by Ngaio Marsh
Now that they had all closed round the table the illusion was complete. The conical glare poured itself down between the white figures, bathing their masked faces and the fronts of their gowns in a violence of light, and leaving their backs in sharp shadow, so that between shadow and light there was a kind of shimmering border that ran round their outlines. Boys and Fox had come in from their posts and stood impassive in the doorways. Alleyn walked round the theatre to a position about two yards behind the head of the table.
Roberts wheeled forward the anæsthetising apparatus. Suddenly, entirely without warning, one of the white figures gave a sharp exclamation, something between a cry and a protest.
“It’s too horrible—really—I can’t—!”
It was the matron, the impeccable Sister Marigold. She had raised her hands in front of her face as if shutting off some shocking spectacle. Now she backed away from the table and collided with the anæsthetising apparatus. She stumbled, kicked it so that it moved, and half fell, clutching at it as she did so.
There was a moment’s silence and then a portly little figure in white suddenly screamed out an oath.
“What the bloody hell are you doing? Do you want to kill—”
“What’s the matter?” said Alleyn sharply. His voice had an incisive edge that made all the white heads turn. “What is it, Mr. Thoms?”
Thoms was down on his knees, an absurd figure, frantically reaching out to the apparatus. Roberts, who had stooped down to the lower framework of the cruet-like stand and had rapidly inspected it, thrust the little fat man aside. He tested the nuts that held the frame together. His hands shook a little and his face, the only one unmasked, was very pale.
“It’s perfectly secure, Thoms,” he said. “None of the nuts are loose. Matron, please stand away.”
“I didn’t mean—I’m sorry,” began Sister Marigold.
“Do you realise—” said Thoms in a voice that was scarcely recognisable—“do you realise that if one of those cylinders had fallen out and burst, we’d none of us be alive. Do you know that?”
“Nonsense, Thoms,” said Roberts in an unsteady voice. “It’s most unlikely that anything of the sort could occur. It would take more than that to burst a cylinder, I assure you.”
“I’m sure I’m very sorry, Mr. Thoms,” said matron sulkily. “Accidents will happen.”
“Accidents mustn’t happen,” barked Thoms. He squatted down and tested the nuts.
“Please leave it alone, Mr. Thoms,” said Roberts crisply. “I assure you it’s perfectly safe.”
Thoms did not answer. He got to his feet and turned back to the table.
“And now what happens?” asked Alleyn. His deep voice sounded like a tonic note. Phillips spoke quietly.
“I made the incision and carried on with the operation. I found peritonitis and a ruptured abscess of the appendix. I proceeded in the usual way. At this stage, I think, Dr. Roberts began to be uneasy about the pulse and the general condition. Am I right, Roberts?”
“Quite right, sir. I asked for an injection of camphor.”
Without waiting to be told, Nurse Banks went to the side table, took up the ampoule of camphor, went through the pantomime of filling a syringe and returned to the patient.
“I injected it,” she said concisely.
Through Alleyn’s head ran the old jingle: “A made an apple pie, B bit it, C cut it—I injected it,” he added mentally.
“And then?” he asked.
“After completing the operation I asked for the anti-gas serum.”
“I got it,” said Jane bravely.
She walked to the table.
“I stood, hesitating. I felt faint. I—I couldn’t focus things properly.”
“Did anybody notice this?”
“I looked round and saw something was wrong,” said Phillips. “She simply stood there swaying a little.”
“You notice this, Mr. Thoms?”
“Well, I’m afraid, inspector, I rather disgraced myself by kicking up a rumpus. What, nurse? Bit hard on you, what? Didn’t know how the land lay. Too bad, wasn’t it?”
“When you had finished, Nurse Harden brought the large syringe?”
“Yes.”
Jane came back with the syringe on a tray. “Thoms took it,” went the jingle in Alleyn’s head.
“I injected it,” said Thoms.
“Mr. Thoms then asked about the condition,” added Roberts. “I said it was disquieting. I remember Sir John remarked that although he knew the patient personally he had had no idea he was ill. Nurse Banks and I lifted the patient on to the trolley and he was taken away.”
They did this with the dummy.
“Then I fainted,” said Jane.
“A dramatic finish—what?” shouted Thoms, who seemed to have quite recovered his equilibrium.
“The end,” said Alleyn, “came later. The patient was then taken back to his room, where you attended him, Dr. Roberts. Was anyone with you?”
“Nurse Graham was there throughout. I left her in the room when I returned here to report on the general condition, which I considered markedly worse.”
“And in the meantime Sir John and Mr. Thoms washed up in the anteroom?”
“Yes,” said Phillips.
“What did you talk about?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Oh yes, sir, you do, surely,” said Thoms. “We talked about Nurse Harden doing a faint, and I said I could see the operation had upset you, and you—” he grinned—“you first said it hadn’t, you know, and then said it had. Very natural, really,” he explained to Alleyn, who raised one eyebrow and turned to the nurses.
“And you cleaned up the theatre, and Miss Banks gave one of her well-known talks on the Dawn of the Proletariat Day?”
“I did,” said Banks with a snap.
“Meanwhile Dr. Roberts came down and reported, and you and Mr. Thoms, Sir John, went up to the patient?”
“Yes. The matron, Sister Marigold, joined us. We found the patient’s condition markedly worse. As you know, he died about half an hour later, without regaining consciousness.”
“Thank you. That covers the ground. I am extremely grateful to all of you for helping us with this rather unpleasant business. I won’t keep you any longer.” He turned to Phillips. “You would like to get out of your uniforms, I’m sure.”
“If you’re finished,” agreed Phillips. Fox opened the swing-door and he went through, followed by Thoms, Sister Marigold, Jane Harden, and Banks. Dr. Roberts crossed to the anæsthetising apparatus.
“I’ll get this out of the way,” he said.
“Oh—do you mind leaving it while you change?” said Alleyn. “I just want to make a plan of the floor.”
“Certainly,” said Roberts.
“Would you be very kind and see if you can beat me up a sheet of paper and a pencil, Dr. Roberts? Sorry to bother you, but I hardly like to send one of my own people hunting for it.”
“Shall I ask?” suggested Roberts.
He put his head round the door into the anteroom and spoke to someone on the other side.
“Inspector Alleyn would like—”
Fox walked heavily across from the other end of the theatre.
“I can hear a telephone ringing its head off out there, sir,” he said, looking fixedly at Alleyn.
“Really? I wonder if it’s that call from the Yard? Go and see, will you, Fox? Sister Marigold won’t mind, I’m sure.”
Fox went out.
“Inspector Alleyn,” ventured Roberts, “I do hope that the reconstruction has been satisfactory—” He broke off. Phillips’s resonant voice could be heard in the anteroom. With a glance towards it Roberts ended wistfully: “—from every point of view.”
Alleyn smiled at him, following his glance. “From that point of view, Dr. Roberts, most satisfactory.” “I’m extremely glad.” Jane Harden came in with a sheet of paper and pencil,
which she gave Alleyn. She went out. Roberts watched Alleyn lay
the paper on the side table and take out his steel tape measure. Fox returned.
“Telephone for Dr. Roberts, I believe, sir,” he announced.
“Oh—for you, is it?” said Alleyn.
Roberts went out through the anæsthetic-room.
“Shut that door, quick,” said Alleyn urgently.
Evidently he had changed his mind about making a plan. He darted like a cat across the room and bent over the frame of the anæsthetic apparatus. His fingers were busy with the nuts.
Boys stood in front of one door, Fox by the other.
“Hell’s teeth, it’s stiff,” muttered Alleyn.
The double doors from the anteroom opened suddenly, banging Inspector Boys in the broad of his extensive back.
“Just a minute, sir, just a minute,” he rumbled.
Under his extended arm appeared the face of Mr. Thoms. His eyes were fixed on Alleyn.
“What are you doing?” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Just a minute, if you please, sir,” repeated Boys, and with an enormous but moderate paw he thrust Thoms back and closed the doors.
“Look at this!” whispered Alleyn.
Fox and Boys, for a split second, glimpsed what he held in his hand. Then he bent down again and worked feverishly.
“What’ll we do?” asked Fox quietly. “Go right into it—now?”
For an instant Alleyn hesitated. Then he said:
“No—not here. Wait! Work it this way.”
He had given his instructions when Roberts returned from the telephone.
“Nobody there,” he told them. “I rang up my house, but there’s no message. Whoever it was must have been cut off.”
“Bore for you,” said Alleyn.
Sister Marigold came in, followed by Thoms. Marigold saw the Yard men still in possession, and hesitated.
“Hullo, ’ullo,” shouted Thoms, “what’s all this. Caught Roberts in the act?”
“Really, Mr. Thoms,” said Roberts in a rage and went over to his apparatus.
“All right, matron,” said Alleyn, “I’m done. You want to clear up, I expect.”
“Oh, well—yes.”
“Go ahead. We’ll make ourselves scarce. Fox, you and Boys give Dr. Roberts a hand out with that cruet-stand.”
“Thank you,” said Roberts, “I’ll manage.”
“No trouble at all, sir,” Fox assured him.
Alleyn left them there. He ran downstairs and out into Brook Street, where he hailed a taxi.
In forty minutes the same taxi put him down in Wigmore Street. This time he had two plain-clothes sergeants with him. Dr. Roberts’s little butler opened the door. His face was terribly white. He looked at Alleyn without speaking and then stood aside. Alleyn, followed by his men, walked into the drawing-room. Roberts stood in front of the fireplace. Above him the picture of the little lake and the Christmas trees shone cheerfully in the lamplight. Fox stood inside the door and Boys near the window. The anæsthetic apparatus had been wheeled over by the desk.
When Roberts saw Alleyn he tried to speak, but at first could not. His lips moved as though he was speaking, but there were no words. Then at last they came.
“Inspector Alleyn—why—have you sent these men-after me?”
For a moment they looked at each other.
“I had to,” said Alleyn. “Dr. Roberts, I have a warrant here for your arrest. I must warn you—”
“What do you mean?” screamed Roberts. “You’ve no grounds—no proof—you fool—what are you doing?”
Alleyn walked over to the thing like a cruet. He stooped down, unscrewed something that looked like a nut and drew it out. With it came a hypodermic syringe. The “nut” was the top of the piston.
“Grounds enough,” said Alleyn.
It took the four men to hold Roberts and they had to put handcuffs on him. The insane are sometimes physically very strong.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Retrospective
Saturday, the twentieth. Evening.
TWO EVENINGS AFTER the arrest Alleyn dined with Nigel and Angela. The inspector had already been badgered by Nigel for copy and had thrown him a few bones to gnaw. Angela, however, pined for first-hand information. During dinner the inspector was rather silent and withdrawn. Something prompted Angela to kick Nigel smartly on the shin when he broached the subject of the arrest. Nigel suppressed a cry of pain and glared at her. She shook her head slightly.
“Was it very painful, Bathgate?” asked Alleyn.
“Er—oh—yes,” said Nigel sheepishly.
“How did you know I kicked him?” Angela inquired. “You must be a detective.”
“Not so that you would notice it, but perhaps I am about to strike form again.”
“Hullo—all bitter, are you? Aren’t you pleased with yourself over this case, Mr. Alleyn?” Angela ventured.
“One never gets a great deal of gratification from a fluke.”
“A fluke!” exclaimed Nigel.
“Just that.”
He held his glass of port under his nose, glanced significantly at Nigel and sipped it.
“Go on,” he said resignedly. “Go on. Ask me. I know perfectly well why I’m here and you don’t produce a wine like this every evening. Bribery. Subtle corruption. Isn’t it, now?”
“Yes,” said Nigel simply.
“I won’t have Mr. Alleyn bullied,” said Angela.
“You would if he could,” rejoined Alleyn cryptically. “I know your tricks and your manners.”
The others were silent.
“As a matter of fact,” Alleyn continued, “I have every intention of talking for hours.”
They beamed.
“What an angel you are, to be sure,” said Angela. “Bring that decanter next door. Don’t dare sit over it in here. The ladies are about to leave the dining-room.”
She got up; Alleyn opened the door for her, and she went through into Nigel’s little sitting-room, where she hastily cast four logs on the fire, pulled up a low table between two armchairs, and sat down on the hearth-rug.
“Come on!” she called sternly.
They came in. Alleyn put the decanter down reverently on the table, and in a moment they were all settled.
“Now,” said Angela, “I do call this fun.”
She looked from Nigel to Alleyn. Each had the contented air of the well-fed male. The fire blazed up with a roar and a crackle, lighting the inspector’s dark head and his admirable hands. He settled himself back and, easing his chin, turned and smiled at her.
“You may begin,” said Angela.
“But—where from?”
“From the beginning—well, from the operating theatre.”
“Oh. The remark I invariably make about the theatre is that it afforded the ideal setting for a murder. The whole place was cleaned up scientifically—hygienically—completely—as soon as the body of the victim was removed. No chance of a fingerprint, no significant bits and pieces left on the floor. Nothing. As a matter of fact, of course, had it been left exactly as it was, we should have found nothing that pointed to Roberts.” Alleyn fell silent again.
“Begin from where you first suspected Roberts,” suggested Nigel.
“From where you suspected him, rather. The funny little man, you know.”
“By gum, yes. So I did.”
“Did you?” Angela asked.
“I had no definite theory about him,” said Alleyn. “That’s why I talked about a fluke. I was uneasy about him. I had a hunch, and I hate hunches. The first day I saw him in his house I began to feel jumpy about him, and fantastic ideas kept dodging about at the back of my mind. He was, it seemed, a fanatic. That long, hectic harangue about hereditary taints— somehow it was too vehement. He was obviously nervous about the case and yet he couldn’t keep off it. He very delicately urged the suicide theory and backed it up with a lecture on eugenics. He was certainly sincere, too sincere, terribly earnest. The whole atmosphere was unbalanced. I recognised the man with an idèe fixe
. Then he told me a long story about how he’d once given an overdose, and that was why he never gave injections. That made me uncomfortable, because it was such a handy proof of innocence. ‘He can’t have done the job, because he never gives an injection.’ Then I saw his stethoscope with rows of notches on the stem, and again there was a perfect explanation. He said it was a sort of tally for every anæsthetic he gave successfully to patients with heart disease. I was reminded of Indian tomahawks and Edward S. Ellis, and more particularly of a catapult I had as a boy and the notches I cut in the handle for every bird I killed. The fantastic notion that the stethoscope was that sort of tally-stick nagged and nagged at me. When we found he was one of the Lenin Hall lot I wondered if he could possibly be their agent, and yet I didn’t somehow think there was anything in the Lenin Hall lot. When we discovered he had hoped to egg them on over the Sterilization Bill I felt that accounted perfectly for his association with them. Next time I saw him I meant to surprise him with a sudden question about them. He completely defeated me by talking about them of his own accord. That might have been a subtle move, but I didn’t think so. He lent me his book and here again I found the fanatic. I don’t know why it is that pursuit of any branch of scientific thought which is greatly concerned with sex so often leads to morbid obsession. Not always, by any means—but very often. I’ve met it over and over again. It’s an interesting point and I’d like to know the explanation. Roberts’s book is a sound, a well-written plea for rational breeding. It is not in the least hysterical, and yet, behind it, in the personality of the writer, I smelt hysteria. There was one chapter where he said that a future civilization might avoid the expense and trouble of supporting its a-ments and de-ments, by eliminating them altogether. ‘Sterilization,’ he wrote, ‘might in time be replaced by extermination.’ After reading that I forced myself to face up to that uneasy idea that had worried me ever since I first spoke to him. O’Callaghan came of what Roberts would regard as tainted stock. Suppose—suppose, thought I, blushing at my own credulity, suppose Roberts had got the bright idea of starting the good work by destroying such people every time he got the opportunity? Suppose he had brought it off several times before, and that every time he’d had a success he ticked it up on his stethoscope?”
