Charles, retaining his disguise, took the first train from Waterloo. On arrival he turned south, as this direction was most likely to lead to open country. Passing a bookseller’s he went in and bought a directory of the town. Then he continued his walk.
He soon reached what he thought would prove the very place. Sycamore Avenue, a quiet tree-lined street of detached and semi-detached villas with small gardens. Selecting a likely looking house with telephone wires attached, he noted its name, the Dove Cot. His directory told him that it was occupied by a Mr Francis Carswell. On his way back to the station he checked at a telephone booth that Mr Carswell really was on the telephone. Returning to town, he called at a printer’s and ordered a plate and a hundred visiting cards to read: Mr Francis Carswell, The Dove Cot, Sycamore Avenue, Surbiton. He explained that he was in a special hurry and the cards were promised for the following morning.
This completed Charles’s morning’s work. It had taken longer than he had expected, and it was now nearly lunch time. However, that couldn’t be helped. Retrieving the kitbag from the Piccadilly cloak-room he changed back into his normal clothes, put the pills and scales into the bag, locked it, and drove to Paddington. There he left the bag in the cloak-room, snatched a hurried lunch in the refreshment-room and took the first train to Reading.
He had now to justify his journey to London, and he did it thoroughly. Taking a taxi to the machine tool works, he examined the products there displayed with the same care as if he contemplated an immediate purchase. Then he asked a number of questions to which in the nature of things answers could not be instantly given. Finally he left, saying that on receipt of the information he would come to a decision.
On reaching Town he found there would be just time to settle the matter of the pictures before the pawnbroker’s closing time. Accordingly he took a tube back to Arundel Street.
Once more Mr Truelove received him with unction and rubbing of hands.
‘Well, sir,’ he beamed, ‘I’ve had your pictures valued, and I may admit at once,’ he threw out his arms with a gesture of splendid frankness, ‘that they’re worth more than I had thought at first. I can certainly make you an advance on them.’
‘That’s satisfactory,’ Charles admitted. ‘I’ve a sort of idea what they’re worth. The question is, what will you lend on them?’
‘Keeping them for six months?’
‘I don’t know exactly; about six months, I should think.’
‘We shouldn’t sell them for two years. If by the end of two years they were not redeemed, we should consider them our property to dispose of as we thought fit.’
‘That would be all right,’ Charles answered. ‘By the end of two years my business will be either flourishing or dead.’
Mr Truelove became sentimentally sorry for his firm. Times were hard. The pictures would be an expense. The space they would occupy was valuable, and they would have to be kept clean and dry. Moreover, insurance on them would be heavy. In short, he could not offer as much as he would like and as he admitted the articles were worth.
‘Never mind,’ Charles said patiently. ‘What will you offer?’
The sum, when Mr Truelove could at last be persuaded to mention it, was larger than Charles had hoped. The pictures were not all of one value, though they were nearly so. Mr Truelove proposed to offer an equal advance on each, £150 a picture, total £2,100.
Charles was delighted, though he was careful not to reveal his joy. £2,100 would cover up the deficit on the works for three or four weeks. With what he had in hand he could count on keeping things going for more than a month. And before a month was over he would be a rich man.
Truelove had prepared the necessary documents, and when Charles had signed them, notes for £2,100 were counted out to him. Very well satisfied with his progress, he left the office.
On his way back to the hotel he made certain further purchases: some envelopes of various sizes and qualities, a book of stamps, a little lampblack and an etching pen.
Charles had some bad moments that night as he thought of what was coming. In his next day’s operations there was undoubted risk. There was always risk in an impersonation. Why, the chemist’s assistant to whom he applied might know the real Francis Carswell. He might be a native of Surbiton, and even if he didn’t know Carswell, might make some local reference which he, Charles, could not play up to. Yes, there was certainly risk.
However, the risk was not great. The odds against disastrous knowledge on the part of anyone with whom he would be brought in contact were probably some millions to one.
When he retired to his room Charles locked the door and unpacked the pills and scales. He had two principal questions to settle. The first was whether he could put a fatal dose of potassium cyanide into the compass of a pill of the correct size. The pills in each of his bottles were of the same size, there being of course fewer in the small bottle than in the large. Charles decided to use those in the smaller bottle for examination, so as to avoid fingering those in the other.
The pills were fairly large. Charles weighed a number. The average weight came to five grains. If, therefore, potassium cyanide was anything like the weight of the present contents of the pills, it looked as if he could put in about three grains. Three grains would, he imagined from what he had read in ‘Taylor’, be amply sufficient to cause the death of a man with so weak a heart as his Uncle Andrew.
So far, so good. He put away the pills and turned to his second question. From the envelopes he had bought he selected two of business shape and different qualities of paper. On that of better quality he typed with the machine he had brought, ‘Francis Carswell, Esq., The Dove Cot, Sycamore Avenue, Surbiton’, using the black ribbon. Then he put in the old purple ribbon and typed on the other, ‘Mr F. Carswell’, and the same address.
Next he picked out two square envelopes of different colours. Taking a couple of manuscript letters from his pocket, he set them up before him and practised copying the handwriting. Then he addressed the envelopes to ‘Francis Carswell, Esq.’ and ‘F. Carswell, Esq.’ in these two disguised hands. He was not satisfied with the first or the second attempt, but by the time he had destroyed a dozen envelopes his work looked good enough for anything.
To put on the stamps, three of threehalfpence and one of a halfpenny, was an easy matter, but his next business, to forge realistic postmarks, was the hardest thing he had yet struck. With a sample of the Cold Pickerby cancelling stamp before him he designed a similar one for Surbiton and then spent an hour making copy after copy until he had produced something really like the genuine article. He worked with his fine mapping pen and the lampblack, stippling his lines and finally, when almost dry, rolling his hand over the marks. This gave them a suitably smudgy appearance. Then, an expert from so much practice, he produced four not very clear postmarks on his four envelopes.
He now put in sheets of paper and stuck down the three envelopes with the threehalfpenny stamps, turning in the flap of the fourth. Then he kneaded and twisted the envelopes, rubbed them lightly on the carpet tore them roughly open and took out and replaced their contents. All this removed their pristine freshness and gave them the somewhat worn appearance of letters which have been through the post.
Charles was exceedingly pleased with his work. He felt that only the use of a lens could indicate the forgery. Finally he mixed the four envelopes with a sheaf of other papers and put them in his pocket.
It was now nearly three in the morning, but there was still something to be done. Picking up his Surbiton directory, he set himself to learn off the names and addresses of the doctors and a few of the principal men of the town, as well as the occupants of the houses in Sycamore Avenue immediately adjoining the Dove Cot. This occupied another hour, then he tumbled into bed and slept the sleep usually attributed to the just.
Next morning he began with a visit to Cook’s. He was in need of a holiday, say for about three weeks. Perhaps a cruise… What would Messrs Cook suggest?
Messrs Cook, through the mouth of a junior clerk, suggested a cruise to the northern capitals. Charles thought he should not agree too readily. The holiday was to be the thing, not the getting away from this country. He therefore demurred about the northern capitals. He had been to most of them already. Besides he wanted the sun. Had they nothing to the Mediterranean? No, it wouldn’t be too hot for him. There was nothing he loved so much as the heat. He presently left with a small mountain of travel literature, having given his name and said he would ring up when he had come to a decision.
He returned to his hotel and ordered a luncheon basket, explaining that on a motor drive he liked to be free to lunch where the scenery was good. Then he paid his bill, got out his car, and left as if on his journey north. Instead, however, he parked at the end of Waterloo Place. Then, taking his kitbag in his hand, he left the car and repeated his evolutions of the previous day. Changing in a street lavatory into the clothes in which he had ordered the visiting cards, he called for and obtained these. Then in another lavatory he changed into the suit of ‘Town business clothes’ which he had brought from home, and again leaving his suit-case at a cloak-room, he set off on the decisive episode of the scheme.
Starting at Waterloo, as if he had come from Surbiton, he went into the first chemist’s he came to in the direction of the City.
‘I’m bothered with wasps’ nests in my garden down at Surbiton,’ he said. ‘Can you give me a little potassium cyanide to destroy them?’
The chemist hesitated. ‘I’m afraid, sir,’ he answered civilly, ‘I can’t oblige you in that. We’re not allowed to sell poisons of that description to anyone who is not personally known to us. It’s the law and we’d be rather seriously in for it if it were found out.’
Charles simulated mild surprise. ‘I didn’t know things were as strict as that,’ he declared. ‘I thought if I signed a book it would be all right. I suppose then my name is not enough?’ He handed over one of his new cards and at the same time put his hand in his pocket and drew out the sheaf of papers he had prepared. Looking through these in a casual way, he exhibited one by one the four envelopes.
The chemist was evidently impressed. However, he was not impressed to the extent of meeting his customer’s wishes. He much regretted his inability to oblige. He personally would willingly have handed over the stuff, but the law was the law and he had to keep himself right. He went on to say that potassium cyanide was not necessary to destroy wasps’ nests and recommended petrol.
Charles had not thought of petrol, but he was delighted at the idea. It would save all trouble, as he had petrol in his garage. He would certainly try it and he was much obliged to the chemist for the hint. The chemist seemed relieved that the purchase had not been pressed, and they parted amicably.
At the next chemist’s a similar scene was enacted. He received politeness and regrets, but no potassium cyanide. And so at the third. And the fourth. And the fifth.
Charles was beginning to think his grand scheme was doomed to failure and he began to weigh the possibilities of getting the stuff through a photographer or for photographic purposes. However, he wouldn’t despair so easily. He turned into his sixth chemist’s.
This was a small dark shop, more old-fashioned and less tidy than those he had previously tried. A thin old man with spectacles and a stoop came forward. He was alone in the shop and Charles judged him to be the proprietor. Charles put his question.
‘Well, you know, sir,’ the man returned, ‘we’re not supposed to sell poison to people who are not known to us. How much would you want?’
This sounded hopeful. Charles was careful to be off-hand.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘A very little. Whatever you think it would take.’
As he spoke he handed over one of the cards. ‘There’s no question as to my identity,’ he said with a smile, drawing out his sheaf of papers and exhibiting letter after letter.
The old man looked doubtful. For a few moments he hesitated and then, with a kind of would-be carelessness, asked, ‘Do you happen to know Dr Davis?’
This was one of the names Charles had learnt on the previous night, or rather that morning. Fortunately he remembered the doctor’s address.
‘Of Eden Road?’ he answered. ‘Only slightly. My own doctor is Dr Jennifer of 25 St Kilda Terrace.’
The chemist had evidently some nodding acquaintance with Surbiton, and this did the trick.
‘That will be all right, sir,’ he said with a relieved air. ‘If you will please sign the poison book, I’ll give you the stuff.’
As he filled up the entries and added a bold signature, ‘Francis Carswell’, Charles became conversational. He talked of gardens and of wasps and of heather and of commons and of good and bad fruit years, anything to prevent a return to the subject of Surbiton, which might so easily have had disastrous consequences. Two minutes later he left the shop with in his waistcoat pocket a little tin box containing an ounce of a hard whitish compound. The box was labelled with a red label, ‘Potassium Cyanide. POISON.’
‘You’ll please be very careful of it, Mr Carswell,’ said the chemist. ‘It’s dangerous stuff to get about.’
‘I certainly shall,’ Charles returned pleasantly, ‘and many thanks for your warning.’
‘My worst fence!’ Charles said to himself delightedly, as in a leisurely way he walked out of the shop. The getting of the poison in an absolutely untraceable way was undoubtedly his major difficulty. As he had so successfully overcome it, he was satisfied he could easily do all the rest. With his sanguine temperament he looked upon his uncle’s thousands as already transferred to his own pocket; upon his business as saved; upon Una as definitely won.
Charles found that these activities had consumed more time than he had anticipated. It was now after twelve and he wanted to be home at a reasonable time. He hurried to the cloak-room in which he had left his suit-case, retrieved it, changed into his normal attire as Charles Swinburn, and returned to the car park. Five minutes later he was threading the streets on his way to the Great North Road. Three times he stopped before he left Town – at a grocer’s, a chemist’s, and a garage, where he bought respectively a small bag of best quality sifted sugar, some French chalk, and a tin of petrol.
To complete his work in London Charles had now only to get rid of his tools: the visiting cards and plate, the four envelopes addressed to Carswell, the two volumes of ‘Taylor’, and the clothes he had worn while carrying out his secret purchases. Before he could be safe these must be destroyed.
As soon therefore as he had left the outskirts of the city behind, he forsook the Great North Road, turning into a narrow lane which wound aimlessly through the pleasantly wooded country. He wanted to reach a secluded place where he could make a fire without either being observed or endangering the vegetation.
He found it more difficult than he had expected, but at last, after wasting the greater part of one of his precious hours, he came on the very place. It was a disused sand pit and he was able to drive right into it, the car then being hidden from the road. Behind a protecting heap of sand the ground was blackened where workmen or picnickers had had their fires. Charles figuratively pounced on it.
Saturated with petrol, the cards and clothes vanished almost instantaneously. But the two large books proved a different pro-position. Charles spent quite a time turning them over with sticks and opening the pages to let the air in. At last, however, they were reduced to flaky ashes.
The plate for the visiting cards now only was left. With the car screwdriver Charles scraped out the lettering, and buried the plate beneath some trees in a spot which looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed for centuries. Then restarting his car, he worked his way back to the Great North Road and settled down to a spell of the fastest running of which he and the car were capable.
He managed to eat his lunch while the car was in motion, save for a few seconds at the end when he mixed himself a drink. He did without tea altogether. On all possible parts of th
e road he kept his speedometer needle about fifty. For one stretch of four miles it never went below sixty and once near the bottom of a long hill it touched seventy.
As he drew near his own country he gradually reduced his speed. It would not do to be seen going unusually fast by anyone who knew him. His story would be that he had spent the whole day in driving slowly down, and there must be nothing to give the lie to his statement.
With all his haste, however, he was unable to reach the works before they closed, though he got home in time for dinner. He rang up Gairns at once, explaining that he had taken it too easy along the road and asking if anything of importance had come in. There was nothing.
That evening, tired as he was, he could not resist tackling the next item of his plan. Locking the door of his bedroom, he settled down to teach himself how to make pills. This was where his Martindale & Westcott’s Extra Pharmacopoeia came in. There was a section on the subject and he had only to read it up.
Presently he got to work. With a little water he dissolved some of his sifted sugar into a thick, honey-like liquid. To this he added French chalk till the resulting compound grew fairly stiff. He had provided himself with a small quantity of clay. Now he rolled himself a few pellets and began trying to coat them with his compound.
He found it easy enough to get the coating on, but not so easy to give it the hard, shiny surface of the genuine pills. However, he persevered with his experiments, rolling his manufactures about on a sheet of tin which he warmed over a spirit-lamp. Gradually the coating grew harder and smoother till it really became quite like the machine-made article. At last he thought his results were good enough.
Then, drawing on a pair of rubber gloves, he took a small chunk of potassium cyanide from his precious little tin box. This he carefully trimmed with his penknife till it was the right size and shape, allowing for the coating of chalk.
The 12.30 from Croydon Page 11
