by Ngaio Marsh
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, but, 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 any 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’s innocent.”
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 Thoms 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. Thoms 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?”
“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 had threatened O’Callaghan, and that when the opportunity came I gave him an overdose of hyoscine. It looks fishy, my giving the injection at all, but it is my usual practice, especially when Roberts is the anæsthetist, 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?”
“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?”
“Thoms, Roberts and myself.”
“What about Mr. Thoms?”
“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 to-morrow?”
“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. “I might give him too much hyoscine if you did,” 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 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 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 wash-out.”
“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 organization 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 Sterilization 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, and certainly consistent with Roberts’s character. With his views on eugenics he’d be sure to support sterilization. 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 to-morrow afternoon. Phillips is arranging it for me. Would you say he was a great loss to the stage?”
“How d’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 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.”
“Au 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 résumé 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, 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:
“1. The bottle of stock solution.
“Probably Banks, Marigold, Harden, Thoms, 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 further 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 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 every
thing 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 necessary 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?”
“No. He thought it rather a foolish suggestion.”
“I’m sorry to hammer away at it like this, but do you think there’s 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.”
