Flowering Death

by Angus MacVicar

  The inspector frowned. It was seldom that he had cause to disagree with the young man whom he would have followed doggedly to certain death. But then it was seldom that Spike uttered words of such bitter hatred.

  “Spike,” muttered McGonagle, interrupting. “You and I are policemen.”

  His companion seemed to master himself with an effort. Then he put an arm across the inspector’s broad shoulders. He grinned somewhat wistfully.

  “You’re right, of course, old scout. Forgive me. But don’t ask me to love ‘Black and White’!”

  McGonagle smiled up at him with affection.

  “I know exactly what’s in your heart, Spike. It hurts like hell, doesn’t it? I — I’m the same. But we must do our duty. We can’t give way to emotion in the midst of a murder case, begorra!”

  “Well done, McGonagle! You’ve given me many a lesson in your day; but that was the best of them ... Come on! Here’s the bus.”

  They took seats on the deserted top-deck, and McGonagle accepted a cigarette from his friend. Then they opened the newspapers.

  One of the first items that caught Spike’s eye in the Evening Comet was an article signed by the famous Mr. Peter Todd. It was as follows:

  *

  PLAGUE ALARM DISSIPATED

  FLOWERING DEATH IS ITALIAN MEASLES

  MYSTERY OF FALSE REPORTS

  Ry Peter Todd (Evening Comet. Special Investigator).

  I have the greatest satisfaction in being the reporter of good tidings for the people of London. It is not the first time that I have been the means of discovering the truth of certain mysterious affairs which have disturbed the City.

  I am able to state on the highest authority that the reports published in certain daily newspapers this morning, concerning the spread of an alarming disease known as “The Flowering Death,” are completely misleading. The victims enumerated arc suffering from nothing more serious than Italian measles, a malady which is seldom, if ever, fatal.

  Interviewed at St. Clement’s Hospital to-day, Mr. Archibald Tyrone, the airman, made light of his complaint. “I feel fine,” he said, “and hope to be up and about in a day or two to complete the arrangements for my flight to the Cape ...”

  *

  There was added a long paragraph which described the comparative innocuousness of Italian measles; but Spike did not read it. He handed the paper over to the inspector, who had been perusing, in a rival publication, a slanderous account of the misdeed performed by the Daily Star’s unfortunate investigator.

  “See how Peter has wriggled out of it, McGonagle. You can’t help admirin’ his methods.”

  Afterwards Spike was silent until the bus came to a halt at a stopping-place near New Scotland Yard.

  He thought soberly about Mr. Archibald Tyrone and the others, and pondered upon the gallantry of the airman in having given the reported interview to Mr. Peter Todd. Archibald Tyrone must know the truth about his illness; for Sir Percival Merridew was to have paid a visit to St. Clement’s Hospital that morning.

  And then the head of Department Q7 speculated for some moments upon the chances held by the famous flyer of making his journey to South Africa ... It seemed that a great deal depended upon McGonagle, Spring and himself. His grey eyes again became hard.

  *

  He played host to McGonagle at lunch in Spendel’s Restaurant, and, after a remarkably silent meal, the men made their way to Scotland Yard to keep their appointment with Spring at two o’clock. With the portraits of boxers, runners and notable scientists peering down upon them in Spike’s room, the three detectives exchanged views regarding the morning’s work.

  “You saw Miss Nevinson, Spring?”

  “I did. Spike. Aunt Margaret gave me my lunch ... She was out of doors on the day previous to the murder only to order two new hats and a tennis-frock. I rang up her milliner’s and cheeked her evidence satisfactorily. I have still to test the stories of all the other members of the household. I have to see Mrs. Parkinson and Mary Daw concerning Seale’s tale; while I’ll have to visit Lancaster’s theatre and Fayne’s patients — both his private and hospital ones.”

  “That’s your afternoon settled. Spring ... You’ve a nice little task ahead of you. And when you’re interviewin’ Mrs. Parkinson, question her regardin’ anything she may have eaten or drunk recently which had a queer taste. And by the way, Inspector, old lad, your business for the next few hours will be to present similar questions to all the victims of the flower-disease enumerated by Mr. Peter Todd in the Daily Starr.”

  “Very well, Spike,” murmured McGonagle. “But if I may say so, you’ve got a kind of gleam in your eye. What are you thinking of doing yourself?”

  “I haven’t quite settled. But there’s an idea comin’ to me ... Tell me, Spring; did Miss Nevinson remember — anything?”

  The sergeant’s ruddy face was smug. His blue eyes smiled into Spike’s grey ones, and for once the head of Department Q7 had the grace to appear a little uncomfortable.

  “She told me, Spike, that something had occurred to her but that recollection wasn’t quite complete. She hopes you will be able to return home fairly early to-night so that she may have a long talk with you.”

  Spike’s figure tautened. He grinned widely.

  “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “That’s great. It’s —”

  He observed the long faces of his companions. He observed the suspicious twinkles. He became red and fumbled with a ruler which lay upon the desk. He swore loudly as he caught one of his finger-nails on a drawing-pin. Furtively McGonagle winked at Spring. And the sergeant felt a glow of satisfaction enter into his romantic soul. He was of the opinion, after he had spoken with her, that of all the women he had encountered in his young life, Joan Nevinson was most nearly worthy of his Spike.

  Spring’s vivid imagination conjured up a picture of Joan and Spike in their own house, playing hostess and host to McGonagle and himself. There would be kids, of course, and he, a crusty old bachelor of twenty-eight, would play wild bears and tigers with them. He would get McGonagle to be a bear ... He started. Spike’s incisive voice, its hard tone assumed for the occasion, cut into his thoughts.

  “Have you any observations to make, Sergeant Spring, regarding your investigations this morning?”

  Spring almost chuckled aloud; but with a struggle he controlled his amusement and concentrated upon duty. His smooth forehead wrinkled.

  “Well, Spike, I don’t know ... There was something queer about that stone-throwing episode. But for the life of me I can’t tell you what it was. I noticed something — some peculiar fact. I’m sure of that. I noticed a circumstance which did not fit in ... Perhaps you don’t understand, Spike. Perhaps you think I’m an ass not to remember the circumstance exactly. But it was nothing obvious. Though I’m quite sure there was something, I can’t remember ... ”

  Spike nodded gravely.

  “I don’t think you’re an ass, Spring. And I understand your experience perfectly. I’m in the same difficulty myself with regard to our first visit to Arundel House. Subconsciously I observed something queer — as you say, something that did not fit in. But though I almost gave myself brain-fever last night in bed, I can’t bring that strange fact to my conscious mind ... We’ll have to be patient, Spring. We’ll light on the truth by and by.”

  “I hope so, Spike. I’ve a feeling that if I could only remember I’d be in the track of Mr. ‘Black and White’. It’s darned peculiar. It was some trifle which I know, were I to get a grip of it, would put a different complexion on everything.”

  McGonagle grinned.

  “His brain is fuddled. Mother’s boy, perhaps, has been visiting the ‘beer-gardens’!”

  Spring snorted and a little smile quirked at one corner of Spike’s big mouth.

  “No,” said the head of Department Q7, “mother’s boy has been particularly clever. He’s seen something that most people would have missed completely. It will come back to him when he least expects, and then he will deserve
the freedom of the best ‘beer-garden’ in town. This is psychology, Inspector, me bhoy ... ”

  McGonagle laughed. Then he cleared his throat importantly.

  “Spike,” he said, “I’m going to make a suggestion ... We are fairly certain now that the murderer of Dr. McIntee is none other than ‘Black and White.’ This unknown person must have discovered the doctor to be sole possessor of a cure for the flower-disease. He himself, by his experiment upon — upon Nan Li-San, found that he had the power to inoculate victims with the bacillus. He had probably stolen some culture owned by Dr. McIntee. A great idea came to him. He would kill Dr. McIntee, take up the formula for the cure from his desk and — hold us up to ransom ... Very well, then, begorra! Why should we not seem to take him at his word? Let us insert an advertisement in the ‘Agony Column’ of the Daily Star, addressed to ‘Black and White’, saying that one of us will meet him at a stated rendezvous to discuss his proposals. He may rise to the bait, and then ... ”

  Spike nodded.

  “I see what you mean, McGonagle, and it’s the hell of a fine idea. But will ‘Black and White’ rise to the bait? It’s my opinion that the mysterious gentleman will not be gulled so easily. However, I think we ought to give the scheme a try-out. See to it, Inspector.”

  “Very well, Spike.”

  The head of Department Q7 rubbed his long jaw. “By the way, Spring,” he said suddenly, “the only parcel which arrived at Arundel House yesterday contained, you say, Kenneth Fayne’s flowers?”

  “As far as I can discover, Spike, that is the ease. I shall have to pay a visit to the florist’s which sent them along. I may be able to find out who ordered the gift to be despatched.”

  “Allbert’s in Piccadilly was the shop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well — why not phone them up now?”

  “If you like.”

  “Go ahead. There’s the telephone ready and waitin’.”

  The sergeant grabbed the instrument, while Spike, rising, motioned McGonagle to a small table near the window. As Spring continued to bark into the mouthpiece with rising excitement, the others, speaking in low voices, discussed the terms of the advertisement which was to appear in next morning’s issue of the Daily Star. The rough draft was complete when there was an exclamation from Spring as, half-sitting on the bureau, he snapped down the receiver.

  “He’s got something,” muttered McGonagle. “Out with it, Spring!”

  “Do you know who left orders for flowers to be sent to Dr. Fayne?” The sergeant had a sense of dramatic values. “I got Allbert himself to describe her. He remembers his customers perfectly, for the purchase together of hollyhocks and spiraea is unusual. She paid up on the spot, leaving no name. But I know her name. I know Dr. Fayne’s ‘grateful patient’.”

  For a moment the blood receded from Spike’s cheeks. He felt queer cold fingers clutch at his heart.

  “I’ll buy it, Spring,” he said quietly.

  “None other,” replied Spring with pride, “than the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders ... Allbert’s voice was quite fruity when he spoke of her figure. And then there was the scar on her neck.”

  Joyous relief was evident in Spike’s answer.

  “Good man, Spring! ... Oh, good man. And that indicates, McGonagle, my procedure this afternoon. I wasn’t quite certain till now. First I shall see Fayne — then the Hon. Nancy. By Jove! This is going to be of more than academic interest ... You fellows know what you have to do”

  There was a short, sharp knock on the oaken door. Sir Percival Merridew, standing on the threshold, bowed. When he spoke his voice was tired.

  “Any further forward, gentlemen?”

  Spike returned the bow of the Assistant Commissioner.

  “A little bit, sir.”

  “You will remember,” said Sir Percival, and the three men noticed dark shadows under his eyes and an unusual tightening of the thin lips, “that we have only a week ... The Prime Minister is threatening my position.”

  McGonagle and Spring became rigid. Spike after a moment of silence, leaped for his hat and stick.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” he muttered. “We shan’t let you down.”

  Sir Percival’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile.

  “I’m not thinking so much of myself,” he returned softly, as of those poor people who are dying by inches. I have done my best to suppress the facts in the newspapers. I have spoken with owners, editors and agencies. I have explained matters to the patients. I think if you have read the article in the Evening Comet, that you will agree with me in this: Mr. Archibald Tyrone is a very gallant gentleman.’’

  *

  Presently, with McGonagle and Spring at his heels, Spike took his leave of the Assistant Commissioner. He came at last, alone, to St. Clement’s Hospital, where he asked for Dr. Kenneth Fayne. The slim, dark man received his visitor in a sun-bathed office.

  “What can l do for you, Dr. Dorrance?” he queried in the smooth manner which somehow suggested servility. “This is an unexpected call.”

  Spike’s grey eyes were as cold as ice. He came to the point without ceremony.

  “Why did you not inform me,” he said, “that the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders was one of your patients?”

  There was a sudden tightening of the muscles in the doctor’s olive cheeks, and his companion suspected the gleam in his eyes to be the result of fear. By no other sign, however, did Kenneth Fayne betray the fact that he was disturbed.

  “I have never met,” he replied, “the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders.”

  “And if I tell you that Scotland Yard has made a discovery — if I tell you that we know the Hon. Nancy Sanders sent you flowers on the afternoon previous to the murder — what have you to say?”

  The inscrutable glance of the Eurasian was steady.

  “I cannot add to my first statement, Dr. Dorrance. There must be a mistake ... And now, if you will excuse me, I must hasten back to a patient of mine — a little girl of ten who is seriously ill with fever. I left her bedside reluctantly to speak with you. But it seems I cannot help you at all ... Why not pay a visit to Miss Nancy Sanders and ask her about me?”

  “That,” returned Spike, “is what I intend to do.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  LEAVING St. Clement’s Hospital, Spike admitted to himself that he was puzzled by Fayne’s attitude.

  The Eurasian doctor was afraid of something. That appeared obvious. But was the man fearful by reason of a guilty conscience, or simply because he had become involved in a murder case of a particularly mysterious kind? In his various investigations Spike had encountered frequently innocent men and women who had been terrified, quite unreasonably, that they should be arrested for murder.

  The trouble in this instance was that Dr. Kenneth Fayne did not give the impression of being a man easily disturbed. On the contrary, a powerful trait in his character was self-control.

  Furthermore, why should he have denied so positively that the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders was a patient of his? He must have been aware that the police would make no mistake regarding the sender of the flowers.

  Spike was forced to the conclusion that either the Hon. Nancy or the doctor was playing a deep game. Or perhaps both of them were involved ...

  Out in the sunlit square which fronted the hospital, however, the head of Department Q7 gave up the self-questioning and climbed into his Bentley. The Hon, Nancy Sanders had sent Fayne flowers on the afternoon before the killing of Dr. McIntee, veiling her identity under the title of “Grateful Patient.” Fayne had said definitely that the girl was personally unknown to him. Within the next few hours Spike hoped that he would have found the common denominator in these two apparently contradictory facts. His business was to interview the girl. And for this task he would have to leave his mind open to receive impressions.

  As the long, low ear shot southwards through the city, Spike debated in his mind the method which he would employ in questioning the Hon. Nancy when he arrived at the Sanders’ country house
in Sussex. The girl, he knew, was living there at the moment, and had been, in fact, since the distressing episode of the leather belt. It was only occasionally that she came up to town; and Spike was confident that he would find her at home that afternoon. Naturally, he was rather doubtful of his reception after the incident which, some months ago, had taken place.

  The head of Department Q7, however, was a student of human nature. He was of the opinion that, no matter how much it went against her will, she would see him, if only to allay the suspicions which, he would make clear, had been aroused in the minds of the police regarding the part she had played in the McIntee case. The Hon. Nancy was not a girl who could afford to take a high-handed way with the police. Spike decided that his best plan would be to take a high-handed way with her — and to judge her complicitly by results. He smiled a little and pressed his foot more firmly on the accelerator.

  *

  It was exhilarating to leave London behind and to send the Bentley purring along the broad, smooth Sussex roads. Spike had joy in the strong scent from the blackthorn hedges and in the fresh smell of the ricked hay. Once or twice he had to slow down in order to pass great waggons, on their way to the stackyards, on top of which sun-hatted haymakers dozed and chewed dry grass. On one occasion an ancient man in a smock, who lacked teeth but not a tongue, stopped him with a peremptory wave of his stick while a herd of heavy cattle, lowing for milking, were manoeuvred into a dusty courtyard.