Antidote to Venom

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  French now wondered if he had not been premature in reaching this conclusion. He really had not sufficiently considered the question. Now it seemed to him the only possible solution of his difficulty, and he felt he must go into it exhaustively. If he could make nothing of it, he would at least be no worse off.

  All that evening he worried over the problem, eventually taking it to bed with him. He lay awake with it for some hours; and then a further idea struck him, and once again he wondered if he had reached his solution.

  Had a delayed action device been used, and had it been, like all he had previously known, mechanical? Had the living snake been out of the picture altogether?

  French now saw that he had allowed himself to be obsessed with the idea of the living smake. Suppose the creature had been used only to supply venom, which had then been employed in some sort of mechanical striker? Suppose points had been arranged to prick the professor’s hand, and suppose these points had been painted with the venom? He remembered reading of the rings used in the Middle Ages by the Borgias and like-minded gentry, and how, when shaking hands, the sharp point could be pressed into the victim’s hand. Had some modern version of the Borgias’ murders been committed?

  French turned his thoughts to the wound on Burnaby’s hand. It had been assumed that he had been bitten while trying to ward the snake off. But instead had he grasped something with poisoned points which had pricked him?

  This idea was certainly promising. French grew almost excited as he pursued it. Where exactly was the injury?

  On the palm of the right hand, near the base of the first and second fingers. French clasped his left hand with his right. Why, yes, that was the part of the hand which normally touched a grasped object.

  What could such an object have been? Something apparently connected with Burnaby’s departure from home. What did a man grasp on leaving his house? Obviously a door handle: he would pull some door after him. Could poisoned spikes have been fixed to a door handle, and when Burnaby seized it to close the door, could he have pressed the spikes into his hand?

  Then French remembered that if either Capper or Cochrane was guilty, this could not have happened. The police were in charge at “Riverview” before either could have reached the house, and it was absurd to suppose that a trick handle could have been removed under their noses.

  What else did a man grasp on leaving home?

  In spite of careful consideration, French could think of nothing. A spiked door handle would fit the wounds on Burnaby’s hand, but so far as he could see, that was the only object which would do so.

  It was as a last resort, rather than as a promising line of research, that next morning he went to “Riverview” to see if he could find the required object. He put himself in Burnaby’s place leaving the house. What might he pick up? A walking stick? No, if he had been injured by a walking stick he would have dropped it and it would have been found. There seemed to be nothing.

  In despair he examined the door handles. They were all quite normal. None bore marks suggesting that some lethal apparatus had been attached.

  French was disappointed. The idea of a delayed action appliance had seemed too promising, and now it also had proved a washout. He must be on the wrong track altogether. Someone other than Capper must be the murderer. He would have to begin the case again, looking for someone else who wished Burnaby dead.

  What, he thought suddenly, about Leet? Could Leet be the man they were all looking for? No one seemed to have suspected Leet and he wondered why. Probably because Leet had no motive. But French saw that this assumption might easily be false. Leet might have had a motive. He might have had dealings with the professor that no one else knew of.

  As he turned this idea over in his mind he saw how easy it would have been for Leet to commit the murder. Suppose he had got the snake, either having stolen it himself or bribed one of the Zoo attendants. He could have walked over to “Riverview” with the snake in its tongs just before Burnaby was due to start. Probably he would have disguised himself and taken the path by the Choole, which would be deserted at that hour. He could have met Burnaby as the latter was leaving his house, held out the snake to him, and as Burnaby was warding it off, he would have been bitten. Then Leet could have dropped the snake into the barrel and returned home, probably getting rid of the tongs on the way, perhaps by throwing it into the river.

  French wondered why Rankin had not gone into this possibility. Then he thought he would go round and have a word with Leet and see what sort of man he was. A question about the time he had expected Burnaby would account for his visit.

  He took the small footpath from the “Riverside” door which led to the north-west corner of the little estate, that nearest Leet’s house. He was opening the gate on to the road, when suddenly he stopped as if shot.

  Except that there was no upper lintel, it was more like a door than a gate: a close-sheeted wooden structure with a spring to keep it shut. But it was not this which had attracted French’s attention. To open it you had to turn a handle!

  French looked at the handle. It was pear-shaped and made of bakelite, with a small sunk screw in the neck to keep it on the turning bar. He bent down and examined the screw. Though the handle itself was old and weathered, the screw looked new.

  A little thrill of excitement ran through French as he realised that here might be the solution of his problem. Burnaby would necessarily grasp this handle when going to Leet’s, and it was a practical certainty that at that time of night no one else would. Moreover, the place was hidden by shrubs from the house and the murderer could easily have changed the trick handle while the police were in charge.

  With the idea of Leet swept from his brain as a teacher erases a sum from a blackboard, French set his mind to considering whether Capper could have murdered his uncle by a trick door-handle.

  Chapter XVIII

  Venom: In the Workshop

  To think effectively French had always found he must be comfortable in body. Whether it was that physical discomfort gave him a subconscious unrest which distracted his attention, or whether a luxurious pose released energy for his brain, he did not know. But he was quite certain that the more difficult his problem, the more valuable became quiet, a bright fire, an easy chair and a pot of coffee. Bed really was the best place to think, and as he looked back over his life, he saw that more of his really heart-breaking puzzles had been solved there than in any other place.

  But this particular conundrum scarcely seemed to require such heroic methods. Once given the main idea, to think out the details should be comparatively simple. He dispensed therefore with elaborate preparations, simply sitting down in a quiet corner of his hotel lounge, his pipe in his mouth and his notebook open on his knee.

  Suppose Capper had designed and constructed in his workshop—he was a skilful wood and metal worker, so must have a workshop—the Borgian handle, with its venomed spikes set to puncture a grasping hand. Two further operations would be required for the full fruition of the scheme. The handle would have to be put in place before Burnaby started out for Leet’s (but after the gate was likely to be used by anyone else) and it would have to be taken off again before the police could find it. Could Capper have carried out these operations?

  Very little thought showed French that he could. “Riverview” was on the road between Birmington and Bursham, and Capper must have passed it at least twice on that evening, once before eight and once after it.

  It was at this point that French, with rising excitement, saw the significance of that tale of the dentist and the filled tooth. He had wondered at the time why Capper had told it, but now he saw. The episode was clearly designed to facilitate the first of those passages, and Capper had told the story to explain his presence should he have been seen in the vicinity of “Riverview.”

  Simpler still was it to see how the handle might have been removed. Capper was Burnaby’s only relat
ive, at least in the district. Marr, as the old man’s neighbour and doctor, would hear at once of his death and would be certain to ring Capper up. Capper would naturally come into Birmington, and on his way to Marr’s would pass the very gate. Nothing easier than to stop and re-change the handles. Normally he wouldn’t be seen, but if he were he could say he thought his uncle’s body was at “Riverview.”

  Here was a satisfactory theory at last! French hugged himself with delight. He was going to get his own back on the Birmington police after all. And badly his self-respect required such a development. But he mustn’t be too cocksure. Every item would have to be tested before he spoke of it. He wouldn’t risk another snub. Slow and sure did it.

  He turned to the question of what tests he required. Three were obvious and he would get on with them at once. Probably they would prove sufficient.

  First, he would ask Rankin confidentially to go into all the notes made by patrolmen who were in the neighbourhood of “Riverview” on the night in question. Had any of these men seen a parked car, an Austin Seven for preference? Next, he would interview the dentist and check up hours; and lastly, he would see Marr and get his views about the spiked handle.

  Rankin showed considerable interest when French made his request. But French did not satisfy his curiosity. “Just a notion,” he said, evasively. “If there’s anything in it, you’ll be the first person to hear. Don’t make a fuss about it, like a good fellow. Just let me have any information you get.”

  When French reached Clovelly Street he had to wait nearly an hour for an interview with the dentist. But he did not repine, for the information he eventually received was complete and definite. Capper’s story was true—as far as Mr. Maxwell could check it. He could not, of course, tell whether Capper had been kept awake by his tooth, but he might have been. The trouble was of long standing and it was quite time that it was seen to. Capper had rung him up as he had said, and an appointment had been made for six o’clock. Owing to press of work he had been unable to see Capper till some twenty minutes later, and Capper had left about a quarter to seven. He, Maxwell, was sure of the hour, as he had himself been kept late and it had upset a dinner engagement.

  From quarter to seven to quarter past eight, when Capper said he had reached home, allowed only an hour and a half for changing the handle, driving forty miles, leaving the car in Sloan’s garage and walking to his house. Could Capper have done it with so small a car?

  French believed he could. Austin Sevens, he knew, were capable of high speeds. He might take it then that so far his theory was watertight.

  He found it impossible to see the doctor till after dinner and about nine he paid his call.

  “I’m not often glad to hear of some poor wretch being taken by you fellows,” Marr said, after greetings, “but this case would be an exception. If anyone murdered poor old Burnaby with that snake, I’d see him hanged with pleasure.”

  “I agree with you,” French returned, “though, of course, we can’t allow our feelings to come into our job. The deceased seems to have been a favourite?”

  “I shouldn’t put it exactly that way,” Marr answered. “He was too quiet and retiring to be popular. But he was a really good old fellow, and no one who knew him could fail to like and respect him.”

  “Quite so.” French paused for a moment as if to indicate that polite exchanges were now over and that business was beginning. “I should like to ask you a question, Dr. Marr,” he went on, “and I should like it to be between ourselves.”

  Marr glanced at him questioningly. “Certainly, Chief Inspector, if you wish it.”

  “Thank you, sir. Assuming this was murder, which of course has not been proved, I have been trying to think out how it might have been committed. The snake, of course, might have been used directly, but I am wondering whether instead some mechanical arrangement might have been devised. Suppose, for example, the deceased gripped a door handle provided with poisoned spikes which pierced his hand? Do you consider that a possibility?”

  For some seconds Marr did not answer. “I consider it a most interesting suggestion,” he then said, doubtfully. “But I do not consider it a likely one. There are two reasons. The first is that Burnaby’s hand was bitten, not merely pierced by something sharp. I mean that there were distinct signs of a closing mouth. There were the two deep punctures from the venom fangs and there was also the slighter mark of the lower jaw. Now, I suppose that could be done by some design of spikes, but I don’t see just how. However, the second reason I consider conclusive. The unfortunate man received more venom than could possibly have been conveyed in the way you suggest. There must have been an actual passage of fluid from the snake’s sac to the hand.”

  This was like a slap in French’s face. If the doctor was right, as of course he must be, it was the end of his delayed action theory. And if that theory were false, Capper was innocent. And if Capper were innocent, it looked as if after all Burnaby had stolen the snake and his death had been an accident: as if, in short, the local police had been right and he himself wrong.

  French was cruelly disappointed; not that he wished ill to any poor creature, but because of the blow to his own prestige and that of the Yard.

  “I suppose there’s no possibility of doubt in all that, doctor?” he said, unhappily.

  Marr shrugged. “I have none in my own mind,” he answered, “but then I’m no expert. I don’t mind telling you that this is the first case of snake-bite I have ever treated. But why not ask Professor Blaney-Heaton? It’s his subject and he’ll tell you straight away.”

  “I’m obliged for the hint. I’ll do so.”

  “I’ll ring him up for you if you like to go now?”

  “Thank you, sir. I’d be grateful.”

  Half an hour later French was seated in the professor’s study, hearing Dr. Marr’s opinion confirmed by authority. On both points, it seemed, Marr was right. Blaney-Heaton knew of no mechanism which could produce the effects found.

  Capper, therefore, was definitely innocent. Neither he nor his deputy, Cochrane—if Cochrane was his deputy—could have been present at the time Burnaby received his injury, and neither could have set any gin or trap which would have done the job in their absence.

  But French’s previous cogitations unquestionably suggested murder. If Capper were innocent, presumably someone else was guilty. In a sort of desperation his thoughts returned to Leet. It was, however, too late to call on Leet that night, and he decided he must do so first thing in the morning.

  In the morning, however, he received some news which turned his thoughts once more off Leet and back to Capper.

  Rankin had found a note in a patrolman’s book, and when French read it he experienced again that little thrill which suggested a hot scent.

  It appeared that the patrolman had been walking along Calshort Road just before seven on the night of the tragedy. He had turned in from Liverham Avenue and was approaching “Riverview” when he saw a car drive out of the lane in front of him. This lane, as has been mentioned, ran between Mornington’s and Leet’s houses, forming an approach to the footpath along the river bank. As cars were prohibited on the bank, the constable wondered where this one was coming from, and it was for this reason that he had noted the matter in his book. When he reached the lane he had flashed his torch on the ground, and in the soft mud he had seen the tracks of the car. These showed that it had simply pulled in off the road and parked. He could not tell what make the car was, but it was small and might have been an Austin Seven.

  In the theory he had built up French had postulated that Capper’s Austin Seven had parked somewhere near “Riverview” just before seven on the night of the tragedy. Here the very thing had been seen. Was this too remarkable to be a coincidence? French thought it was. His little thrill returned as he decided that in spite of the medical opinion, that must have been Capper’s car, and Capper must have set some apparatus whic
h had killed Burnaby.

  Once again Leet was forgotten and French turned back to his former problem: how could he prove Capper’s innocence or guilt?

  For half an hour he pondered the matter. Then he decided he would visit Bursham again and if possible have a look into Capper’s workshop. It would not be the first time he had obtained vital evidence from such an examination, but here the snag was that without a search warrant he would have no right to force an entrance. However, he could but try.

  He set off presently with his attendant sergeant, and by midday they were walking down King Street in Bursham. Off this was Carlton Street, in which stood Capper’s house some hundred and fifty yards down and on the opposite side.

  French did not turn into Carlton Street, but passed it and went down the next road, Waverley Avenue. This thoroughfare scarcely lived up to its name. It was at the end of the town and was really laid out for posterity. Admirable as to width and grade, it was somewhat indeterminate as to boundaries. Only some half-dozen houses had been built and the vacant lots between had degenerated into a species of common, dotted with twisted shrubs and tufts of coarse grass. Across this ground French could see the backs of the Carlton Street houses, with their gardens running back to a narrow service lane between the two roads.

  Strolling aimlessly, he and the sergeant presently found themselves on this lane at the edge of Capper’s garden. French was pleased with what he saw. An orchard entirely hid the lane from the windows of the house. Moreover, in that hidden area was a wooden shed which had all the appearance of an amateur’s workshop.