The Way of an Alkaloid
BONY returned to Melbourne by the first plane leaving Sydney the following morning, and reaching Yarrabo at a quarter to one, he walked direct to his lodging, where Miss Pinkney awaited him with lunch. On the table in his pleasant room were several letters.
Nancy Chesterfield wrote expressing regret that he had been obliged to cancel the proposed dinner and show, and hope that he would be able to make it another time. There was a note from Dr Fleetwood asking him to call as soon as he returned to Yarrabo. And there was a short letter from I. R. Watts.
Watts gave his publisher’s address, and he used his typewriter to inform Mr Napoleon Bonaparte from South Africa that he much regretted his inability to meet him as he was that day leaving on a visit to Adelaide. However, on returning to Melbourne, which he hoped to do late the following week, he would write again and arrange a meeting. The signature was barely decipherable. The letter had been posted in the city.
I. R. Watts was becoming something of a mystery, and without doubt he would have to be unearthed to provide much in addition to an opinion of the influence exerted by the Blake-Smythe clique on local literature. He was a piece of the puzzle that would have to be fitted into place, and any opinion he might have would be of lesser importance than the answer to the question, where did he get the story of the coffin dust he used in his novelThe Vengeance of Master Atherton?
Having enjoyed Miss Pinkney’s lunch, Bony left the cottage and strolled down the highway to the doctor’s house. The sun’s rays were hot. There was no breeze to temper the heat, and no trees to give shade until he was almost at the doctor’s open drive gate, and therefore he was able to appreciate the dimmed and cool interior of the doctor’s study.
“We finished the P.M. yesterday morning,” Fleetwood said. “I have the result in this report. Perhaps you would rather I told you in layman’s language than read the report to you.”
“Yes. I am concerned only with bald facts,” Bony assented.
“Good! Professor Ericson came here and after a preliminary examination of the dead man’s heart and stomach, we took certain organs to Melbourne, where a more extensive examination was undertaken. That examination convinced both of us that Walsh died from failure of the heart brought about by the action of an alkaloid similar to that contained in the powder you gave me to analyse, and which I passed to Professor Ericson.”
Bony had been watching the lean lips forming the words, and now he moved his gaze to encounter the grey eyes.
“Does the fact that Walsh drank spirits to excess have any significance?” he asked. “The rabbit to which you gave some of that powder on a lettuce leaf did not die, remember.”
“The rabbit died some time last night.”
“Oh!”
“We may assume, we think, that the alkaloid does act more swiftly when brought in contact with alcohol,” Dr Fleetwood proceeded. “Walsh was a man whose body was saturated with alcohol. The alkaloid in the stomach was thus able to pass into the blood stream very swiftly. With a non-drinking man the poison would be very much slower in action, and possibly non-effective unless administered in doses given over a considerable period.”
“The joint opinion of yourself and Professor Ericson would not be contested by opposing medical opinion?”
“It might,” replied Dr Fleetwood. “In fact, if there were a trial the defence would almost surely raise an objection-unless the prosecution could produce more of the powder, or name it, and prove its origin. However, in view of what the examination has revealed, I could not certify that Walsh died from prolonged alcoholic poisoning self-administered. I am afraid the case will have to go to the Coroner.”
“There is none of the powder left?”
“None. The remainder was used by Professor Ericson.”
“What, do you think, would be the Coroner’s finding?”
“On the evidence put forward by Ericson and myself, the finding would be, probably, that Walsh died of virulent ptomaine poisoning. Nothing more than that, unless, of course, it was stated that Walsh had been given some of that powder in his drink, and some of the powder was produced. Have you any more of it?”
“No, unfortunately,” Bony replied. “If the body of Mervyn Blake was exhumed, could it be established that he had or had not died of that particularalkaloidal poison?”
Fleetwood bit hard upon his nether lip. “That particular poison is not common, nor as well known in its effect as, say strychnine. I fear that medical opinion would inevitably differ widely-if there were no evidence supporting the suggestion of homicide.”
“How much longer can the reportbe kept back from the authorities, do you think?”
“Another day, perhaps.”
“Very well. Please delay as long as possible. I am expecting information cabled from Colombia, South America, where it is an old belief that the residuum of a long-buried human body will kill without leaving any trace. The substance is known as coffin dust.”
The doctor breathed an exclamation. Softly he repeated the words, his professional equanimity shaken.
Bony said, “May I use your telephone?”
He sat at the table waiting to be connected with Superintendent Bolt. The doctor stood before the semi-masked window, his hands clasped beneath his straight back. He had often been able to make death gentle in its touch, but for the first time he was confronted by death introduced by murder.
He heard Bony’s voice, “Yes, Bony here, super. Speaking from Yarrabo. Oh yes, I got along very well with friend W.-S. I am now interested in another man who writes novels. Name is I. R. Watts. Yesterday Snook and I called on the Income Tax people to find out his address, as I understand he lives in Victoria. We interviewed a man named Trilby, and he had their files searched and said there was no taxpayer of that name. I have now the thought that I. R. Watts might be the pen-name of the taxpayer who collects royalties paid to I. R. Watts. Will you put that to Trilby, and let me know if I. R. Watts can be traced by them? Yes, I know, super. Yes, but I don’t want Watts to be told we are interested in him, and if we approach his publishers, they will surely tell him the police are looking him up. Good! And not a word to friend Snook, mind you. Yes, I agree. He’s got a lot coming to him. Let me know about Watts as soon as you can. Ring Constable Simes. He’ll fetch me to the telephone. What’s that? Oh! Yes! Yes, of course! I never fail-you know that. Good-bye!”
Fleetwood turned and regarded Bony who, having replaced theinstrument, was rising from the chair. The words “never fail” seemed to echo from the recesses of theroom, appeared to be taken up by the clock in its refrain, tick-tick, never-fail, never-fail. The slim, dark man with the brilliant blue eyes smiled at the doctor, and it was obvious that he guessed that the phrase had stuck in the doctor’s mind.
“A man may commit all the crimes on the calendar, but one, and get away with it provided he is clever enough or the investigator stupid enough,” Bony said gravely. “The exception is murder. Murderers who get away with their crime are fortunate only in that the investigator is stupid. Their escape is never due to their own inherent cleverness. You will understand, therefore, why I never fail to unmask a murderer. I am not stupid.”
“You are confident that you will unmask the murderer of Mervyn Blake?”
“I am. I’ll tell you why. When you examine a patient and find a case of pneumonia, you know precisely what course the illness will follow. Murder is a disease. The act is the second symptom, the first being the thought in the mind of the murderer. Broadly speaking, every human being who commits homicide will react in the same way and proceed to act along similar lines. When you deal with a case of pneumonia, you take certain steps to arrest the progress of the disease. When I deal with a case of murder, I await the inevitable developments provided not so much by what I discover about the act of murder but by what the murderer subsequentlygives me by his acts. If a murderer would only stop still immediately after committing his crime, I might sometimes fail. If a murderer could expunge from his mind the crime he had committed, I should often fail.”
“Probably sound philosophy,” conceded Dr Fleetwood.
“When I say I never fail to finalize a case of homicide please do not think me vain, nor think I am super-intelligent. Now I must go. Thank you, doctor, for your help. You would, I think, be assisting the cause of justice by delaying the sending of the report to the Coroner as long as you can. I shall personally thank Professor Ericson.”
On his way up the road Bony called at the police station, where he found Simes in his shirt sleeves and engaged with his interminable reports.
“Hullo!” exclaimed the constable.“Absent without leave last night and this morning. Where’ve you been?”
“Visiting relatives,” Bony replied, smilingly. “Any news items for me?”
“Nothing. Have you seen the doctor?”
“Just left him. D’youknowthe result of the post mortem?”
“Yes. What’s in your mind about it? Walsh poisoned to cover up the killing of Blake?”
“Perhaps.”Bony sank into the vacant chair and rolled a cigarette. “You knew Walsh better than I. Think he was capable of blackmail?”
Simes took six or seven seconds to decide his answer.
“I knew Walsh for a number of years. In spite of that money under his floor, I don’t think he would come at blackmail. He was content to live simply, and he earned very good money, sufficient to provide him with plenty of grog.”
“Nevertheless, Simes, it would seem that Walsh knew who poisoned Blake, and he permitted the murderer to know he knew and what he knew. I am going back to sit under Miss Pinkney’s lilac-trees and read more of that novel by I. R. Watts. I am expecting a call from Superintendent Bolt, and I am also expecting a telegram from the C.I.B., Sydney. Will you be out this afternoon?”
“No. I’ll wait for the call, and the telegram. Have you been to Sydney?”
“Yes. Went after Wilcannia-Smythe. He stuck to the story that he didn’t know the men who abducted him. They tied him up for the night so that they, or someone in collusion with them, could go through his luggage and take a notebook and pages of typescript that belonged to Mervyn Blake. Wilcannia-Smythe couldn’t make any objection because he stole the note-book and papers from. Blake’s writing-room.”
“What the heck was in the note-book to cause all that?”
“I think it was a story of removing unwanted persons with coffin dust. Wilcannia-Smythe swears he knows nothing of such a story, and I’m inclined to believe him. Still, the case isproceeding nicely, Simes, and at any time now we’ll get together and write our report on it. How are you with that typewriter?”
“A bit slow, but I can take notes in shorthand.”
“Excellent!”
“Think you’ll be able to put one over on Snook?” Simes asked, grinning.
Bony turned at the door, saying, his eyes bright,“ We already have material sufficient for that most pleasurable occupation. Aurevoir! Don’t miss the super’s call. You know where to find me.”
Arrived at Miss Pinkney’s gate, Bony glanced at the sun, estimating the time to be a few minutes past three. The grandfather clock in the hall was striking the hour as he entered, and he looked at his wrist watch and smiled when he found that his estimate was only two minutes out and that the clock was seven minutes slow.
Hearing his footsteps, Miss Pinkney appeared.
“Oh! There you are, Mr Bonaparte. The kettle’s nearly boiling. Where would you like to have your afternoon tea? I have to go out to a committee meeting at the Vicarage.”
“Then don’t bother, Miss Pinkney,” he told her. “I can make the tea all right. I was thinking of having a cold shower and then taking a book to read under the lilac-trees.”
“Yes, do. It’s beautifully cool there. You have your shower, and I’ll leave the tea-tray on the table I took to the lilac-trees this morning. Dear me! I mustn’t forget the little notes I wrote of what I have to say about the street stall. Yes, you run along. You must be hot and thirsty, you poor man.”
He was under the shower when she knocked at the door and called that she had taken the tray to the lilac-trees and that he was not to dawdle or the tea would be cold, and that there was more hot water in the kettle and he was not to worry about dinner as she would be back in an hour. In order to listen to her, he had turned off the shower, and so was able to hear her quick steps fading along the passage and finally across the front veranda.
Ten minutes later, dressed in open-necked silk shirt and grey flannel slacks, he left the house withThe Vengeance of Master Atherton in one hand and cigarette makings in the other.
It was then half past three, and the call from Superintendent Bolt could be expected at any minute. To know where Watts lived, or to know who I. R. Watts really was, if it were a pen name, would enable him to advance a step farther. And there were grounds to hope that the reply of the Bogota police to his cabled message would enable him to take yet another step. Meanwhile, he could relax and readThe Vengeance of Master Atherton for his entertainment.
What a woman was this Priscilla Pinkney! She had placed the table in the deepest shade of the lilac-trees, and beside it was a cushioned chair. The afternoon tea-tray on the table was extremely inviting. The sight of the banana case against the fence beyond the table recalledto mind that late dusk wherein he had stood with her looking over the fence.
The chair was placed just right, the light to pour over a shoulder that he might read. Then his toestingled, and a little current ran up his spine to lodge in his scalp. Without haste, he lowered himself into the chair, and putting the book down on the table beside the tray, he proceeded to make a cigarette, his fingers working blindly, for on the ground about the chair and table were the imprints of boots or shoes size seven, the wearer being pigeon-toed and having a corn on the fore-part of the right foot.
Miss Pinkney had been wearing a size five shoe with Cuban heels.
The man who wore the size seven boots or shoes had placed his feet over the tracks made by Miss Pinkney when she brought the tea-tray, placed it on the table, and arranged the chair.