“I went back to the beginning of the case and reviewed it in the light of this definite suspicion. From the very first day of the investigation, I may state here, I had a notion that Lancaster was the villain, though I based my idea on some queer fact that I had noted subconsciously — a queer fact which I could not recall, but which, again subconsciously, prejudiced my mind against Lancaster.
“Now, however, the queer fact surged up from the hinterland of my mind into the forefront of my ideas. On the first occasion on which I went to Arundel House — havin’ been summoned by McGonagle and Spring — I remembered noting that Mervyn Lancaster had a small scar on his left cheek. Now it occurred to me that when I saw him next, during the hurried visit I paid to Arundel House after Joan — er — after Miss Nevinson’s abduction, his face had been quite smooth. I came to the conclusion that he did not want this scar noticed and had used his skill as a make-up expert — as an actor — to hide it.
“The question now presented itself to me: why had Lancaster wanted to hide his scar? There was an obvious answer. I believed that he had been infected once with the flower-disease and had been operated upon successfully. If this were the case, he would be afraid that the police would recognize the scar for what it was, that they would connect him with Konrad Featherstone, the man whom the doctor had cured in Bombay, or with the Hon. Nancy, who also had a scar.
“I was still a long way from having definite proof of Lancaster’s identity as the murderer, but I was gettin’ on. Pieces in the jig-saw were fittin’ with remarkable success. I searched in my mind for other pointers to Lancaster.
“First of all I remembered that all the fingerprints in the library at Arundel House had been those of residents. This seemed to indicate either that the murderer had worn gloves — and one can’t use a revolver well with gloves — or that he had been one of those livin’ in Arundel House.
“Then the window of the room had been slightly open. On the face of it, this fact suggested that the murder had been an outside job; but when I asked Spring to climb through he discovered that the opening was scarcely large enough for him to put his head out. This seemed to indicate either that the criminal had half-closed the window behind him when makin’ his escape — a very unlikely occurrence — or, again, that he had been one of those livin’ in Arundel House and had tried to make the police believe differently.
“You will notice that the pieces were still fittin’. And suddenly I remembered what the Hon. Nancy had murmured just before she died in Harpagon’s. She said: ‘It was the muir’ Like a flash my mind went to Lancaster in the role of Othello, and I translated thus: ‘It was the Moor!’ I imagined how, in her distress, the Hon. Nancy’s brain had connected Lancaster with the part he was playing at the time. She’d given us in plain words the identity of the murderer, but we were so dense that we didn’t see it at the time.
“And as a direct result of this idea I convinced myself that at last I’d discovered an excellent reason why Lancaster should call himself ‘Black and White’. He was an Englishman and white. But for two and a half hours each evening, during the period of the murder, had been Othello and black. To call himself ‘Black and White’ in the circumstances was extremely like the act of a self-confident madman.
“The pieces were now clickin’ together almost of their own accord. Obviously, with the run of the house and with a careless Fayne leaving the door open, Lancaster could easily transfer some of the bacillus culture in his possession to the doctor’s medicine bottles in the dispensary. He did so, probably, on the morning of the murder, after McGonagle, Spring and I had left. He did so for a double purpose — first, to infect a number of victims with the flower-disease, so as to cause a panic in London, and, second, to put suspicion upon Fayne.
“Then Mexico Madge’s statement regardin’ Stranger’s appearance and our own observation last night showed him to be clever in the use of make-up. His black straggly beard and waxy, wrinkled cheeks deceived Mexico Madge. She thought they were real, but at the same time felt a natural repugnance for the man — a repugnance caused, no doubt, by her subconscious knowledge that his outward appearance was unreal. Then she mentioned that Stranger was continually scratching his black beard, and it is the case that a beard attached to the skin by gum causes sometimes an irritatin’ itch. Ask any actor ... It was proved, then, that Stranger was a fictitious character. But he was tall. He might have been Lancaster, the upstandin’ Englishman.”
Spike paused, shifted his luxurious position on Sir Percival’s easy-chair and lit a cigarette. McGonagle and Spring eyed him closely, as if they were witnessing the performance of a conjurer. The Assistant Commissioner put a Turkish cigarette into one corner of his mouth; but he forgot to put a match to it.
“Those were the ideas,” continued Spike, “that I put before you, sir, this morning. It will be agreed that in many ways they were suggestive; but still, I don’t think a lawyer would say that I had, in fact, proved the identity of Stranger and ‘Black and White’ to equal that of Lancaster. I had satisfied myself. I satisfied you, sir. But my notions wouldn’t have satisfied a cold, impersonal judge. It remained for to-day’s events to put the issue beyond doubt.
“You are already aware that I visited Arundel House this morning, armed with a search warrant, because I was fairly certain that I should find some secret hiding place in Lancaster’s room. I had come to the conclusion in my own mind, from the rather vague evidence I’ve put before you. that he was the murderer of Dr. McIntee and that he was Stranger and ‘Black and White’. It seemed to follow, therefore, that he would have in his possession a culture of the flower-disease bacillus and details of the cure. And I argued that he would have concealed them in some place not easily accessible to the servants in Arundel House. It occurred to me that as Arundel House is one of London’s old-fashioned residences there was just a chance that I might find one of the common mantelpiece cavities in Lancaster’s room.
“I did find the cavity I expected. Inside there was a culture of the flower-disease bacillus, the black, straggly beard, the details of the cure for the flower-disease and Dr. McIntee’s confession that he had committed a murder. It was now practically certain that Lancaster was ‘Black and White’ and Stranger; and it seemed apparent, from the statement signed by Dr. McIntee, that he was also Konrad Featherstone. This latter possibility suggested a theory as to Mervyn Lancaster’s original motive for the murder of the old man.
“And now, as if we hadn’t enough evidence to settle Lancaster’s guilt, there came into our possession two interestin’ supplementary items. McGonagle, Spring and I had lunch as usual to-day in Spendel’s Restaurant. The coffee must have been particularly strong on this occasion, for after his first sip Spring brought a fist down on the table with a bang.
“‘I remember,’ he said.
“I must explain to you, sir, that after his visit to Arundel House on Wednesday morning, Spring returned to the Yard puzzled. At the back of his mind he knew he’d noticed something odd; but it was buried so deeply in his subconscious mind that for the life of him he couldn’t bring it into the region of definite knowledge. He couldn’t remember what he’d noticed; but he knew that it was something which, if he were able to locate it, might prove to be significant. I had exactly the same experience myself, sir, with regard to Lancaster’s scar and its vanishin’.
“Now, however, Spring had remembered. His memory had been stimulated, no doubt, by the trend of the case against Lancaster, just as it had been my own definite suspicion of the actor which made me remember the disappearance of his scar.
“On Spring’s first entry into Arundel House on Wednesday morning, Lancaster was standing by the drawing-room mantelpiece filling his pipe from a pouch. After he’d lit his pipe, Spring observed a bulge in one pocket of the actor’s blazer. He took that bulge to represent the tobacco-pouch. Then, followin’ questions, there occurred the incident of the stone-throwin’.
“At first glance it appeared as if the stone, around which
there was wrapped the second warning from ‘Black and White’, had been hurled through the open window from the street; but Spring, who is remarkably observant — if I may say so, sir, in his presence — noted the angle at which the stone had fallen to the floor and came to the conclusion, after glancing hurriedly out of the window and seeing no one in Park Square likely to have thrown it, that the stone could only have come from above. He was supported in his theory by Lancaster, the latter again being up to his tricks of turnin’ suspicion from himself.
“With Fayne and Lancaster at his heels, Spring dashed upstairs to Seale’s room, but found nothing there of interest. On coming downstairs again to the drawing-room, he saw Lancaster cross to the mantelpiece and take the pouch from it. It followed, therefore, that the bulge in Lancaster’s pocket which he’d previously noted could not have been made by the pouch. But as there was now no bulge in Lancaster’s blazer, it might have been formed by the stone, around which Lancaster had previously wrapped his typewritten message.
“This theory was strengthened by the mystery of how the stone could have fallen into the room so neatly and at such a peculiar angle. Lancaster himself, when Spring’s attention was distracted from the window at which the actor stood, probably took the stone hurriedly from his pocket and flicked it over his shoulder. By this means he succeeded not only in directing another warning of his power to the authorities, but also in diverting suspicion from himself.
“I may state, furthermore, that while Spring was At Arundel House on Wednesday he observed, in contrastin’ the characters of Fayne and Lancaster, that the former did not appear so obviously upset by the stone-throwin’ as the latter. Now, as Lancaster, on the surface at any rate, is an Englishman of the devil-may-care school and Fayne is a servile half-caste, this observation seemed odd to Spring. As he himself says, he was on the verge of an illuminatin’ discovery. Had he possessed at the time any inkling of Lancaster’s guilt, he would have concluded at once that the man’s apparent apprehension was in reality a piece of over-actin’.
“That is one item of supplementary evidence. Now for the second. It was contained in the telephone message which we had from Walsh — a smart young man, sir this afternoon. The idea of sending Walsh to Blaan was suggested to my mind by information which I received from Jo — er — Miss Nevinson on Wednesday evening.
“Previous to this, McGonagle had made a clever deduction. He had judged Miss Nevinson’s kidnapping to be the result of the murderer’s fear that she possessed some item of knowledge, which, while she herself was unaware of the fact, might ultimately lead to suspicion bein’ directed against him.
“We asked Miss Nevinson to try and think along those lines — to try and locate some knowledge which she had innocently spoken about and which might conceivably cause the murderer embarrassment. It was a difficult task for Miss Nevinson, but she succeeded in accomplishin’ it. She told me this.
“On Tuesday morning, while at breakfast with Lancaster and Fayne, the actor had remarked casually that, though Dr. McIntee’s nephew, he had no idea as to the birthplace of his uncle. (And in passing, I may say that this remark must have been made by Lancaster for the purpose of finding out if his companions actually possessed such knowledge.) Miss Nevinson replied that the old man had once told her of his native place. She thought that later in the day she might remember its name ... When she gave me the story she had remembered. Dr. McIntee, she said, had been born in Blaan, Argyllshire.
“I had a sudden idea as to why the murderer should be unwilling to have us probe into Dr. McIntee’s family history. I asked Walsh to go to Blaan and learn about the old doctor’s ancestry. And Walsh discovered at once a significant point. Abraham McIntee had no brothers or sisters. It followed, therefore, as a fact of nature, that he could not have had a nephew. I had been expectin’ something like that, and, as I told Walsh, his information supplied the last nail in Lancaster’s coffin ...
“That’s all the definite evidence against Lancaster to date.”
There was a little silence. Then with a jerky motion the Assistant Commissioner stretched out his hand for a matchbox and lit the Turkish cigarette.
“My God, Spike!” he muttered through a cloud of smoke. “You certainly can talk!”
Spike grinned.
“I’m not finished,” he said, “yet.”
CHAPTER XXVI
MCGONAGLE and Spring shifted restlessly on their chairs. Sir Percival Merridew glanced at the black and silver clock, the hands of which revealed the time to be close on seven; and he knew that now Mervyn Lancaster would be at the Paternoster Theatre.
“But — er —” he began.
“As I was saying, sir,” Spike went on quietly but firmly, “I haven’t finished — yet. You will have made a mental note of the fact that I’ve talked little about the actual murder of Dr. McIntee or about the psychological factors which led Konrad Featherstone, alias Stranger alias ‘Black and White’ alias Mervyn Lancaster, to kill the old man — the psychological factors which ultimately caused his own dangerous madness. If you will bear with me, I should like to make a short reconstruction of the events previous to Miss Nevinson’s ’phone-call to the Yard on Tuesday morning. Part of the reconstruction will be founded on actual knowledge in our possession; but I am afraid that much of it will forever remain guess-work.”
“Lancaster,” pointed out the Assistant Commissioner, “may make a confession.”
“It is possible.”
Spike paused for a moment, a little furrow on his brow. Then suddenly he was speaking again.
“About thirteen years ago in Bombay,” he said, “Dr. Abraham McIntee fell in love, during late middle life, with a girl. Let us call her Margaret.
“He was of Scottish stock, dour, a student, suspicious of any outward show of feeling (one can perceive this last trait in his attitude to Miss Nevinson), a man who for fifty years had to wage a lonely battle with life. He was, like many of the Scots people, an absolute monument of repression. And it is an individual of this type who, according to a well-known psychological rule, falls most violently in love when once the gates of his repression arc burst open.
“Abraham McIntee was no exception to the rule. When William Featherstone, a smart young solicitor fresh from London, supplanted him in Margaret’s affection, he was prepared to commit murder to gain his desire. From the fact revealed in his own confession that he waited from May until September before finally deciding to kill his rival, it is clear, however, that he wasn’t prepared to commit a crime that might readily be discovered. His Scottish caution would assert itself. His Scottish logic would make it clear to him that there wouldn’t be much point in committin’ a murder if he’d be unable to enjoy the fruits of it. So he waited ...
“And as McGonagle rightly pointed out some time ago, temptation always comes when a man is least able to resist it. In the course of his medical duties he was summoned to the side of a Pathan dying of dropsy. From this man he received a dirty piece of paper. It was the sole return the Indian could make for the doctor’s kindness, and it is well-known that though quick to avenge an injury, the Pathans are equally ready to repay a kindness. The paper was the most precious thing in his possession, for it contained details of the cure for the dreaded flower-disease — the cure which, it was imagined, had been lost in the mists of the centuries.
“How the knowledge of the cure came to be in the Pathan’s family we shall probably never find out. The writer of the old book mentioned by ‘Jimmy’ Ram-Singh stated that the secret died with a Buddhist monk livin’ in Upper Burma. And the country of the Pathans is hundreds of miles away from Upper Burma. It may have been that at one time the Buddhist monk employed a Pathan servant, for in the middle ages the Pathans travelled far and wide in search of adventures and riches; and this Pathan servant, entering the employment of the monastery with an eye on the idolatrous ornaments of gold and precious stones, may have assisted his master to cure some person of the flower-disease. Unsuspected by the monk, he may hav
e copied down particulars of the cure ...
“Naturally the doctor was excited. He became intensely interested in his discovery. For a time the fever in his heart caused by Margaret’s unfaithfulness took second place to the intellectual fever caused by this new scientific knowledge. He was eager to find out if the cure actually worked, and to this end he searched frantically Bombay and its environs to find a victim of the disease upon whom he could practise. And though the disease is now a rarity, he found among the teeming thousands of natives in the district a woman afflicted by the mysterious illness. And he found her within a week.
“He hurried to her house, only to discover that she had died while he was on his way. He was bitterly disappointed; but he took a sample of her blood and a specimen of the fungoid growth and went back to his laboratory. There he located the flower-disease bacillus and found that the mixture of vegetable poisons indicated on the Pathan’s paper would kill it. Later he administered the poison to a cat and experimented successfully with the antidote. He had found the cure, all right.
“His first reaction was to publish his knowledge for the benefit of humanity. But then, the excitement of his discovery and experiments dying down, there came back to him with a rush his hatred of William Feather-stone. And gradually, insidiously, the idea of a perfect murder crept into his mind. He had a culture of the flower-disease bacillus which he’d used in his experiments. He could infect William Featherstone, who was suffering at the time from a chill and had called upon his services. He could do so easily by employing a bottle of medicine to carry the infection ... And no one knew of his discovery of the cure. No one, therefore, would blame him if he did not save William Feather-stone’s life. At the time the disease was thought, by almost everyone, to be incurable.
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