Flowering Death

by Angus MacVicar

  “Very little,” he said in an offended tone. “But what we do know is scarcely helpful. He was a rolling stone, it appears, in his early youth, knocking about the world with various theatrical touring parties. Was in Bombay at the same time as old McIntee. On that occasion the doctor seems to have killed the fatted calf for his nephew. He invited Lancaster to make his home with him in London if his work ever took him there. Lancaster, when he joined up with the Elizabethan Players eleven months ago, took him at his word ... All this Spring learned from Miss Nevinson. Her guardian had himself told her the whole story.”

  “H’m ... What do the theatre people say about the fellow?”

  “He’s quite popular. Bit exciteable — artistic temperament, no doubt. Otherwise the typical healthy young Englishman. Begorra, you know the type. Old school tie, rugger, cricket, play the game. And he’s a grand actor.”

  “I know. I’ve seen him. So grand as the Moor of Venice the other night that he had the ‘gods’ howlin’ with his ‘Desdemona’ speech. If I wasn’t a darned cold-blooded associate of policemen I’d have howled myself ... Seale and the women satisfy you?”

  “Absolutely. I like old Seale. He was devoted to his master.”

  “By the way, who inherits the old boy’s money?”

  “I saw his lawyers to-day. Miss Nevinson gets everything.”

  “So Fayne, Lancaster and the servants will have to depend now on her good graces?”

  “More or less. Fayne and Lancaster don’t hold down big salaries — yet. But they’re shaping well. This will be a blow to them.”

  There was silence for a while in the car as it screamed towards the outskirts of the city. The sun was now hidden behind the maze of housetops, and a thin mist seemed to lie over the grey tenements. After the blazing heat of the day the atmosphere had become chilly.

  McGonagle shivered. He glanced sideways and saw a queer look on his companion’s lean face. He wished he could have discussed that look with Spring.

  Once, when he glimpsed a group of little ragged boys playing football in a side-street, the. inspector envied them. But why he envied them he could not understand.

  The traffic was lighter in this part of London and the three policemen with Spike were easier in their minds. When the driver started to talk again Spring and Walsh leaned forward so as to take part in the conversation.

  “You haven’t any ideas regarding the murderer, any of you?”

  McGonagle replied.

  “Begorra,” he said, “I think we’ve reached a blank wall. We’re certainly up against a clever man — or woman. The old doctor had no enemies that we can discover. In Bombay he was friendly with everyone, and the fact that Miss Nevinson’s father and mother put their daughter in his care is a fairly decent testimonial to his character. Since his coming to London he has, according to Kenneth Fayne and the other doctors with whom I spoke, done a considerable amount of research work. They believe that he often visited the poorer parts of London to study types of unusual disease, and to help afflicted people who were on no doctor’s panel, and who could not afford to call in a medical man. These visits, however, he always kept secret, and it may be difficult to get in touch with anyone to whom he gave assistance. He’d probably work under an assumed name, and, at any rate, if he mixed with the criminal classes they’d give us no help.”

  “I see,” said Spike. “And the bullet?”

  “Nothing there.” Spring took up the tale. “Might have been fired from hundreds of Brownings at present in use in London. There is no revolver to be found, of course, in or near the house.”

  Spike nodded.

  “It’s a damnable case.” He glanced at McGonagle. “Were your visits to the florists’ and to the hospitals in any way interestin’?”

  “No,” returned the inspector. “The clue of the fleshy flower has petered out. I can’t And a doctor to help me. No one has heard of a recent case of the flower-disease in London. In fact, with the exception of the British soldier who died a few weeks ago in India, only one other white person, besides Mrs. Parkinson, is known to have been attacked by the malady. I believe you attended that case, Spike, about three years ago. A demi-mondaine in Paris. I expect you know, however, that several niggers in India and Africa have died of the disease ... And as for the flowers heaped on the corpse that clue also seems to be a wash-out. No florist in London can give me an idea.”

  “And yet,” snapped Spike, slowing down at a crossing, “the growth was taken from a human body within twenty-four hours of the time you found it. The blood on the root of it was new. And the roses and the hollyhocks and all the other flowers must have been growin’ fresh and fair yesterday. You would observe that they had been recently cut ... And what’s more, I’m curious about that window in Dr. McIntee’s library. You remember it had been left open, as if the murderer had escaped through it. Now, as the sash was, no one could have escaped through it. And, as a rule, escapin’ murderers don’t stop to pull down the sash after them. And if they did stop they’d pull it down properly and close the window.”

  McGonagle glanced at Spring. They exchanged a fleeting smile. The inspector cleared his throat.

  “Spike,” he said, “Spring and I believe that these flowers must have been taken from a private garden.”

  “You’re probably right. And we may search till doomsday before we find it. By the way, have you a list of the different types of flowers found in the library at Arundel House? Remember I asked you to get one?”

  McGonagle nodded.

  “Sir William Farnol, the flower-show judge, is doing a detailed list for me. He expects to have it ready to-night. I’ve to see him at his house at ten o’clock.”

  “Good. And did you find out what Dr. McIntee was doing all day yesterday?”

  This was a question for Spring. The sergeant confessed failure.

  “No one in the house has the slightest idea. He was in the habit of going out after lunch without telling anyone of his plans. Often he didn’t return until dinnertime. That’s what happened yesterday. Miss Nevinson told me that he went out about half-past-two, carrying his case of instruments and with a light cane in his other hand. He set off down the street — walking. He came back at seven o’clock — walking. Miss Nevinson said that when he returned his boots were grimy and that there was a streak of yellow dust on the lapel of his jacket. He went immediately to his library, where he put something from his case into the desk. After locking the bureau he bathed and dressed for dinner.”

  “You examined the clothes he was wearing yesterday afternoon?”

  “I did, Spike. Nothing in the pockets except a coin. It looks like a Chinese coin, but I’m not sure. I’ve left it at the Yard, along with the dusty jacket and the muddy boots, for you to work on.”

  “That’s fine ... .. Now about those flowers, Inspector, my bhoy!”

  *

  The big Bentley was still roaring forward, past thinning buildings. The car kept for the most part to the main streets; but sometimes Spike, who knew the district well, was able to take a short cut through deserted alleys.

  Even while he discussed the murder case with his colleagues the thought of Joan Nevinson’s plight was never fully dismissed from his mind. The closer the car drew to Croydon the greater was his inward excitement. Would the Croydon police have definite news of the destination of the furniture-van?

  To all outward appearances, however, he was fairly calm and composed, and his alert brain leaped from one consideration to another in what would have been rather a bewildering way to policemen who knew him less intimately than did McGonagle and Spring. And all the while he handled the Bentley with a verve and abandon that would have done credit to Sir Malcolm Campbell.

  The inspector fumbled in the inner pocket of his jacket.

  “I’ve got a rough list here, Spike,” he began. Then he stiffened. “Here we are! Hold on, Spike! That’s the Police Station over there on the other side of the street.”

  “So it is. Whoa, Bentley! Nev
er mind the flowers just now, Inspector. We’ll consider them when you get the detailed list from Sir William Farnol. We must find Miss Nevinson. If we don’t there will be hell to pay from the Assistant Commissioner. I expect there will be a row anyway. We were supposed to be watching Arundel House — carefully.”

  “I know,” muttered Spring mournfully, while Walsh caught his breath. “It wasn’t your fault, Spike. It was really mine. She was taken away right under my eyes.”

  Spike snorted and growled.

  “Rats!” he said. “Blue and white and pink! As a matter of fact no one is to blame. The kidnappers were just too darned clever. And if you tell the Commissioner that it was your fault I’ll knock your head off.”

  Walsh breathed again; and Spring smiled affectionately upon the young doctor’s back as Spike led the way into the low vestibule of the Croydon Police Station. But, after the four Scotland Yard men had talked for five minutes with the superintendent in charge, the sergeant had forgotten to smile.

  Superintendent MacNiven, a big, blunt Glasgow man with a bald head and a dogged heavy jaw, told them of his receipt of Spring’s message regarding the furniture-van. All the men on duty in his district had immediately been notified. At seven o’clock a constable reported that a van, resembling in some respects the one which had called for the carpet at Arundel House, had been observed by him outside a private house in Somerset Street. Two men had unloaded a wardrobe from it and had left the wardrobe in this house — a bungalow called Aldersyde which had recently been erected under a big building scheme. The van had subsequently disappeared, before the constable had been vouchsafed time to interrogate the driver and his assistant.

  “Mind you,” concluded the burly superintendent, who wore a suit of vividly checked plus-fours, “I’m not saying that we haven’t got the news you’re looking for. The van may have been the same as the one in which Miss Nevinson was taken away. But the registration number was different and it’s more than probable that two or three furniture-vans in London have smashed rear lamps and dented front mudguards. I can’t issue a search-warrant on these conditions. The people in Aldersyde are, as far as we know, decent, respectable citizens.”

  “I see your difficulty,” said Spike quietly. “I’m sorry things aren’t more definite ... By the way, Superintendent, what is the name of the Aldersyde family?”

  “Mallinson. Moved in about six months ago, a fortnight after the builders put the house up for sale. Man and wife — young — and another older man. The latter is Mrs. Mallinson’s father, I should imagine.”

  “Thank you,” returned Spike. “We’ll be going.”

  He raised one eyebrow at McGonagle and Spring. Walsh, too, noted the raised eyebrow; but he did not understand its import so well as Spike’s two friends.

  CHAPTER V

  THE four men from the Yard, after having bade good night to Superintendent MacNiven, that model of legal rectitude, parked the Bentley in a convenient garage and proceeded to a little public-house situated near Somerset Street. The driver was careful to take with him the stout ash stick, which, on his leaving Whitehall, he had flung into the tonneau.

  In a comfortable private room Spike ordered beer and sandwiches. For a while he appeared to be engrossed in the study of a still-life painting which adorned one wall of the apartment; and his companions did not disturb what may have been artistic reflections.

  McGonagle and Spring, however, had a shrewd notion that their friend’s thoughts were not upon the gaudy apples and poisonous-looking pears in the picture. They recognized certain signs about Spike’s wide mouth and about his long jaw. The corners of the wide mouth were twitching as if the man were trying not to smile, and little muscles raced up and down the long jaw.

  Walsh was puzzled at the silence of his famous colleague; but McGonagle and Spring w ere practically certain that he contemplated some action which did not accord with the rules set down for the guidance of policemen. It had happened before. And his faithful companions were aware that he did not quite agree with Superintendent MacNiven in regard to the identity of the furniture-van.

  Suddenly Spike’s gaze shifted from the painting. The broad-shouldered, dark-eyed Walsh, whose age was not much more than Spring’s, felt rather uncomfortable when he observed that the head of Department Q7 was now staring at him intently. He drained his mug of beer without relish. He wondered what the great man was thinking of his quietness. Did Dr. Dorrance think him dense?

  “Ha!” exclaimed Spike. “More beer for the lads ... Eat, drink and be merry, my friends, for tonight ... I thank you, good landlord!”

  “Spike,” murmured McGonagle as he swallowed the last of the sandwiches, “what’s in your mind?”

  “Somethin’,” returned the leader of the expedition, “which I cannot divulge to honest, straightforward policemen.”

  McGonagle grinned. His broad cheeks wrinkled. “So that’s the way of it, begorra! All right, Spike. Sure you won’t need us?”

  “I may need you all — afterwards, old scout.”

  Spring became more cheerful.

  “So you don’t hold with the Super regarding that van? You think the right one has been spotted?”

  “Some such thought occurred to me, my Spring. As the Americans put it, I’ve gotta hunch. After all, it isn’t likely that two furniture-vans, of precisely the same make and seen inside the boundaries of London within three hours, should have a dented front off mudguard and a smashed tail lamp.”

  “I was thinking that myself,” muttered Walsh deferentially. “Honest I was, sir.”

  McGonagle withered his subordinate with a frown, while Spring glanced away as if in pain. Poor Walsh, who had spoken only to prove his presence in their midst, blushed with confusion. In the opinion of McGonagle and Spring, however, the young detective had committed a grave error. He had addressed the great man as if he had as much right to do so as themselves; and he had called Spike “sir”, thereby demonstrating that he was quite beyond the pale.

  “We should like to have your orders, Spike,” said McGonagle in a lofty manner. “Walsh, I am sure, will presently have finished his second mug of beer and will be able to give you his undivided attention.”

  Walsh drank off the last of his Worthington in a guilty gulp. He coughed, spluttered. Spike grinned.

  “Don’t hurry, old lad,” he remarked. “Now — listen, men! I’m goin’ to leave you in a moment; and what I intend to do is no concern of the Yard ... Five minutes after I quit this place, however, you will all stroll along to Somerset. Street and hang about in the vicinity of Aldersyde. Wait for a sign from me.”

  McGonagle nodded.

  “Very good, Spike. You can depend on us.”

  “I know that ... You’ve all got automatics?”

  “Yes ... And Walsh,” admitted the inspector, grudgingly, “is the Metropolitan revolver-shooting champion.”

  “Fine ... Au revoir, my hearties.”

  *

  Whirling his stick, Spike emerged into the waning light of the evening and directed his steps towards Somerset Street. Behind the mask of good-natured content his mind was filled with excitement. He had forgotten to a great extent the rough outline of the murder ease, and all his energies were concentrated in the effort he was about to make to discover the fate of Joan Nevinson.

  Since his conversation with Superintendent MacNiven he had been conscious of a growing certainty that the furniture-van observed in Somerset Street was the one he sought ... Then there was that wardrobe which had been delivered at Aldersyde.

  He must find Joan Nevinson. That was his outstanding idea. He must find the girl, for he knew in his heart that until she had been discovered he could not apply his mind, as he ought, to the problem of her guardian’s death. And that problem, he was beginning to believe, would be painfully difficult of solution.

  There was more in the affair than appeared on the surface. Of that, following the sudden illness of Mrs. Parkinson and the kidnapping of Joan Nevinson, he was completely convi
nced. It was no simple case of murder, in which the motive gradually became abundantly clear. It was a ease in which the motive might prove to be complicated and almost impossible of discovery. It was a case which might lead to an almighty serious situation ... At any rate, to allow his faculties full scope to tackle the business, he must find Joan Nevinson.

  Spike did not attempt to analyse his feelings with regard to the girl. He admitted to himself that had she been any other woman he might not have been so eager to come to grips with her captors. He admitted to himself that he had been strangely stirred by her loveliness. But beyond that he did not go.

  He was a man who had, in his short life, taken little to do with women save as objects of medical and criminal interest. And if the truth must be told he secretly despised the type of modern young woman which frequents the salons of society dress-makers and the nightclubs. Also — if the truth is to be continued — he was a little afraid of them. Which demonstrates beyond the shadow of a doubt that Spike, though his scholarship and daring were unquestionable, had little real knowledge of the young women of the present day.

  The fact is, the head of Department Q7 had been unfortunate in the kind of women he had encountered. His dual profession tended to bring him into contact with the baser sort, and his experience with the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders had not elevated his views on the sex as a whole. In short, famous doctor and criminologist though he was, Spike lacked education in this direction. And while he was vaguely conscious of Joan Nevinson’s fascination for him the dour Scot was careful not to give himself away — even to Spike Dorrance.

  *

  He strolled along Somerset Street, glancing casually at the name-plates on the pillars. Two urchins playing leap-frog on the dusty pavement accosted him with loud requests for cigarette-cards. Spike presented them with the picture of a famous footballer which he discovered in a packet of Capstan. He smiled benignly upon their delight. Then, turning smartly to the left, he continued his stroll upon a gravel path. This path led to a front door painted in green and embellished with an ornate knocker.