served three glasses of plain tomato juice to Lady Ironmonger in the course of the evening. While the receiving line was going on, she kept her glass on a small table behind her, and took a sip from it every so often. He kept an eye on it, and when it was empty he replaced it with a fresh one, without waiting to be asked. Those were his orders. When the receiving line broke up, Lady Ironmonger picked up her glass and carried it with her while she talked to the guests. Jenkins noticed it was full. It was some time since he’d given her a fresh drink, so he concluded that she had simply not touched it. It seems more likely to me that somebody else substituted a doctored drink when Jenkins wasn’t looking. He was in and out of the room, naturally, fetching drinks and food from the kitchen. It would have been easy enough to do, heaven knows. Just a question of picking up an ordinary Bloody Mary, adding the Alcodym and doing a switch while nobody was looking. Anybody in the room could have done it.” Bartholomew sounded distinctly glum.
“Things may not be as hopeless as you think,” said Henry. “I think we’ve got a lead at last.”
“We have? What’s that, sir?”
“I’ll tell you a little later on, Inspector. Meanwhile, can you put me through to Miss Hamilton?”
“I’ll try, sir. I’m not quite sure if I know how to—”
“You’ll find a push button on your telephone receiver, Inspector. I think you push it twice to alert Miss Hamilton’s extensions.” Henry had noticed, while visiting the Embassy, that there appeared to be only one outside telephone line, but many extensions to various rooms and offices. The button system enabled anybody who answered the phone to draw the attention of an occupant in another part of the house that the call was for him.
“Oh . . . I see . . . that’s right. . . thank you, sir . . .”
There was a buzzing noise, and a moment later Dorabella was saying, “Sir Edward Ironmonger’s office. May I help you?”
Henry said, “Ah, Miss Hamilton. This is Henry Tibbett.”
“Good afternoon. What do you want, Chief Superintendent?” Dorabella’s voice was correct but not friendly.
“A word with you, if I may. I believe that you use Alcodym, Miss Hamilton.”
Henry was taking a calculated risk, and he knew it. Nobody from the Embassy could have overheard his conversation with Dr. Duncan, but any of them might know of the doctor’s intention to call, for Margaret had telephoned the Embassy in search of Henry. If Dorabella knew of the call, and was guilty, she would have guessed the gist of Duncan’s information—or at least suspected it. She would be on her guard, and Henry’s only hope was to spring the word “Alcodym” on her without warning and pray to get an instinctive reaction. However, he was aware of the dangers involved.
For a moment there was dead silence. Then Dorabella said, “How on earth did you know that?” She sounded scared.
“Never mind how. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Well . . . yes . . . that is, I used to take it. I don’t need it any more, thank goodness.”
“But you keep a bottle of it, just the same?”
Another long pause.
Henry said, “Please don’t try to deny it, because I know you do.”
“Very well. I do.”
“Have you checked the bottle lately? Is it emptier than it ought to be?”
This time, the silence seemed endless. At last Dorabella said, “I don’t think we should discuss this on the telephone, Chief Superintendent. I finish work in an hour’s time, at five o’clock. Why don’t you come along to my apartment at half-past five? 2581 P Street, near the bridge. Third floor. I’ll talk to you there. You see, the day before the reception . . . oh, excuse me. Sir Edward wants me. I must go. See you at half-past five.” The line went dead.
Henry put down the telephone and sighed. There was no definite proof, of course, but it was depressingly obvious that Dorabella Hamilton had both opportunity, means and motive to kill Mavis Ironmonger. Also, she had sounded frightened on the telephone. On the other hand, she had also sounded puzzled. Whatever the outcome, Henry felt sure that she would keep her appointment with him at half-past five and that she would have interesting information for him.
One of the features which keeps Georgetown such a well-defined entity, a village within a city, is that its eastern and southern boundaries have been indelibly pegged out by nature. To the south, the Potomac River separates it from Virginia. To the east, the escarpment of Dumbarton Rock Falls precipitously down to the narrow gorge known as Rock Creek Park. The creek itself tumbles and cascades along the bed of the valley, followed now in its windings and twisting by the motorway known as Rock Creek Parkway. On the far side, the ground rises again to become downtown Washington.
Two hundred years ago, the abyss of Rock Creek effectively severed any easy communication between Georgetown and the rest of urban Washington—a fact which isolated and annoyed the Georgetowners. Now, several bridges span the valley, some distinguished by fine animal sculptures and known as the Buffalo Bridge or the Lion Bridge, others more mundanely as the M Street or P Street bridges. In any event, it is impossible to get to or from Georgetown without crossing a bridge, and taking a brief look down at the rushing waters of the creek below. This fact creates a psychological gulf between Georgetown and Washington, quite as deep as the physical one. It also makes it impossible for even the most honey-tongued real estate agent to describe a hou
se as being in Georgetown when in fact it is in Foggy Bottom.
Right up as far as the bridges on the Georgetown side, however, property can be and is described as Georgetown—but the last few blocks are definitely on the fringe. Only here will you find the occasional high-rise apartment block, for the area is not protected by a law to preserve its historic character. Many of these apartments are large, modern and comfortable, and have beautiful views down to Rock Creek. It is, of course, pure snobbery for people to maintain that they prefer a tumbledown frame cottage with a leaky basement and a dank back yard in the heart of Georgetown. Nevertheless, this attitude persists.
The address which Dorabella Hamilton had given Henry proved to be one of these apartment blocks near the P Street bridge. It struck Henry as being an eminently suitable choice of residence for a single girl in Dorabella’s position. It was within easy walking distance of her work, modern and therefore easy to run, and without the endless disadvantages of a rickety if historic house. The clerk at the desk in the foyer informed Henry that Miss Hamilton’s apartment was No. 416, on the fourth floor—which Henry now knew enough to interpret into English as the third floor. He inquired where he might find the lift, and encountered a moment of blank incomprehension until the clerk realized that he wanted the elevator. It was twenty-nine minutes past five.
He could hear the insistent buzz of the doorbell inside the apartment as he pressed the button with his finger. A second and a third time the beelike summons rang, but to no effect. Dorabella was not at home.
It certainly would not have taken her a full half-hour to walk from the Embassy to 2581 P Street, Henry reflected. Sir Edward must have asked her to stay on and work late. Henry lit a cigarette, leaned against the door jamb, and waited.
After ten minutes, he went downstairs again and telephoned the Tampican Embassy from a public call box in the foyer. The phone was answered almost at once by Winston Nelson, who sounded surprised.
“Yes, Mr. Tibbett. . . yes, as a matter of fact, I can . . . she left here just a little late, at ten past five. . . . Well, yes, I am sure, because she looked into my office to see if I was still here. She said, ‘It’s ten past five, Winnie, and I’m leaving now. Will you be here for a while?’ I told her I had at least another hour of work to get through, and she said, ‘Oh, good, then you can take any outside calls, because Eddie’s out and everyone else has gone home.’ That’s why I answered your call, Mr. Tibbett.”
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