In the sterilising room of the Prince Regent Hospital a cluster of night-nurses were drinking tea and trying on fancy headgear for the coming Benefit Ball when the street doors swung open violently and the house-surgeon strode in. A dark-eyed damsel settled the diamond tiara in which she was to wreck hearts as Catherine the Great, giggled provocatively, and called out to him:
“Oh, doctor! Did you run into your friend?”
“Friend? What friend?”
Annoyed, Colin frowned at the siren through clouds of steam. She pouted prettily and patted her permanent waves.
“How do I know? He just went out. I thought you might have met him in the tunnel.” She giggled again. “Name of Herring, or Brill—or maybe it was Kipper.”
“Not Bream?” the doctor fired at her.
“Shouldn’t wonder. It was something fishy.”
With an irritable snort Colin demanded if the caller had left a message.
“Or have you forgotten that, too?”
“Only that he’d just got back to town and—my word, we are in a wax!” This last sotto voce, as the doctor glared, dived into the big lift, and clanged the doors. “Who’s given him the bird, I’d like to know? Look, girls! Do I carry a snake, or—no, I’m wrong, that was Cleo. Whose bell is that? I knew it! Back to the grind,” and sadly she exchanged the gems of an empress for a very stiff, starched cap.
Colin, on the topmost floor, burst without ceremony into a brilliantly-lit room where a dusty-haired man sat hunched over a microscope. Amongst the litter of test tubes and slides he planked down a packet of cigarettes.
“I’ve a job for you, Pilcher. Chuck that, and hump yourself!”
“No smoking,” murmured the dusty-haired man. “It fogs the lens—and less row, while you’re about it. Can’t you see I’m counting?”
“I said ‘Hump yourself’ not ‘Help yourself.’ These gaspers are for analysis. I’ve a notion they’re doped. Do look lively!”
With great deliberation the worker wrote some numerals on a pad, wiped his spectacles, and glanced indifferently at the packet.
“Gaspers? Too cheap a line. Nothing in it. Get yourself a drink—there’s a bottle in the stink-cupboard—and clear off. These slides must be done by morning or there’ll be a hell of a row. Eighteen, nineteen. . . .”
Colin leant over and spoke straight into the analyst’s face.
“Do you want to save Somervell from hanging? Yes, save him. That’s what I said. Answer me that!”
“Somervell?” Pilcher blinked, perturbed, and shook his shock of hair. “No go, old boy. Somervell didn’t dope. What’s the idea?”
“Get busy with these and I’ll tell you. How long will it take?”
“M-m-m. . . . Useless. And I was hoping for bed one of these nights. Well, come back in a couple of hours. That do you?”
“It’ll have to. Here, wait! Give me three of those fags. I’m going to smoke ’em—yes, smoke was the word—and when I’ve finished I want you to ask me to write my name on this envelope. Oh, and make me tell you how many notes you’ve written on that pad. That’s all. Got it?”
“How many—? See here, are you thinking—?”
“Never mind what I’m thinking. Just you do as I say.”
Colin placed one of his three cigarettes between his lips and lit it. The other two, together with his matches and fountain-pen, he laid on the table, then seated himself and inhaled deeply. Pilcher resignedly polished his microscope lens and proceeded with his peering. From time to time he paused to jot down a figure, or to fit in a new slide.
Soon Colin felt an agreeable drowsiness steal over him. Slight though it was, it was sufficient to make him regard his frantic rush that evening as a maudlin waste of energy. Comfortably he eyed the clock on the wall. In an hour, he reflected, Hull would be back from his barristers’ dinner. Yes, Hull would be at home, and could give his opinion on this will. Hull would be home. . . .
He yawned, noticed his cigarette was all but ended, and lit a second from the stump.
“Ladbroke! What ho! Were you napping?”
Colin jerked forward in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and after an appreciable interval replied testily: “Napping? My hat! I’m smo—” He glanced at his right hand, sat musing another long moment, and muttered: “No, I’ve smoked the lot. Unless you pinched one?”
For answer Pilcher pointed to three stumps on the floor.
“I’ve called you three times,” he said.
“You’re a liar. I heard you—once.”
“Have it your own way. Is this writing yours?”
Colin stared at the signature held before him. It was his own.
“Now, then,” resumed Pilcher, “how many time did I put down a note?”
“Oh, I kept count! Three times since I sat down.”
Pilcher showed him nine entries, ringed round to separate them from the rest. Colin looked, remained seated, and presently began rubbing his hands together. His skin was very dry. Slowly he got up, went to the mantel where a small mirror hung, and studied his pupils.
“Slight dilation.” He counted his pulse. “John,” he said, yawning heavily, “I rather believe I’m right. You’ve heard of this before, haven’t you?”
Pilcher nodded.
“I’ve not come across it, though. You still want the analysis?”
“Obviously. God knows where it’ll get us. Maybe nowhere, but . . . Hell! I must get into the air. What’s the time now?”
“Ten to twelve.”
“Is it? That’s hard to believe, but—yes, you’re right. I’ll be back later.”
He descended unsteadily to the basement, found some lukewarm tea which had the one virtue of strength, and by means of it cleared his head sufficiently to venture forth.
Reaching Pelham Crescent, South Kensington, he found Michael Hull just in and waiting for him. As he had expected, the sight of Rose Somervell’s former will roused little enthusiasm.
“It’s evidence of nothing,” said the barrister wearily. “Even if we knew for certain that the beneficiary was aware of its existence, don’t you see it would still be worthless?”
“Suppose we could suggest that the victim in signing the second will was in total ignorance of what manner of document it was? That she died under the delusion that this will held good?”
Hull’s eyebrows beetled incredulously.
“Impossible! How could such a suggestion carry weight?”
“I’ll show you,” said Colin, and related all he knew and suspected with regard to the cigarettes. “If the test comes out as I anticipate,” he went on, “it will provide us with the very type of explanation we want. It may even give us a solution for another puzzle. Yes,” as Hull put on his glasses and stared at him, “I’m referring to a certain alibi, supported by two well-known men. Oh, I don’t say we can prove it! I’m only hoping to demonstrate scientifically that the thing could have been done.”
Hull rose and walked about the comfortable study, his pale skin lined with worry. He stopped to demand how Diana Lake could have been drugged with cigarettes of her own purchasing.
“Once the brand was known it would only be a matter of opportunity to remove as many as one chose and substitute doped ones which would look and smell the same. The object in Diana’s case? I can’t see that it concerns us, if we can definitely show—”
The bell rang. Colin looked interrogatively at his host.
“Bream,” murmured the barrister. “There was a message saying he’d call.”
Bream it was. He looked tired, but strangely keyed-up, also relieved to see Colin.
“I don’t know if my news will do any damage,” he began, “but here it is for what it’s worth. You remember the S.O.S. messages I was inserting in the Agony columns? I got one answer—of all places, from the Northumberland County jail. It came from the resident physician, and said that a prisoner in the infirmary had a statement to make. I went north to see him, and when I found him a wreck from morphia—he’d been jugged for stealing a doctor’s bag—I was prepared to discount all I got from him. Here, Dr. Ladbroke, is where you can help me. Does the name Woodford mean anything to you?”
“Woodford?” Colin frowned. “You don’t mean an assistant the Prince Regent sacked last September for pinching drugs?”
“Then you do know him! What more can you tell me?”
“He worked in our research department, and handled supplies—a sharp chap, very obliging, but he went to bits through doping. We didn’t bring a charge, just let him go.”
“That tallies,” said Bream. “Now, listen: Woodford says that in August he carried some reports round to Dr. Somervell, who was laid up at his boarding-house with a bronchial cold. That sitting by the bed was a woman who during the few minutes he stopped to chat made some reference to the man she worked for—a solicitor. Follow me? Well, it so happened that Woodford that same morning had been very urgently asked to supply the name of a competent lawyer. He noted down this one’s address, and passed it on to the applicant.”
“Who was—?” demanded Colin, as Bream paused.
“A pub acquaintance of Woodford’s. Abdulmajid Haji, whose girl had just died accusing him of having done her in, and who was in the hell of a stew for fear of arrest.”
Hull’s eyeglass clattered to his shirt-front. Colin’s white face grew more intent.
“Go on! And then?”
“Haji begged Woodford to arrange an interview for him with Nicholas Blundell. Woodford did so, although Blundell was not over-eager, as criminal affairs were not in his line. I repeat, Woodford arranged an interview, but he doesn’t know, or says he doesn’t, if it actually took place. Haji swore not, and after the inquest, which exonerated him, he gave Woodford a wide berth. A month later, Woodford, in trouble himself, appealed to Haji for a loan to enable him to leave town. Haji refused, declaring he was broke; but the next day he came round, handed Woodford ten pounds, and Woodford cleared out.”
The two listeners looked at each other, then at Bream.
“Just my thought,” said the agent. “A lad who’s stranded, borrowing from all and sundry, suddenly turns generous to the tune of ten quid—why? Not on his own account. He’d nothing to fear. Was he deputed to help his friend out of town because that friend represented the sole link between himself and some one who as early as September strongly objected to having his name brought up in connection with a case of suspected poisoning? I can’t prove it—but I believe it was.”
In the same breath the barrister and the doctor demanded details of the Frieda Klapp inquest. Bream read from his notebook.
“Directly, her death was due to heart failure—which, in turn, was set down to acute gastro-enteritis, from a cause which did not appear. Maybe it was the tinned salmon she had on her own admission—Haji’s word for it—eaten at her last meal, though the salmon could not be traced, since she had not said where she had it. The doses administered to her had emptied her digestive organs of pretty well all contents. Don’t lose sight of that. It’s important.”
“Anything more?” inquired Colin keenly.
“Stomach-lining showed extreme hyperaemia, modified since death—also, a slight brown staining. Some mucous was present. The membrane of the duodenum was likewise inflamed, with a few dark patches which had become mortified. Heart flaccid, brain healthy—”
“Why don’t you say it? If aconite had been found, we should have an exact replica of the Somervell report. Am I right?”
“To a T. Taken all in all,” said Bream shrewdly, “we may call it a most unsatisfactory verdict, but one which could not possibly be upset.”
Colin asked if Woodford had furnished any further details.
“He did,” replied Bream quietly, “though I suspect what I got was a well-edited version. He’s acquainted with the term ‘accessory before the fact,’ and is consequently in a mortal funk. Still, as you said of him, he’s an obliging chap.”