4

Pathologist’s Report

 

No shadows were dispersed when Roger stepped into the small room at the airport hospital – really an elaborate first-aid post – where Perce Sheldon’s body lay. The body was on a high bed, covered from head to foot with a white sheet, big, bulky, a carcass of hopes and plans, and perhaps deep grief for someone who was half the world away.

On one side of the bed stood Sandys; on the other, a youthful, dark-haired man whose hair grew far back from a pale, shiny forehead. He had big eyes and a button nose, and had something of the look of a golliwog. Roger had met him two or three times, and knew him well enough to respect him both as a doctor and as a man of intelligence.

Sandys glanced round.

“About time,” he said gruffly.

“Hallo, Dr Mason,” Roger said.

“Good evening, Mr West.” Mason, on the nearer side to Roger, moved a step and shook hands. “I’ve just made myself very unpopular with Inspector Sandys.”

Roger’s smile was set.

“Not natural causes?”

“Possibly not natural causes. The indications were an acute seizure, probably a coronary. Nothing a superficial examination can reveal suggests it. There is a small puncture in the right buttock but it is not conclusively a hypodermic needle puncture.”

“Are you able to suggest what caused death?”

“Not until after the autopsy. Do you want me to arrange that?”

Roger said quietly, “Do you want to do it?”

“Not one little bit.”

“Then I’ll get Whales to do it,” Roger said. Dr Frederick Whales was the pathologist who had carried out the post mortem on Denise Morrison. “All right with you, Sandy?”

“I’ll have to get approval,” Sandys said. “But it’ll be okay. When do you want him?”

“As early as possible.”

“If I’m fixing that I can’t give anything else priority.”

“What I’d like you to do as soon as practicable is find which officials were in the waiting room at the same time as Sheldon. I’ll have to use the newspapers for the general public.”

Roger’s thoughts were running ahead of him. There was so much to do, and telling himself that everything got done eventually did not stop him from fretting because he could not do a dozen things at once. The country editions of the morning newspapers were already being printed but there was time to catch later editions. A request for more eyewitnesses who had seen Sheldon stagger and fall might do more harm than good. If these two deaths had been by the same hand, then the killer would be warned that the police were close on his heels.

“Better wait until I’m sure,” Roger said to himself.

He went across to a quiet corner where young Cyril Gee, Sarah Welling, and Kebble were standing and talking. There were two glasses on a nearby table.

“How’s it going?” asked Roger.

“I’ve a comprehensive statement signed by both Miss Welling and Mr Gee,” Kebble said. “They’ve given me their business as well as their home addresses. I think they have done all they possibly can tonight.”

Roger said, “Then we needn’t keep you a moment longer.” He shook hands. “Very many thanks – and we won’t worry you again unless we have to.”

“You’ll have to, I’ll bet,” Sarah said. She looked tired and unhappy.

“Come on, Sal,” Cyril Gee took her arm and led her away.

“He may look a nit but he’s no fool,” Kebble said, almost to himself. “How are we doing, sir?”

“The local medic has doubts about the cause of Sheldon’s death, and Sandys is beginning to hate the sight of me.” Roger forced a smile. “I’m going back to the Yard. You stay with Sandys. We want the most comprehensive picture we can of Sheldon’s collapse. Humour Sandys, though.”

“It would need an angel to do that,” said Kebble. “I won’t upset him, sir. I’ll report as soon as I’ve got the picture.”

Roger nodded, and went across to the police office. For a second time Sandys stopped him with a wave from the window. Soon, the airport policeman came hurrying out.

“Where d’you want the corpse?”

“Cannon Row,” Roger answered. “I’ll warn ‘em it’s on the way. Thanks, Sandy. Do me another favour, will you?”

“Can’t think why I should, but I will if I can.”

“Go easy on young Kebble. He’s new to the Yard.”

“Young pup,” growled Sandys. But he grinned.

Roger got into his car, drove through the tunnel to the main exit, and once on the open road, switched on his radio telephone. Information answered almost at once. Roger gave specific instructions for Cannon Row police station to prepare for Sheldon in their morgue, and went on, “Check with City Police about the passenger list. Ask Dr Whales if he has his post mortem report on Denise Morrison ready, and also ask him to carry out the autopsy on Sheldon first thing in the morning.”

Finished, he tried to put the case out of his mind for half an hour. It was a fine starlit evening, there was comparatively little traffic. The glow over central London was so bright that it tinged the night sky with a rainbow of pastel colours. Two youths in an open MG which roared past him reminded him of his two sons. He glanced at the dashboard clock. It was nearly eight-fifteen; there should be time to pop into his home, have a snack, enjoy half an hour with Janet, his wife, and the boys. He did not even need to make a detour; the quickest way to the Yard was past the end of Bell Street, where he lived. The temptation was very strong.

His radio crackled. He picked the receiver up.

“West.”

“Information here, sir. I’ve just had a message from Dr Whales. He’ll be in your office in twenty minutes.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in good time,” Roger said. “Any other messages?”

“None, sir.”

“Thanks.” Roger rang off.

Now he had another preoccupation; why should the pathologist be coming to see him? That wasn’t usual, as late in the day as this, unless it was urgent. Thoughts of going home vanished from his mind. It wasn’t until he was walking along to his office, feeling ravenously hungry, that he remembered what he had half planned to do. The office was in darkness. He switched on the light, rang for a messenger, and asked as soon as one came in, “Get me sandwiches and coffee, will you – quick as you can.”

“Right away, sir,” the elderly messenger promised.

Roger sat at his desk. Several reports had come in about other cases, and there were twenty-seven more reports about the girl on the photograph; someone had put a note of that number on top of the pile. He thumbed through it quickly, anxiously, and in his heart he hoped for one from Doreen Morrison.

None was there.

There was nothing from anyone who knew her as Denise Morrison, either, so it was a reasonable bet that none of these reports was really about the dead girl. He made sure no one had known her as Brown, the name she had used at the boarding-house, then closed the file.

He heard footsteps in the passage, and in spite of his mood, he grinned. No one could ever mistake Dr Frederick Whales’ footsteps. He plonked each foot down, rather as if he were a big fish learning to walk. He was a big heavy man, too, and his waddle of a walk was due entirely to his flat feet.

The door was ajar.

“Hallo, Handsome,” Whales greeted him. He looked pale and tired, and also looked as if he had slept in his clothes; he was notorious for his untidiness. “Glad you aren’t comfortably settled in the bosom of your family.”

He sat in the larger of two armchairs. “How about a whisky and soda?”

“When you’ve told me what this is all about,” Roger said.

“One of these days when you want a job done in a hurry I’ll refuse,” Whales said, as Roger bent down by the side of his desk, opened a cupboard and took out whisky, soda water, and two glasses. “She wasn’t strangled.”

Roger’s fingers tightened on the neck of the whisky bottle.

“That is to say she didn’t die of strangulation,” Whales went on. “Someone exerted a lot of pressure on her neck after death. Don’t ask me why. The fact remains that she was poisoned. Don’t ask me whether the poison was self-administered or not. I don’t know.”

Roger began to pour out the whisky.

“What killed her?” he asked.

“Digitalis.”

“Induced heart failure?”

“Yes.”

“How was the digitalis administered?”

“By injection, I presume.”

Roger squirted soda water into the glass which had more whisky and handed it to the doctor.

“Can’t you be sure?”

“Good luck.” Whales drank as if he were parched. “Ahhhh! Be sure of what?”

“How the poison was administered.”

“Not absolutely. Injection is the most likely. Have known it taken orally.”

“Any in the stomach?”

“No.”

“Isn’t that conclusive?”

“No,” Whales said, “and you know it. It can be absorbed and all traces lost. But there’s no doubt about the cause – no doubt at all. Want all the clinical details?”

He finished his drink.

“No. Have the other half,” Roger said.

“Don’t mind if I do, but what are you after?”

“A quick job on another possible victim of poisoning by digitalis.”

Whales exclaimed, “Goddamighty.”

He watched Roger pour out, took the refilled glass, sipped this time and savoured, and then asked, “How quick?”

“Tonight.”

“Slave-driver as always.” Whales gave a gargantuan yawn and Roger did not think the weariness was wholly assumed. “Where is it?”

“It will be upstairs in the laboratory in half an hour.”

“Must go and eat first,” Whales said. “I’ll be back.”

He heaved himself up and padded out.

Roger called Cannon Row, told them to bring Sheldon’s body over to the Yard, and had hardly finished when the door opened and the messenger came in with a pile of succulent-looking ham sandwiches and a pot of coffee.

“I didn’t think I would disturb you while Dr Whales was here, sir.”

“Quite right,” said Roger. “I’d hate to share these.” He started on the sandwiches at once, poured out a cup of coffee, and hoped he would be spared ten minutes without interruption. He had seven or eight before the telephone bell rang.

He let it ring for half a minute, while finishing the sandwiches, then picked up the receiver. It might be Kebble, or the City of London Police, Sandys, or young Scott.

“Excuse me,” said the operator, “but there’s a woman on the line who wants to speak to someone urgently, sir. She sounds in some distress. It’s about that photograph in The Globe. I know you are handling that.”

“What’s her name?” asked Roger, almost without thinking.

“She says she’s a Miss Doreen Morrison.”

Roger felt as if some kind of delayed action shock had caught up with him, and for a moment he could hardly speak. Then he said harshly, “Put her through, and make sure someone takes a tape recording of the conversation. If I can get an address from her, or a telephone number, I want her traced – Information will see to it.”

He found himself gripping the telephone tightly as the operator said, “Very good, sir.’ A moment later she went on, “You’re through to Superintendent West.”

Roger said, “This is Superintendent West. Can I help you, Miss Morrison?”

It seemed an age before she answered, so long that Roger began to wonder if she had gone off the line.