“No. Joan — darling! Can’t you understand why my name was linked with hers? I was trying to teach her a lesson. It was a rotten presumption on my part, and yet I was so sorry for the poor kids she’d used and then thrown aside ... My dear, I’ve never loved anyone — till now ... And I’m lovin’ you like — like blazes!”
She looked down very tenderly into his eyes. McGonagle and Spring would have been amazed to see the quick, incisive, terrifying Spike grovelling on his knees before a girl. They would have choked with emotion to see the boyish pleading in his eyes. And then their confidence in the man would probably have returned quickly, had they witnessed the scene which followed. For, while Joan hesitated to reply, her cheeks flushed the colour of a wild rose, he leaned forward suddenly and took her in his arms. And she gasped when she saw his grey eyes, alight with triumph, so close to hers. She saw the smiling lips and felt the hard power of his arms about her slim body.
She tried desperately to put up some show of resistance, for she knew that this was madness. After the business of “The Pink Flowers of Solomon” had been settled there might be time for love; but Spike should not be distracted from his work — now. And yet she loved him so much that even as she decided to push him away her arms went round him and, lying back in the big armchair with a sigh of utter happiness, she returned the first of his desperate kisses ...
“Oh, Spike!” she whispered presently. “You’re so terribly strong ... I — oh, I love you, Spike. Why did you make me love you — at this time?”
He pressed his dark head into her soft, rounded shoulder and grinned. He looked so young and so happy, this notoriously callous head of Department Q7, that she could do no more than bend down and kiss him again. He felt like ten kings.
“We just can’t help loving one another, Joan,” he said quietly. “Isn’t that the case? But, darling — you’ll have to put up with a queer kind of husband. I’m —”
She pinched the tip of his nose; and had Spring observed the action he would have been horrified at the lack of respect shown to the great investigator. Spike himself seemed to enjoy such treatment.
“I know a great, deal about you, Spike,” she interrupted. “I know that you’ll have to be trained very carefully and that I won’t stand for the dangerous jobs you’ve had as a bachelor. Listening?”
“Where’s the danger?” laughed Spike. “It’s you that’s in a dangerous spot this very minute — at the mercy of a fellow like me ...”
He felt her body grow taut. His arms tightened. She shook her head with decision; but he saw the quiver of her red lips. He smiled at her.
She tried to look severe.
“D’you think I’m frightened? I can handle Spike Dorrance —”
It was almost two o’clock when they rose. She kissed him good night in the hall.
“Sleep well, Spike,” she whispered. “To-morrow you’re going to find light ... I know things look black — now. But there’s no one who can beat you — you and your McGonagle and Spring.”
“I need you!” he said in return; but she fled with a blown kiss into her room.
And Spike did sleep well. In fact, he slept so well that his mind in the morning was sharper than it had been during any time in the McIntee case. As he donned his trousers the great idea came to him. It substantiated the half-formed notions that had been simmering in his mind since the afternoon of the murder.
“Joan!” he murmured. “You darlin’ girl! Thank heaven I forgot my duty ... ”
PART III
CHAPTER XVII
Thursday
SIR PERCIVAL MERRIDEW, gloomily eyeing reports of routine cases and meditating upon the national crisis which might develop at any moment out of the McIntee murder, looked up sharply from his desk. The door opened to admit Mr. Spike Dorrance.
The morning sunshine, slanting in through a window behind the Assistant Commissioner, lay around the debonair figure of his friend, showing clearly the wide grin on the man’s face and the summery type of the man’s apparel. Spike’s dark head was on one side. His grey eyes were bright. He was dressed handsomely in a light grey suit which could have been a mould for his body. His tie was quietly gay. In one hand he held yellow gloves, a grey felt hat and his trusty ash-stick. With his other hand he saluted Sir Percival, as if he were a disciple of Sir Oswald Moseley.
In some queer manner the Assistant Commissioner experienced a quick lightening of his troubles. The furrows disappeared from his forehead. Eyes lost their look of anxiety. His mobile mouth below the close-cropped sandy moustache widened into an oblique smile.
Then suddenly he frowned, fitted his monocle and regarded the head of Department Q7 with severity.
“Good God!” he murmured. “Your high spirits are indecent. And why the musical comedy rig-out?”
Spike sat down, draping one immaculately shod leg over the arm of his chair.
“Toppin’ weather, sir,” he observed, not yet replying directly to the other’s question. “The air on the embankment reminds me of a moor in Perthshire.”
The Assistant Commissioner grunted.
“Damn it!” he growled. “You’ll be spouting poetry in a minute. Always did think the Scots half-witted.”
Spike laughed easily.
“I’ve just been attendin’ old McIntee’s funeral,” he continued. “Thought I’d like a change of raiment when I returned ... Feel particularly fit to-day, sir.”
“So it would appear. Why?”
“Well, sir; there are two reasons. One — a personal reason — I cannot explain to you at this time. The other concerns the McIntee case. I’ve had an idea all along — a hunch, if you like — that I knew the murderer. Now I’m fairly certain that I can identify Mr. ‘Black and White’.”
Sir Percival leaped from his chair, the monocle lulling from his eye. Cherubic cheeks were flushed. He came over to Spike’s chair and looked down upon the smiling young man.
“Spike!” he said very quietly. “You not joking, are you?”
“No, sir. I’m not jokin’. You can rest assured of that.”
“Then who is it? Where’s your proof? Lancaster’s flowers ... Payne’s medicine bottles ... ”
Spike sat more upright. His jaw hardened.
“Sir Percival,” he said earnestly, “I would rather you didn’t insist upon knowin’ my theory at this moment. Of course, I will explain now if you command me. But I’d rather wait until the reports come through from the Burmese and Indian police ... By the way, sir, when d’you imagine these are due?”
“To-morrow afternoon.”
“Good!” exclaimed Spike. “And there will be a special phone message from Detective Walsh to-morrow afternoon. I’ve sent him to Argyllshire to investigate matters in connection with Dr. McIntee’s family history ... His findings and those of the Eastern police ought to provide even more definite proof of my theory than I possess at the present time. I’d like to place my deductions before you then, sir. If I placed them before you now you might imagine them rather fanciful. They are the outcome of things said to me last night by Miss Joan Nevinson.”
Sir Percival paced slowly back to his chair, rescrewing the monocle into his left eye. He glared at the head of Department Q7. Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind.
“This is damned irregular,” he muttered. “But I will humour you, Spike. I know your ways. Sometimes I want to kick you out ... But, Lord! To enable you capture ‘Black and White’ I’d make any sacrifice. I’d —”
“You have already promised, sir, if we — er — put an end to his activities, that you will promote McGonagle to the rank of Superintendent and Spring to the rank of Inspector. Would you also consider, in such an event, the promotion of Detective Walsh to the rank of Sergeant? Like McGonagle and Spring, he has already passed the necessary examinations.”
The Assistant Commissioner banged a fist on his desk.
“Who the devil,” he asked loudly, “is running the C.I.D.?”
“You are, sir. And if I may be a
llowed to say it, you are running the show more efficiently than any of your predecessors. We are all agreed on that point, sir.”
Spike had infused the utmost sincerity into his voice. He saw the smile struggling with Sir Percival’s thin, expressive lips.
“Well — oh, damn it, Spike! All right! Your cronies will be advanced. Your precious McGonagle, your precious Spring, and now your precious Walsh ... ”
With the utmost skill, Spike was steering the conversation away from the subject of his deductions. While the Assistant Commissioner sunned himself in a glow of righteousness lit by Spike’s flattery and by his own magnanimity in making the promise of promotions, the young doctor continued:
“I want to put something else before you, sir. It has — er — occurred to me that our theory regardin’ foreign money bein’ behind the machinations of ‘Black and White’ is entirely wrong. I think we are up against a madman — a cunnin’ egotist who intends to impress his power upon the people of Great Britain — an egotist who is buildin’ up a background for further demands. Logically, sir, it seems a bit far-fetched to believe that a foreign government or an armaments firm would depend upon one man — a murderer — to upset the Naval Pact.”
Had Joan been listening to Spike at that moment she might have been filled with secret pride. The Assistant Commissioner, however, did not seem interested in his subordinate’s speech.
“It matters not, Spike,” he said, “whether the murderer is working alone or with the backing of a power inimical to Great Britain. Your new idea may be correct. Indeed, all along I thought the notion of a foreign power influencing the actions of ‘Black and White’ too much like a ‘thriller’ to be true. But the main point is still evident. We must save those poor devils afflicted by the flower-disease and at the same time leave the way open for the signing of the Naval Pact. That’s our job. The mainspring of ‘Black and White’s’ activities does not really concern us.”
Spike nodded.
“Excellently put, sir.” He paused, decided in the circumstances to let the matter drop and asked a question. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any change out of Mexico Madge and Italian George?”
“No.” Sir Percival shook his head. “I’ve given them up.”
“News of their accomplice?”
“No — but we’ll find him all right. I’ve four of our best men on the job. Trouble is, his capture may not take place for weeks and — Spike! We have only a week — four days now, in fact.”
It had begun. The well-known refrain had once more been uttered. Spike stood up. He had heard enough of that refrain on the previous evening.
“It will all be over to-morrow, sir. Don’t worry ... In the meantime I want a search-warrant for Arundel House.”
The Assistant Commissioner’s sandy eyebrows rose like twin rockets.
“Right!” he said. “I’ll arrange that. For to-morrow morning!”
“That will suit perfectly ... By the way, sir, I think the ‘father’ of the ‘Mallinsons’ murdered the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders.”
“Indeed!” Sir Percival Merridew now appeared interested. “In what way do you make that out?”
“It seems fairly obvious, sir, that ‘Black and White’ is — or was — the employer of Mexico Madge, Italian George and their ‘father.’ The ‘Mallinsons’ are people who wouldn’t take to do with murder if left to themselves: they haven’t the imagination to carry out a scheme like that evolved by ‘Black and White’. Nor would they have decorated with flowers the room of a man they chanced to kill ... And yet they accomplished Miss Nevinson’s abduction, and Italian George gets all hot and bothered when his woman mentions ‘the scourge of the flowers’. They are obviously aware of their employer’s purpose. And I have been led to believe by the — er — the investigations that ‘Black and White’ himself did not shoot the Hon. Nancy. Therefore, as far as I can see, the only man who could be ordered by ‘Black and White’ to do his dirty work for him is ‘Mallinson’ père.” Spike rushed on like a pebbly stream.
“I’m certain that ‘Black and White’, at some period of his career and theirs, came into contact with Mexico Madge, Italian George and the oldish man; that at this period he got them somehow into his power; that they were called upon to rally round when there occurred to him the idea of holding up the British Government to ransom. Then, desirin’ the oldish man to kill Miss Sanders, ‘Black and White’ would tell the poor devil that he, ‘Mallinson’ père, was actually implicated in a murder case and that the police would be put upon his tracks if he didn’t shoot the girl.
“Furthermore, sir, it’s my opinion that the three criminals won’t know the identity of ‘Black and White’ in real life. In fact, if we confronted them with him at this moment I don’t believe they’d recognize him. He’d disguise himself when negotiating with them — just in case of accidents ... Cunnin’ customer, ‘Black and White’. Mad — but cunnin’.”
“Something like yourself, Spike,” murmured Sir Percival. “Good heavens! You’re full of theories this morning. Never seen you so bright. You’d talk the ears off a deaf mute ... Get out before my poor brain begins to reel!”
His visitor grinned happily and turned towards the door.
“Leave it all to me, sir. I promise to clear up the mess nice and thoroughly to-morrow evening — perhaps this evening ... Look here, sir! Could you arrange for me to interview Mexico Madge and Italian George at two o’clock this afternoon?”
“Certainly ... Oh, by the way, Spike: just a moment! If you’d just give me, before you go, a hint about the person you suspect —”
But Spike was gone.
For a long time the Assistant Commissioner stared at the tightly shut door. Once he snapped his fingers in irritation. Finally, however, he settled down to resume his study of the papers before him, and this time his mind was content to give its whole attention to the subject of the routine cases. But just before his work began he addressed the china cat which served as a paper-weight on his desk:
“Yes. If I have my way they’ll put him in my place. No precedent of course. But then, neither has the man ... ”
*
And while Sir Percival was communing with his china cat, Spike, in his own room, was communing with McGonagle and Spring, who had come to keep with him their midday appointment.
Spike greeted his friends with an airy joviality which took the policemen by surprise. After his bitter mood of the previous evening they had expected to see a morose and gloomy Spike; but instead they found their colleague in sparkling humour. His spirits were higher than they had ever seen them before, and previous to the McIntee murder they had been used to his high spirits. They were at first unaware of Joan’s influence in the matter.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, when they entered the room rather soberly. “Come in, lads! Come in! Hail. McGonagle! Didst ever note a morn more fair? ... But, Spring, my Spring! For why the melancholy garments?”
His boyish face flushing, Spring glanced down guiltily at his dark suit of tweeds, comparing them mentally with Spike’s gay attire.
“I — er — I was at the funeral.”
“Ah, well. There is an excuse.”
Spike rose and crossed to the mantelpiece to find a box of cigarettes. While his back was turned to them, McGonagle and Spring — who hadn’t been made detectives for nothing — glanced at each other with pleasurable surprise. McGonagle’s broad face came close to Spring’s pink ear.
“She’s accepted him,” opined the inspector in a whisper. “Bet you a shilling.”
Spring’s rather worried face had become transformed. He was grinning so much that when Spike turned, the latter understood, to a certain extent, the meaning of the blurred whisper he had overheard.
“There, old scout!” he said, hastily offering the cigarette box to McGonagle. “Help yourself. Same with you, Spring ... Now then — to business! What about those medicine bottles?”
McGonagle coughed. Spring composed his features, though inwardly he was chuckl
ing at the great Spike’s sudden embarrassment. He, Spring, would play bears yet with the Dorrance kids!
“Begorra, Spike,” said the inspector at last: “it seems as though we’ll have to book Fayne. Old Simpson, the chemist, found a bacillus practically certain to be that of the flower-disease in all the bottles — the bottles of medicine, I mean, given by Fayne to patients now suffering from the flower-disease ... I’ve the warrant ready.”
His friends saw Spike smiling.
“Fine!” he murmured. “Fine! But I wouldn’t arrest Fayne now. Hold your horses, my merry lads! Someone with the chance might have shoved the germs into his bottles without him bein’ any the wiser. Let’s have everything cut and dried before we act ... We’ll wait for news from the East and from Walsh. I sent Walsh to Scotland to-day. He’s doin’ a spot of research into the family history of the McIntees ... No further discoveries regardin’ the good faith of the Arundel House contingent?”
“No, Spike,” replied McGonagle. “None. Except that it’s the Queen Mary to a Thames barge that Fayne didn’t kill the Hon. Nancy. He has a watertight alibi. Both Seale and Mary Daw are positive that he was at home all evening.”
“I didn’t believe that ‘Black and White’ had killed the Hon. Nancy,” murmured Spike. “No, not I! In my opinion it was the ‘father’ of Mexico Madge and Italian George.”
“I’ll be —” began Spring.
McGonagle had been studying Spike closely. He interrupted the sergeant to make a statement.
“Spike!” he said deliberately and his protruding eyes were filled with a kind of unholy joy. “I believe you’ve found out who murdered Dr. Abraham McIntee. I believe you have discovered the identity of ‘Black and White’. Begorra, now, Spike: tell us the truth.”
The head of Department Q7 inclined his dark head.
“You have unveiled my dark secret, McGonagle. I know — or rather, I think I know. I wouldn’t tell old Percy whom I suspected, because I’ve no case that could go before a jury. But it convinces myself ... I’ve remembered what I subconsciously noted to be queer during my first few visits to Arundel House. And Miss Nevinson” — here Spike almost blushed — “Miss Nevinson told me something that put me right on the scent ... By the way, Spring; you don’t remember yet what it was that you noticed strange at Arundel House yesterday?”
Flowering Death Page 15
