by Ngaio Marsh
“Thank you so much, Dr. Roberts,” said Alleyn 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 this condition as consistent with hyoscine poisoning?”
“Ever since Thoms 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 anæsthetising-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 Sir 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 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 cliché 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 hobbyhorse. 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 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.”
“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—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 and seemed to think deeply for a moment. Then he gave Alleyn a very earnest and somehow 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 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 bloomily at his machine, with a pile of c
opy-paper in a basket beside it.
“Hullo, 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. “Hullo!” 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 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 yours, nor yet, as far as I know, is the murderer your friend. In view of our past experiences, this is very striking1 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 ‘Hélas, 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 personæ. 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. Wrote letter to same effect. Subsequently operated on 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—Thoms. 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. Anæsthetist—Dr. Roberts. Funny little man. Writes books about heredity and will talk on same 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 weekend with deceased and cut up rough when he ended affair. Brought anti-gas syringe to Thoms. 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 nurse. For a place the funny little man.”
“Why?”
“On, the crime-fiction line of reasoning. The two 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 ficti
on?”
“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 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.”
1 See Enter a Murderer and A Man Lay Dead.
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.
