The Gimmel Flask

by Douglas Clark

  Nobody replied. Berger and Reed looked puzzled. Green tried to give the impression he wasn’t trying, but his brain was ticking over furiously. As if to prove it, he said: “How about one of those necklaces made from seeds. They used to be made, before plastic came in.”

  “Good try,” replied Masters. “It was an original antique medicine chest.”

  They stared at him blankly. Then Reed asked: “Do you mean one of those things you hang on the bathroom walls to keep aspirins in and syrup of figs and stuff like that? An old fashioned one?”

  Masters was feeling more than a little dismayed at the dampness of this particular squib, when all of a sudden the blue paper started burning gratifyingly quickly. Berger leapt so violently to his feet that the case stand collapsed.

  “Do you mean one of those old travelling medicine chests, Chief? Like the Duke of Wellington carried with him in his carriage in the Peninsula Wars?” The constable had gabbled it out so fast that Masters had to hold up one hand to stop him.

  “Quite right. The one in the catalogue is listed as circa 1840, so the old boy himself could still have been around when it was made.”

  Green selected a crumpled Kensitas. “I’ve heard something about those. They were rather more numerous in this country than overseas because all our nobs used to do the grand tour and tote one along with them. And, of course, the Empire was getting pretty well outflung and people were having to go to all the corners of the earth and so they took their medicine chests with them. Right?”

  “Quite right,” said Masters. “I went to the public library to find out what I could about them. I made a few notes if you’re interested.”

  “Obviously you expect us to be,” retorted Green.

  “Don’t go on as if you’re not bursting to hear,” said Masters. “I’ve known you too long to be taken in with feigned resignation. You’re as thirsty for knowledge as you were for that beer when it first came in.”

  Green grimaced. “If it’ll amuse you.”

  “I’d like to hear,” said Reed. “I appear to be the only one who knows nothing about these chests.”

  Masters consulted his notes. “As you’ve heard, as people started to travel more and to open up less populated parts of the world, the demand came for apothecaries to start packing medicines for use overseas. Before then, a lot of home-made remedies had been used and up to that time there had been very little provision for jars of pills, potions, ointments and tinctures.

  “The chests came into vogue in the late eighteenth century and were produced throughout the nineteenth century. Almost inevitably, as they became known, they were produced in quite large numbers for home use as well as travel.”

  “What were they made of? Wood?” asked Green.

  “According to the books, they were first class examples of the cabinet maker’s skill, and were made of mahogany, grained oak, deal, leather and—later—japanned metal. Those in wood combined drawers, trays and cupboards. I saw an illustration of one opened up. It was a heavily made box with a deep hinged lid. The top half of the box was jammed with stoppered bottles, each one labelled with its contents. The bottom half was a drawer which was divided in all manner of ways. Remember the old pencil boxes with sliding lids and sections inside? It reminded me of those. Two sliding lids which met in the middle of the front half. The parts they covered were sub-divided to take plasters, pill boxes, insufflators, safety pins and so on. The two back corners had lift-out tin boxes—perfect cubes with rings in the lids. They were obviously for some very commonly used material—perhaps linseed for poultices in one and salt or lime for cleansing in the other. Between these two was a long space for scissors forceps, probes, a hank of horsehair, needles for stitching and various other et ceteras I couldn’t recognise. Oh, yes! There was a little pestle and mortar, too.

  “The book said that the pharmacists who supplied and stocked the cabinets often included, besides the traditional medicaments, some items made up to the individual customer’s requirements.”

  Masters looked round for comments as he finished. Green, staring up at the ceiling and trying to blow smoke rings, said: “Since croton oil was listed in the British Pharmacopoeia until 1914, and since people in those days were obsessed with having laxatives every day to keep their bowels open—thinking that turning themselves inside out every morning was what made Britain great—you are saying that you think there is a good chance that those medicine chests contained croton oil. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And since one of these chests has turned up locally, as has a dollop of croton oil which has proved untraceable elsewhere in the country, you are putting two and two together to make your usual five.”

  “I am asking you to at least consider the chest as not only a possible source of the croton oil, but the probable one.”

  Green rolled over until he was facing Masters.

  “You’re right, of course. You’ve got to be. The coincidence would be too great, else.”

  “But, sir,” said Reed. “Since 1840? Oil over a hundred years old?”

  “Have you ever known oil in a stoppered bottle evaporate?” asked Berger. “Or deteriorate? Come on, chum! They even keep port and brandy that long without it going off.”

  “True enough,” replied Masters. “But there was a point made in one of the books I read. It was concerned with dating the chests for the antiquarian’s benefit. These chests usually had the original supplier’s labels in the lid, set in rows to correspond to the bottles on the top shelf, of which one could only normally see the stoppers and shoulders—as opposed to the labels on the sides. However, the book pointed out that it was as well to remember that the bottles were not always refilled at the pharmacy which originally furnished a chest. So the owner would take along a bottle to be refilled. He wouldn’t take the whole chest. A new label would go on the refilled bottle, but the old one would stay in the lid. My point is, that though the chest may be a genuine 1840 model judging by the lid labels, the contents could have been replaced again and again until such time as the chest went out of regular use, and that could be much more recently than 1840.”

  “Good point,” said Green. “So now what we have to do is to establish whether that particular chest actually did contain croton oil. After that the going may be hard or easy. Who knows?” He turned to Masters. “You had the invoice books. Did you look up to see who bought the chest?”

  Masters nodded.

  “Who?”

  After a brief pause, Masters said: “Benson.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence while this news sank in. Then all three of Masters’ listeners tried to speak at once.

  “Let’s not get too excited,” he pleaded. “One at a time. Greeny?”

  “All I was about to say was that I am now convinced, without any need to see it for myself, that the cabinet in question did contain croton oil, and that the croton oil that killed Hardy came from that cabinet.”

  “No argument. I felt the same myself. But we shall still have to check.”

  “And recheck Benson.”

  “Certainly. Reed?”

  “I was going to say, Chief, that even though that chest did contain croton oil and Benson bought it, it doesn’t mean to say he ever had the oil.”

  “I quite agree. You’re thinking of the other lot—the glassware—from which the gimmel flask mysteriously disappeared after the sale. You think the croton oil might have walked, too.”

  “Just a thought, Chief.”

  “And a very pertinent one. Berger?”

  “I was going to say, Chief, that it’s one thing to buy a medicine chest which has a bottle of croton oil in it, and quite another to know that the oil is dangerous and can be used for murdering somebody with. Your average chap wouldn’t know that. Not one of us had ever heard of croton oil until yesterday, and if none of us knew about it, I don’t reckon many others do. So what I’m trying to say is, that we’re looking for somebody who knows about medicines and their effects.”
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  “Quite right. Or somebody with enough up top to get to know about them.”

  “Benson comes in that category,” said Green. “He must do a hell of a lot of research and reading to get to know about his antiques and to establish their . . . what’s the word . . .?”

  “Provenance.”

  “Yeah! That’s it. He’ll always be digging in musty old books—just the sort of place to find out about croton oil.”

  “True,” said Masters.

  “So what’s next?”

  “Next? What’s wrong with a spot of dinner?”

  Chapter Eight

  It was when they were drinking coffee after dinner that Green said: “What about Benson? Can we afford to leave him till tomorrow?”

  “I don’t intend to. I think we could stroll along there when we’re ready and see if he’s at home, don’t you?”

  “Have you told the local boys?”

  Masters looked at him pityingly.

  “Okay, okay,” said Green. “I only asked.”

  “In that case, the true answer is that when I found the lot in the catalogue and the appropriate invoice, I was alone. None of them were around to tell. That’s why I left a message for you and you know where you found me.”

  The hotel restaurant was barely half full. The term ‘early closing’ in Limpid seemed to mean that the whole town closed down—a fair indication that the town was, in truth, little more than the shopping centre for the surrounding area. At their table in the corner of the long room they were virtually isolated. If they wished to converse in confidence there seemed to be no reason why they shouldn’t.

  “I like this pub,” said Green. “I like the building and the rooms. The beer’s passable . . . if you get my meaning . . . and the grub’s not bad. We had that liver pudding at lunchtime and their roast turkey tonight—both good. But I can’t understand why they try to con you by cutting a sausage in half and then laying it flat side down on the plate to make it look like a whole one. That’s the sort of rotten trick you find all over this country these days. Why, they never did that with NAAFI bangers at the worst period of the war.”

  “I agree,” said Berger. “They want to serve up small ones or cut them out altogether. You can’t trust anybody these days.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Reed. “You’d trust a copper, wouldn’t you?”

  “Not even them,” said Green. “Ask the boss.”

  Reed looked across at Masters. “Don’t you trust coppers, Chief?”

  “Present company excepted, and a good few others I dare say, there is no reason to suppose that a policeman is any more trustworthy than many other citizens. We in the force are a cross section of the community, in spite of fairly careful selection, and we have the failings of any cross section. By and large, if you’re a good copper, you’re only good at being a copper. You have a bit more authority thrust on you, of course, and I believe that it is authority which is the downfall of the force. Wrongly exercised authority, I mean, and when I say downfall of the force, I mean on the occasions when it does fall down.”

  “You reckon it does very often?”

  “More often than I like to think. You see, there are some facts that can help police. Take murder as an instance. It is a fact that in over fifty per cent of cases, a near relative of the victim is guilty of his murder. That fact should help us immensely. But unthinking coppers don’t use it wisely. They use it, in fact, together with a good modicum of third degree, instead of investigation.”

  “I don’t get you, Chief.”

  “Then you should. I can quote you at least three cases which have reached the newspapers recently where local detectives have immediately picked up a victim’s nearest relative—for no reason other than the fact that he or she was the nearest relative—and subjected them to forms of questioning which are best forgotten. These people, already distressed by the deaths of loved ones, are treated as guilty people, although the slightest attempt at true investigation would have shown them to be innocent. They are invited to confess; told that the police know they have done it; bullied unmercifully; have words put in their mouths. You know the sort of thing: ‘Come on and, confess. You went down to the pub, didn’t you. You saw her there and didn’t like what she was doing. So you clobbered her, didn’t you?’ The interviewee says no, so then he gets: ‘Come on, lad, make it easy for yourself. Confess, and we’ll stop.’ Or you get the usual one of: ‘If you want to play it the hard way, lad, don’t blame me?’ Or the hard questioner followed by the soft soaper.”

  “You never use those methods, Chief.”

  “Never. I consider that they, in themselves, are criminal acts. In the overwhelming environment of a police station you can, by those methods, get anybody to say anything if you go on long enough. If I ever come across it, the officer implicated gets the rough edge of my tongue. But nobody who is being questioned does. If I can’t prove a crime and pin it on the villain by my investigatory ability, I don’t resort to bullying which will never prove anything.”

  “You sound bitter, Chief.”

  “I am. You see I’ve suffered such treatment.”

  “You have, Chief?”

  “The Detective Chief Inspector here will be able to tell you better than I can. He sorted it out for me.”

  Reed turned to Green.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s about two years ago now. You’ve seen your revered boss’s private car, have you? It’s the sort that catches the eye and rouses a bit of envy now and again. He was tooling along in it at a sedate thirty-five in a forty area one Sunday afternoon. The road was empty and all was serene when a couple of young motor-cycle cops roar up from behind, pull over in front of him and flag him down. He stops like a good citizen and then it starts. Tyres kicked, number plates tugged—the whole treatment. His nibs asks why he has been stopped, and one joker says because the car’s been travelling at sixty in a forty area. Now, being the chap he is, the boss does not pull out a warrant card and show it, he merely says that he was doing thirty-five. To his horror, this causes the two boyos to threaten him with a duffing up if he argues with them and he’s to remember that it’s not only two to one there, on the spot, but it’ll be their two words against one in court.

  “His confidence in the force thoroughly shaken, his nibs says no more, and when he’s asked for his name, just says George Masters—no hint of rank or of being a copper. Then he’s let go. Of course, he’s out of the Metropolitan Area where he’s known, so those two don’t cotton on to who he is, nor do the people in their nick, and in due course, the summons comes through. But his nibs, incensed by what has happened, has already reported the affair at the Yard. The Yard takes it seriously. It is decided that these two boyos shall be investigated unbeknown to them. I’m told off to do it. I don’t stop the proceedings, because I’m working behind the scenes. And what I didn’t turn up! It had to be true. Those boyos had pulled in a capful. Every driver had been alone at the time. Every car stopped was a class vehicle. And every one of those drivers swore he had been threatened with a beating up.”

  “Then what?”

  “All hell was let loose. I got both of them put inside for perverting the course of justice. I got sergeants, inspectors and a Chief Super kicked out, suspended or demoted, according to their lack of supervision, and I got well over a dozen fines and endorsements squashed. I also made it my business to have a word or two with the local magistrates about gullibility and smelling rats when too many cases from the same cops were too similar, and finally I gave them the bit about accountability. We had a clean up there, I can tell you.”

  Berger was thoughtful. At last he asked: “It’s an eye-opener of a story, but what’s the point of it at this juncture.”

  “Because we asked,” explained Reed.

  “Not entirely,” said Masters. “What I want you to understand is that you are public servants and so have a real duty to the public. I’m not asking you to be soft with criminals. I couldn’t do that, because
I’m too fond of sending them down myself. But a person is innocent until proved guilty. Responsibility sometimes leads to us forgetting that.”

  “I get it, Chief. There appears to be a lot of evidence against Benson, but you’re still going to treat him as a completely innocent man.”

  “More or less. I shall not haul him off to the nick, I shall not bully him, but I shall question him very closely. I can’t guarantee any form of success, but I’ll fall over backwards not to harass unduly an innocent man. And believe me, under that gruff exterior which the Chief Inspector sometimes assumes, you will find a kind heart that will not, under any circumstances whatsoever, accept unfairness. He’ll put pressure on known criminals. None better. But he knows them and they know him. He’s got a philosophy which says that nobody should suffer except those who deserve it.”

  “So,” said Green, “shall we go and see old Benson?”

  As Masters got to his feet, Reed asked: “Can we come, Chief?”

  Masters nodded. If he was going to weld a team he had to do the field training. He’d taught them how he expected them to behave. Now, perhaps, they might get a glimpse of how reasonable behaviour can pay off even in murder investigations.

  *

  “Four of you?” Benson sounded not the least put out by the size of the party. “Come in, all of you. We keep consulting each other, don’t we? Shall I go first?”

  He limped ahead up the stairs. Reed and Berger coming up slowly in the rear were taking it all in. Masters heard them whispering about the grill and sensed their admiration for the flat when they eventually reached it. He himself had no definite plan as to how to play his hand. He held a couple of aces. He felt he could afford to let events take their course as long as they kept more or less to the subject in hand. His three companions were all, he felt, completely on his net and should be able to contribute something to the conversation.

  Benson saw to it that each had a seat before settling down himself.

  “We’re a bit of a crowd,” explained Masters, “because I believe in trying to keep everyone informed, and Limpid doesn’t offer much for young policemen off duty on a Wednesday evening.”