The 12.30 from Croydon (13 page)

In another street lavatory he changed back to his own clothes, and squeezing the books into the kitbag with his other purchases, he returned to his car and drove it openly to The Duchy of Cornwall, the hotel in Northumberland Avenue at which he invariably put up.

He met some men he knew in the hotel, and though he was on the
qui vive
to get at his book, he decided to spend the evening with them. Doing so, he thought, would enable him to account for the whole of his day: driving in a leisurely way to Town and spending the time from his arrival until bedtime in the presence of other people. So far there was nothing to suggest that he had done anything secret.

But immediately on reaching his room he seized the book and began searching for what he wanted. At once he found himself up against a difficulty. The section on poisons was so big, he didn’t know where to turn for his information. He decided, however, that if necessary he would spend the entire night reading it through.

He began at Section XV,
Poisoning and Toxicology.
Sub-section A,
The Law on Poisons, including the Definition of a Poison or Noxious Thing,
did not help him. On the contrary, he was puzzled and embarrassed by finding that there were some forty or more different poisons or groups of poisons to be considered. How was he to select the one most suitable for his purpose?

He passed on to Sub-section B,
Dangerous Drugs,
which gave him no information, and then to Sub-section C,
The Action of Poisons.
Skimming rapidly through this section he came to a heading,
The Time at which Symptoms appear after swallowing a Poison.
At this he halted.

For him this was an excessively important point. It might not prove possible to get hold of Andrew Crowther’s bottle of pills unknown to the old man, and the poison must act sufficiently quickly to prevent him revealing his suspicions, should any be aroused. Charles therefore read the paragraph carefully.

Immediately the sentence caught his eye: ‘A large dose of prussic acid… may destroy life in less than two minutes.’ This was obviously the most rapid poison. The next mentioned was oxalic acid, which killed in ‘from ten minutes to an hour,’ and after that the periods given were many hours.

It would seem then that other things being equal, prussic acid would best suit his purpose. Could he find out something more about it?

He turned to the index and began to run his finger down the closely printed columns. There it was: ‘Prussic acid, poisoning by, page 661.’ He turned to page 661.

Charles read, and as he did so his knowledge of the subject grew. Prussic or hydrocyanic acid was a medicinal drug. It did not look as if a layman could obtain it. On the other hand, the cyanides, derived from the acid, were ‘Freely used in the arts… and in photography, etc.’ The cyanides therefore should be easier come by, and of them cyanide of potassium seemed to be most suitable. Charles read a lot about cyanide of potassium. He learned that it was a hard white substance and one of the most formidable poisons known to chemists, that a dose of five grains had proved fatal in three minutes, that though death might not come for a few minutes, sensibility usually ceased within seconds. It killed by paralysing the nervous system and the heart. Charles assumed that in the case of a man with a weak heart like Andrew Crowther, a very small dose would suffice.

Charles sat studying his book. Could he put sufficient potassium cyanide into a pill of the size of those in Andrew’s bottle? If so, how or where could he obtain the poison?

The first question he thought might be answered if he weighed one of the pills. Not conclusively, of course, because the specific gravity of the poison might be different to that of the contents of the pill. But he should get an approximate idea. The second question was more difficult.

Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had often heard that potassium cyanide was used for destroying wasps’ nests, and that by signing the poison book anybody could obtain a quantity for this purpose. He wondered if this were true.

Charles was a man of resource. Two minutes’ thought showed him a way by which he could find out. He decided that next morning he would put the thing to the test.

It was past three when he closed his book and got into bed. His plans for the next day were cut and dry.

Presently he slept, as easily as if his mind contained only the most altruistic schemes for the benefit of his fellow men.

Next morning Charles called for a taxi and was driven with his kitbag to Piccadilly Circus. There he repeated his manœuvres of the previous day. Changing to the second-hand clothes in the station lavatory, he packed his others in the kitbag, locked it and deposited it at the station cloak-room. Then he made his way to the nearest chemist’s.

‘I’m having trouble with wasps’ nests,’ he explained to the assistant. ‘There are two in my garden and it’s as much as my life’s worth to go out there. Can you give me something to destroy them?’

The assistant suggested flooding them with petrol and setting fire to them.

‘Yes, I’ve heard of that,’ Charles admitted. ‘But petrol’s rather a nuisance to get. I don’t want a huge tin of it, and it’s not easy to take out of the car. I thought you had some poison or something that one could simply put into the nest?’

‘Potassium cyanide is often used,’ the assistant returned. ‘But, of course, we can’t sell that to everyone.’

‘I’ve heard of that too,’ said Charles. ‘I dare say it would do. What are the formalities for getting it?’

‘Well, we have to know the purchaser personally, or he has to be vouched for to us by someone we know personally. And, of course, he has to sign the poison book.’

‘Would a letter from a doctor do?’

‘Yes, if the doctor was known to us.’

Charles smiled. ‘Looks as if I’d have to wait till I got home and get it from my own chemist,’ he said as he thanked the man and left the shop.

For the moment he could not pursue this line of business, but there were others. A little farther down the street he saw another chemist’s. He turned in.

‘A bottle of Salter’s Anti-Indigestion Pills,’ he asked as a young man came up.

‘Yes, sir. What size?’

‘The smallest size, please.’

Without a word the young man parcelled up a small cardboard box and handed it across. Charles took it with a brief ‘Thank you’ and walked out.

It spoke volumes for the care with which Charles was playing his part, that he remembered to give his features a somewhat strained expression while making his purchase. It must not occur to the assistant that this was a very healthy-looking man to have indigestion.

He had not known that the pills were sold in more sizes than one, and he had said the smallest to avoid a discussion. Now in the shelter of another street lavatory he opened the package. The bottle was not so large as that used by Andrew Crowther. The advertisement, however, stated that the pills were sold in three sizes, and it was evident that Andrew’s was the largest. Charles therefore went into a third chemist’s and asked for another bottle, this time saying ‘Largest size’.

Once again he received his purchase without having attracted special attention. He was satisfied that by the next day the two assistants who had served him would have forgotten the tiny transaction.

Charles had two other matters to deal with. With the help of a directory he found a chemical instrument maker’s, and there he bought a working chemist’s balance and weights: the smallest size. Then he turned to something more difficult.

This was his first step towards the purchase of the poison, and he felt that it behoved him to proceed with the utmost caution. He had decided to try a bluff in the hope of overcoming the scruples of some chemist more easy-going than the man he had already tackled. To do so he saw that he must adopt a personality, a real personality.

And first as to the location of his personality. After some thought he chose Surbiton. It was a big place, and yet it was surrounded by houses with gardens, many of which doubtless contained wasps’ nests. A visit to Surbiton seemed indicated.

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.