“MR. HENRY TIBBETT! Please put Mr. Henry Tibbett on the line!” the long distance operator was displaying the near-incomprehensible bossiness characteristic of her profession.
“Speaking,” said Henry.
“I have a person-to-person call for Mr. Tibbett from Tampica.”
“I know you do,” said Henry. “I’m waiting.”
“Tampica? Is Dr. Duncan there? Kindly tell Dr. Duncan that his party is waiting.” The operator was behaving like an overanxious sheep dog, and with the same results.
“Tibbett? Are you there, Tibbett? Duncan here!” The doctor’s voice came loud and clear down the line, but before Henry could answer, the operator said tetchily, “Please do not speak at this time. I am trying to connect you.”
“We are connected,” Henry protested. “Hello, Duncan!”
“Tibbett—”
But the operator was not going to let them get away so easily. Henry just had time to hear her say, “Tampica! Please give me your area code and number”—before a switch was thrown which disconnected his line from that of Dr. Duncan, and substituted a cacophony of clicks and buzzes. Then the operator returned to Henry, demanding his identity, his current telephone number and address, and other irrelevant information, before she announced triumphantly, “I’m putting you through now!”—and Henry found himself talking to Sir Samuel Drake-Frobisher’s secretary, who was trying to make a call to the State Department in Washington. The operator, like a games’ mistress trying to control an unruly hockey game, ordered everybody to hang up and start again from the beginning. And at long last Henry found himself talking to Dr. Duncan.
“Tibbett. Duncan. Thought I must call you.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Information. Disturbing information. Such a dear girl, and I don’t like to tell tales, but there it is. You’ll have to know.”
“Tell me, then,” suggested Henry.
“I hardly know how to. These people are my friends, you see. That’s the whole trouble.”
“What’s the whole trouble, Dr. Duncan?”
“Why, that I knew her too well. And her family. That’s why she went to another island.”
“Who did?”
“Are you connected?” broke in the fluting tones of the operator.
“Yes, by the grace of God, so don’t interfere!” shouted Duncan. “Now, where was I?”
“Somebody went to another island. Who?”
“Dorrie Hamilton, of course. Because she wouldn’t have wanted to come to me, you see.”
“But Miss Hamilton is here in Washington,” said Henry, raising his voice against what sounded like the waters of the Atlantic Ocean pounding down the line.
“I’m talking about a couple of years ago. When she had a serious drinking problem. Can you hear me, Tibbett?”
“Yes, I can. Go on.”
“Well, if she’d come to me for help, it would have been all round the island in no time, professional secrecy or no,” said the doctor. “You can’t hush things up in a small, enclosed society like that. So she went off to a doctor on St. Mark’s—there’s a plane every day, only takes a quarter of an hour—and he put her on disulfiram. Alcodym, to be precise. So there’s your source of the stuff, right in the Embassy.”
Henry said, “If she was drinking so heavily, surely people on the island must have known about it?”
Duncan hesitated. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Some may have, but I never heard of it, and I know most things that go on. Seems she was a solitary drinker. Of course, she was all broken up by Eddie’s marriage. That’ll have been the root of it all.”
“So how did you finally find out?” Henry asked.
“Pure luck. If you can call it that. I was round at the Hamilton house taking a look at one of the smaller children—suspected measles. I said the child should be isolated—they all live in each other’s pockets, these big families—and Dorrie’s mother said that fortunately Dorrie’s room was now free, and that she’d clear it out for the kid. Well, the clearing out must have been pretty rudimentary, because when I called this morning to see the child, it was obvious that most of Dorrie’s things were still there. And the first thing I set eyes on was this empty Alcodym bottle on the dressing table. I asked Cassie about it—that’s the mother—and after a bit the whole story came out.
“Dorrie’s cured now, and very seldom needs to use the Alcodym, but she keeps a bottle with her, just in case.” Dr. Duncan paused, and sighed. “I really can’t believe that Dorrie would have...she was jealous, of course, and that creates tensions...all the same...somebody might have taken the bottle from her room...oh, well. I’ll have to leave all that to you, Tibbett.” Suddenly, the doctor sounded very old and tired. “Give my love to Dorrie and—please be gentle with her.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Henry.
“Yes...well...there it is. Let me know what happens. Good-bye, Tibbett.”
The line went dead. For a moment, Henry sat quite still, frowning to himself. Then he picked up the telephone again, called the Tampican Embassy and asked to speak to Inspector Bartholomew.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. Hope I’m not interrupting your work.”
“No, no, sir. I have already made the inquiries, as you asked me to.”
“Any result?”
“Just what we expected. I have questioned every one of the waiters who served food and drinks at the reception. Including those who were hired from outside. They all agree Lady Ironmonger was served nothing but straight tomato juice.”
“How can they be so sure?”
“Well...the fact is that only one waiter served her. He’s a member of the Embassy staff, by the name of...just a minute...” Henry could hear the rustle of paper as Bartholomew thumbed through his notes. “Ah...here we are...Walter Jenkins. It seems that the staff was briefed by Dorrie—by Miss Hamilton, I should say—before the reception. They were all told that Lady Ironmonger would be drinking nothing but tomato juice throughout the evening, and that if she asked for a drink, only tomato juice was to be served her. However, Jenkins was allotted the special task of looking after His Excellency and Lady Ironmonger, to make sure they had everything they wanted and wouldn’t need to ask for anything.”
“Jenkins came with the Ironmongers from Tampica, did he?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Then presumably you must have known him back home,” Henry said.
There was a little pause. Then Bartholomew said, “Not really, sir. He’s not Tampican, you see. He’s from St. Mark’s. Came over to work for Miss Pontefract-Deacon—the English lady who lives out on Sugar Mill Bay, and that’s far out, I can tell you. Jenkins didn’t come into town much. He seems a nice enough guy—when you consider that he’s from St. Mark’s.”
Henry tried to keep the smile out of his voice. “I see. And what did he tell you?”
“He says he served three glasses of plain tomato juice to Lady Ironmonger in the course of the evening. While the receiving line was going on, she kept her glass on a small table behind her, and took a sip from it every so often. He kept an eye on it, and when it was empty he replaced it with a fresh one, without waiting to be asked. Those were his orders. When the receiving line broke up, Lady Ironmonger picked up her glass and carried it with her while she talked to the guests. Jenkins noticed it was full. It was some time since he’d given her a fresh drink, so he concluded that she had simply not touched it. It seems more likely to me that somebody else substituted a doctored drink when Jenkins wasn’t looking. He was in and out of the room, naturally, fetching drinks and food from the kitchen. It would have been easy enough to do, heaven knows. Just a question of picking up an ordinary Bloody Mary, adding the Alcodym and doing a switch while nobody was looking. Anybody in the room could have done it.” Bartholomew sounded distinctly glum.
“Things may not be as hopeless as you think,” said Henry. “I think we’ve got a lead at last.”
“We have? What’s that, sir?”
“I’ll tell you a little later on, Inspector. Meanwhile, can you put me through to Miss Hamilton?”
“I’ll try, sir. I’m not quite sure if I know how to—”
“You’ll find a push button on your telephone receiver, Inspector. I think you push it twice to alert Miss Hamilton’s extensions.” Henry had noticed, while visiting the Embassy, that there appeared to be only one outside telephone line, but many extensions to various rooms and offices. The button system enabled anybody who answered the phone to draw the attention of an occupant in another part of the house that the call was for him.
“Oh...I see...that’s right...thank you, sir...”
There was a buzzing noise, and a moment later Dorabella was saying, “Sir Edward Ironmonger’s office. May I help you?”
Henry said, “Ah, Miss Hamilton. This is Henry Tibbett.”
“Good afternoon. What do you want, Chief Superintendent?” Dorabella’s voice was correct but not friendly.
“A word with you, if I may. I believe that you use Alcodym, Miss Hamilton.”
Henry was taking a calculated risk, and he knew it. Nobody from the Embassy could have overheard his conversation with Dr. Duncan, but any of them might know of the doctor’s intention to call, for Margaret had telephoned the Embassy in search of Henry. If Dorabella knew of the call, and was guilty, she would have guessed the gist of Duncan’s information—or at least suspected it. She would be on her guard, and Henry’s only hope was to spring the word “Alcodym” on her without warning and pray to get an instinctive reaction. However, he was aware of the dangers involved.
For a moment there was dead silence. Then Dorabella said, “How on earth did you know that?” She sounded scared.
“Never mind how. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Well...yes...that is, I used to take it. I don’t need it any more, thank goodness.”
“But you keep a bottle of it, just the same?”
Another long pause.
Henry said, “Please don’t try to deny it, because I know you do.”
“Very well. I do.”
“Have you checked the bottle lately? Is it emptier than it ought to be?”
This time, the silence seemed endless. At last Dorabella said, “I don’t think we should discuss this on the telephone, Chief Superintendent. I finish work in an hour’s time, at five o’clock. Why don’t you come along to my apartment at half-past five? 2581 P Street, near the bridge. Third floor. I’ll talk to you there. You see, the day before the reception...oh, excuse me. Sir Edward wants me. I must go. See you at half-past five.” The line went dead.
Henry put down the telephone and sighed. There was no definite proof, of course, but it was depressingly obvious that Dorabella Hamilton had opportunity, means and motive to kill Mavis Ironmonger. Also, she had sounded frightened on the telephone. On the other hand, she had also sounded puzzled. Whatever the outcome, Henry felt sure that she would keep her appointment with him at half-past five and that she would have interesting information for him.
***
One of the features which keeps Georgetown such a well-defined entity, a village within a city, is that its eastern and southern boundaries have been indelibly pegged out by nature. To the south, the Potomac River separates it from Virginia. To the east, the escarpment of Dumbarton Rock falls precipitously down to the narrow gorge known as Rock Creek Park. The creek itself tumbles and cascades along the bed of the valley, followed now in its windings and twisting by the motorway known as Rock Creek Parkway. On the far side, the ground rises again to become downtown Washington.
Two hundred years ago, the abyss of Rock Creek effectively severed any easy communication between Georgetown and the rest of urban Washington—a fact which isolated and annoyed the Georgetowners. Now, several bridges span the valley, some distinguished by fine animal sculptures and known as the Buffalo Bridge or the Lion Bridge, others more mundanely as the M Street or P Street bridges. In any event, it is impossible to get to or from Georgetown without crossing a bridge, and taking a brief look down at the rushing waters of the creek below. This fact creates a psychological gulf between Georgetown and Washington, quite as deep as the physical one. It also makes it impossible for even the most honey-tongued real estate agent to describe a house as being in Georgetown when in fact it is in Foggy Bottom.
Right up as far as the bridges on the Georgetown side, however, property can be and is described as Georgetown—but the last few blocks are definitely on the fringe. Only here will you find the occasional high-rise apartment block, for the area is not protected by a law to preserve its historic character. Many of these apartments are large, modern and comfortable, and have beautiful views down to Rock Creek. It is, of course, pure snobbery for people to maintain that they prefer a tumbledown frame cottage with a leaky basement and a dank back yard in the heart of Georgetown. Nevertheless, this attitude persists.
The address which Dorabella Hamilton had given Henry proved to be one of these apartment blocks near the P Street bridge. It struck Henry as being an eminently suitable choice of residence for a single girl in Dorabella’s position. It was within easy walking distance of her work, modern and therefore easy to run, and without the endless disadvantages of a rickety if historic house. The clerk at the desk in the foyer informed Henry that Miss Hamilton’s apartment was No. 416, on the fourth floor—which Henry now knew enough to interpret into English as the third floor. He inquired where he might find the lift, and encountered a moment of blank incomprehension until the clerk realized that he wanted the elevator. It was twenty-nine minutes past five.
He could hear the insistent buzz of the doorbell inside the apartment as he pressed the button with his finger. A second and a third time the beelike summons rang, but to no effect. Dorabella was not at home.
It certainly would not have taken her a full half-hour to walk from the Embassy to 2581 P Street, Henry reflected. Sir Edward must have asked her to stay on and work late. Henry lit a cigarette, leaned against the door jamb, and waited.
After ten minutes, he went downstairs again and telephoned the Tampican Embassy from a public call box in the foyer. The phone was answered almost at once by Winston Nelson, who sounded surprised.
“Yes, Mr. Tibbett...yes, as a matter of fact, I can...she left here just a little late, at ten past five... Well, yes, I am sure, because she looked into my office to see if I was still here. She said, ‘It’s ten past five, Winnie, and I’m leaving now. Will you be here for a while?’ I told her I had at least another hour of work to get through, and she said, ‘Oh, good, then you can take any outside calls, because Eddie’s out and everyone else has gone home.’ That’s why I answered your call, Mr. Tibbett.”
“It’s strange,” Henry said. “I’m at her apartment building now. We had a date at half-past five.”
Winston said, “It wouldn’t have taken her that long to walk home. Perhaps she stopped to do some shopping on the way.”
“Perhaps she did,” said Henry thoughtfully. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Nelson. I’ll just wait here and hope she arrives.”
It was about ten minutes later that the telephone on the clerk’s desk rang. “Yes...yes, there is a gentleman waiting for Miss Hamilton, but...oh...” The clerk’s ebony face registered shock, and he lowered his voice to a respectful murmur. “Yes, sir...yes, of course...just a moment...” He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, and said to Henry, “Are you Mr. Tibbett?”
“I am.”
“It’s the Tampican Embassy on the telephone for you, sir. I’m afraid...I’m afraid it’s bad news. About Miss Hamilton.”
Henry was at the desk in an instant, snatching the telephone from the clerk’s hand. At the other end of the line, Winston Nelson was making a great effort to be calm, but failing. In his emotion, a West Indian accent broke through the façade of his B.B.C. English.
“Mr. Tibbett...worst possible news, I’m afraid...an accident...hit and run...yes, that’s what is so terrible...only just around the corner from the Embassy...there’s a quiet little street, makes a good short cut, Exeter Place...must have happened soon after she left...the hospital just called...”
“Why?” asked Henry.
“Why? Mr. Tibbett, don’t you understand? Dorrie’s dead...run over by some bastard of a—”
“What I meant,” said Henry, “was why have they only just called you from the hospital? Didn’t they find her for some time, or...what?”
Winnie was becoming more agitated by the moment. “Oh, yes, sure they found her. A lady living in Exeter Place heard a scream and ran out and saw Dorrie lying in the road. But the car was gone. The lady says she heard it drive off—but what’s the use of that? No one’ll catch that son-of-a—”
“For heaven’s sake,” said Henry, “get a grip on yourself and listen to me. Did somebody call an ambulance right away?”
“Oh, yes. The lady called right away...ambulance and police...Dorrie was dead at the hospital...”
“Then,” said Henry patiently, “why did they take so long to get in touch with you? She must have had identification on her—”
“No.”
“What was that?”
“I say ‘No.’ No identification. Only just discovered who she is.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” said Henry. “She must have had something in her handbag...driving license...diplomatic identity card...”
“No handbag.”
“Talk sense, man.” Henry was becoming exasperated. “She was on her way home to meet me. She must have had her handbag with her.”
“No. I looked in her office, after the hospital called. Her handbag was there. I have it now.”
“Well, for God’s sake don’t touch it.”
“Have touched it, Mr. Tibbett.”
“God give me strength. Is Inspector Bartholomew there?”
“No. Nobody. Only me.”
“Now, listen carefully, Mr. Nelson. Call Inspector Bartholomew, get him round to the Embassy, explain what has happened and give him the handbag—he’ll know what to do with it. And tell him to seal off Miss Hamilton’s office and keep guard on it. Got that?”
“Yes, Mr. Tibbett.”
“And now, perhaps you can at least tell me the name of the hospital?”
“Of course. Thomas Jefferson Memorial Hospital.”
“I’ll be there if anybody wants me. Have you told Sir Edward yet?”
“I can’t. I don’t know where he is.”
“Somebody at the Embassy must know!”
“Dorrie knows...”
“Well, stop sniveling and find him,” said Henry, and rang off.
Henry had anticipated that he might run into a certain amount of trouble at the hospital, owing to his unofficial status. However, the trim black receptionist agreed to put in a call to the doctor who had handled the case, and a moment later she looked up from the telephone with a wide smile.
“Dr. Miles would like to talk to you, Mr. Tibbett. You can take the call in that booth over there.”
“Mr. Tibbett? I’m Dr. Miles. I’m sure glad you’re here.”
“Why? You don’t know me.”
“Right. But Miss Hamilton was asking for you, just before she died.”
“I thought she was dead on arrival at the hospital,” Henry said.
“No. She was unconscious, and there was never any real hope of recovery. However, she did have a moment of lucidity, and she mentioned your name. I’ve got Officer Stanton of the D.C. Police with me here, and he’d like a word with you, too. Could you come up? Room 962.”
The doctor and the police officer were both young men—the policeman white, with neatly cropped hair and a clean cut jawline, the doctor black, with a carefully tended Afro hairstyle. Officer Stanton sat at a desk in the small office, compiling his official report of the accident. Dr. Miles stood by the window, gazing out over the rooftops toward the green grass of the Mall and the slender needle of the Washington Monument.
The doctor said, “Glad to know you, Mr. Tibbett. This is a bad, sad business. You knew Miss Hamilton well, of course?”
“No. Only slightly.”
Stanton intervened. “Have you any idea what reason she might have had for mentioning your name before she died?”
“Yes, but it may be the wrong one. What did she say?”
Stanton moved a paper to consult his notes, but Dr. Miles forestalled him. “I can tell you exactly. She was barely conscious, just murmuring. She said, ‘Tell Tibbett...Mavis...my fault...I did it...’ After that she mumbled some more, but I couldn’t make out the words. Then she died. Does that make any sense to you?”
“I’m afraid it does,” said Henry. “You know that Miss Hamilton worked at the Tampican Embassy?”
“We do now,” Stanton said. “It took quite some fancy detective work. She had no pocketbook, you see—no identification. Just stepped out to mail a letter, I guess. We traced her by a dry cleaner’s receipt in her pocket made out in the name of Hamilton, and the fact that her dress had a label of a shop in Tampica Harbour. My department checked out the diplomatic list, and sure enough, there was Miss Dorabella Hamilton, secretary to the Tampican Ambassador. Lady Ironmonger’s first name was Mavis, wasn’t it? I’ve been following the story on TV...” He paused, on a distinctly interrogative note.
Henry said, “Yes. I’d better explain.” When he had done so—going into no details, but explaining how Tampica was handling Lady Ironmonger’s death, and his role in the matter—Stanton said, “Well, they can’t keep this one out of our hands. This took place on a public highway in the District of Columbia.”
Dr. Miles turned back to the window. He said, “It’s all academic. You’ll never catch the hit-and-run driver. The girl is dead, and there’s the end of it. All we can do is make reports and tie up legal loose ends.”
“Can you tell me,” Henry asked, “who the witnesses were, and what they said?”
Stanton pushed a sheaf of papers across the desk. “It’s all there. Nobody actually saw the accident. Exeter Place is dangerous—we’ve been saying so for years. It’s a useful short cut for traffic, and motorists take it much too fast. Two children have been injured there this past year. The houses on the street are all very large, and set back among trees and gardens—and several of them are empty. People can’t afford these Georgetown mansions any more. There was nobody around to see what happened. However, the housekeeper from No. 3021 happened to be in the garden, and she heard Miss Hamilton scream, and then the sound of a car accelerating down the road. By the time she got to the gate, the car had gone. She saw Miss Hamilton lying in the middle of the road, and ran to call the ambulance—and us.”
Henry said, “In the middle of the road?”
“That’s what Mrs. Drayton said.”
“Isn’t that rather strange?”
“Well, I suppose she was crossing over when the car hit her.”
“Is there a letter-box—a mail box—on that street?”
Dr. Miles said at once, “No. I often walk down Exeter Place. There’s no mail box.”
“Then there’s no earthly reason why she should have been crossing the road,” Henry said. “She had an appointment with me at her apartment on P Street, and she was coming from the Embassy. She didn’t need to cross to the south side of the road at any point.”
“She can’t have been on her way home,” Stanton objected. “She didn’t have her pocketbook with her.”
“Her what?” Henry asked.
The officer looked puzzled. “Her pocketbook. Like all women carry.”
“Oh, you mean her handbag. We really are divided by a common language, aren’t we?” Henry grinned at Stanton, and then said, “What hope do you have of catching the hit-and-run driver?”
The doctor and the policeman looked at each other. Stanton shrugged. “Virtually none, if you want the truth. The car would have suffered only minimal damage—nothing we could ever prove. There’d be no traces of blood on it—the Doc here says her injuries were consistent with being picked up and hurled into the air, as it were, not run over.”
“Could that account for her being in the middle of the road?” Henry asked. And then, answering his own question, “No...if she’d been walking along the pavement—”
“Why should she do that?” Miles demanded. “Why wouldn’t she use the sidewalk?”
Henry smiled. “Here we go again. What we call the pavement is what you call the sidewalk.”
“Then what do you call the pavement?”
“The roadway.”
Stanton shook his head. “Beats me. Go on. If she’d been walking on the sidewalk—”
“Well, the car would have had to swerve off the road—off the pavement—either deliberately or out of control, in order to hit her. In which case, it would either have pushed or tossed her away from the street, toward the garden wall of the house. I think we have to accept the fact that for some reason she was in the middle of the road when the car struck her.”
“Without a pocketbook,” said Stanton, very deliberately. “And she said to tell you that something about Mavis was her fault—that she did it. It adds up, doesn’t it, Mr. Tibbett?”
“I’m very much afraid it does,” said Henry. “As it happens, I have another piece of evidence—something I was going to discuss with Miss Hamilton—which just about clinches it. I’m afraid she threw herself deliberately under that car...that she never intended to reach home or talk to me. Of course, we can’t prove it—and for the sake of the Embassy and Miss Hamilton’s family, it’s better just to announce that she was the victim of a hit-and-run accident, which is perfectly true.”
Stanton nodded, slowly. “I’ll put in my report,” he said. “You’ll be around for a bit, will you, Mr. Tibbett? Just in case...”
The telephone rang, and the doctor picked it up. “Dr. Miles speaking...yes, sure, he’s here...just a moment, Sir Ironmonger...” He turned to Henry. “The Tampican Ambassador for you.”
Ironmonger’s voice was grave. “Tibbett? Winnie Nelson has just told me the dreadful news...I suppose she was killed instantly, poor girl...”
“Not instantly,” said Henry. “She regained consciousness for a while in hospital.”
“Enough to speak?” Henry thought he detected a sharp note of anxiety.
“Yes.”
“Could she identify the car that hit her?”
“That would be asking rather too much, Sir Edward. I don’t suppose she even saw it.”
“Then what did she say?”
“If you can meet me at the Embassy in half-an-hour, I’ll tell you. Meantime...” Henry hesitated. “You leave for Tampica tomorrow, don’t you? For the conference?”
“No, not tomorrow. Friday. And what I shall do without Dorabella...however, that’s a very selfish viewpoint. I can tell you, Tibbett, that I’d be happier about going if you could clear up the mystery of Mavis’s death before I leave here.”
“I think,” said Henry, “that that has been attended to.”