The Nursing Home Murder (11 page)

“Not quite as solid at that,” he said. “One hundred and sixty minims is equal to two and two-thirds drachms. That any better?”

“Not much,” grumbled Alleyn. “The dawn may break later on. I’m talking like Nurse Banks. What’s the strength of this hyoscine?”

“Quarter per cent”

“But — what does that mean? They’ll have to get someone cleverer than me for this game.”

“Cheer up. It’s one grain in one point one ounces of water.”

“That sounds as though it means something. I must look up those horrid little things at the end of an arithmetic-book. Wait a moment, now. Don’t say a word, Mr. Thoms, if you please,” begged Alleyn. “I’m doing sums.”

He screwed up his face and did complicated things with his fingers. “Twenty-fives into ones, you can’t. No, anyway you don’t want to. Drat. Wait a bit.” He opened his eyes suddenly and began to speak rapidly. “The twenty-five-minim syringe could hold a twentieth of a grain of hyoscine, and the vet’s pump could hold eleven thirty-seconds of a grain. There!” he added proudly.

“Quite correct — good for you!” shouted Thoms, clapping the inspector on the back.

“There’s more to come. I can do better than that. Eleven thirty-seconds is three thirty-seconds more than a quarter, which is only eight thirty-seconds. How’s that?”

“Brilliant, but I don’t see the application?”

“Don’t you?” asked Alleyn anxiously. “And yet I know I thought it rather important a moment ago. Ah, well — it’s gone now. I’ll just write the others down.”

Mr. Thoms moved to his elbow and looked curiously at his tiny hieroglyphics.

“I can’t see,” complained Alleyn and walked over to the light.

Mr. Thoms did not follow and so did not see the last of his minute entries, which read:

“The large syringe could hold a little over the amount found at the P.M.”

He shut his little book tenderly and put it in his pocket.

“Thank you a thousand times, Mr. Thoms,” he said. “You’ve made it very easy for me. Now there’s only one more person I’ve got to see to-day and that’s Dr. Roberts. Can you tell me where I’ll find him?”

“Well, he’s not the usual anæsthetist here, you know. He does a lot of Dr. Grey’s work for him. Hasn’t been in since this affair. I should think at this time you’d find him at his private address. I’ll ring up his house if you like.”

“That’s very good of you. Where does he live?”

“Not sure. His name’s Theodore. I know that because I heard Grey calling him Dora. Dora!” Mr. Thoms laughed extensively and led the way to a black hole with a telephone inside it.

He switched on a light and consulted the directory.

“Here we are. Roberts, Roberts, Roberts. Dr. Theodore. Wigmore Street. That’s your man.”

He dialled the number. Alleyn leant patiently against the door.

“Hullo. Dr. Robert’s house? Is he in? Ask him if he can see Inspector— ” He paused and put his hand over the receiver. “Alleyn, isn’t it? Yes — ask him if he can see Inspector Alleyn if he comes along now.”

Thoms turned towards Alleyn. “He’s in — that’ll be all right, I expect. Hullo, is that you, Roberts? It’s Thoms here. Inspector Alleyn has just been over the O’Callaghan business with me. They’ve found hyoscine — quarter of a grain. That makes you sit up. What? I don’t know. Yes, of course it is. Well, don’t get all agitated. They’re not going to arrest you. Ha ha ha! What! All right — in about twenty minutes, I should think. Look out, my boy — don’t give yourself away— what!”

He hung up, and taking Alleyn by the elbow, walked with him to the front door.

“Poor old Roberts is in an awful hum about it, spluttering away down the telephone like I don’t know what. Well, let me know if there’s anything more I can do.”

“I will indeed. Thank you so much. Good night.”

“Good night. Got a pair of handcuffs for Roberts? Ha ha ha!”

“Ha ha ha!” said Alleyn. “Good night.”

Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon and evening.

Dr. Roberts lived in a nice little house in Wigmore Street. It was a narrow house with two windows on the first floor, and on the street level was a large vermilion front door that occupied a fair proportion of the wall.

A man-servant, small and cheerful to suit the house, showed Alleyn into a pleasant drawing-room-study with apple-green walls and bookshelves, glazed chintz curtains, and comfortable chairs. Above the fireplace hung an excellent painting of lots of little people skating on a lake surrounded by Christmas trees. A wood fire crackled on the hearth. On a table near the bookcase was a sheaf of manuscript weighted down by the old wooden stethoscope that Mr. Thoms had found so funny.

After an appreciative glance at the picture, Alleyn walked over to the bookcase, where he found a beguiling collection of modern novels, a Variorum Shakespeare that aroused his envy, and a number of works on heredity, eugenics and psycho-analysis. Among these was a respectable-looking volume entitled
Debased Currency
, by Theodore Roberts. Alleyn took it out and looked at the contents. They proved to be a series of papers on hereditary taints. Roberts evidently had read them at meetings of the International Congress on Eugenics and Sex Reform.

Alleyn was still absorbed in this evidence of Roberts’s industry when the author himself came in.

“Inspector Alleyn, I believe,” said Roberts.

With a slight effort Alleyn refrained from answering “Dr. Roberts, I presume.” He closed the book over his thumb and came forward to meet the anæsthetist. Roberts blinked apprehensively and then glanced at the volume in the inspector’s hand.

“Yes, Dr. Roberts,” said Alleyn, “you’ve caught me red-handed. I never can resist plucking from bookshelves and I was so interested to see that you yourself wrote.”

“Oh,” answered Roberts vaguely, “the subject interests me. Will you sit down, inspector?”

“Thank you. Yes, the problems of heredity have an extraordinary fascination, even for a layman like myself. However, I haven’t come here to air my ignorance of your country, but to try and fill out some of the blanks in my own. About this O’Callaghan business— ”

“I am extremely sorry to hear of the result of the autopsy,” said Roberts formally. “It is terribly distressing, shocking, an irreplaceable loss.” He moved his hands nervously, gulped, and then added hurriedly: “I am also exceedingly distressed for more personal reasons. As anæsthetist for the operation I feel that I may be held responsible, that perhaps I should have noticed earlier that all was not well. I
was
worried, almost from the start, about his condition. I said so to Sir John and to Thoms.”

“What did they answer?”

“Sir John was very properly concerned with his own work. He simply left me to deal with mine, after, I think, commenting in some way on my report. I do not remember that Thoms replied at all. Inspector Alleyn, I sincerely hope you are able to free Sir John from any possibility of the slightest breath of suspicion. Any doubt in that direction is quite unthinkable.”

“I hope to be able to clear up his part in the business as soon as the usual inquiries have been made. Perhaps you can help me there, Dr. Roberts?”

“I should be glad to do so. I will not attempt to deny that I am also very selfishly nervous on my own account.”

“You gave no injection, did you?”

“No. I am thankful to say, no.”

“How was that? I should have imagined the anæsthetist would have given the camphor and the hyoscine injections.”

Roberts did not speak for a moment, but sat gazing at Alleyn with a curiously helpless expression on his sensitive face. Alleyn noticed that whenever he spoke to Roberts the doctor seemed to suppress a sort of wince. He did this now, tightening his lips and drawing himself rigidly upright in his chair.

“I–I never give injections,” he said. “I have a personal and very painful reason for not doing so.”

“Would you care to tell me what it is? You see, the fact that you did not give an injection is very important from your point of view. You did not see the patient while he was conscious and so — to be frank — could hardly have poured hyoscine down his throat without someone noticing what you were up to.”

“Yes. I see. I will tell you. Many years ago I gave an overdose of morphia and the patient died as the result of my carelessness. I–I have never been able to bring myself to give an injection since. Psychologically my behaviour has been weak and unsound. I should have overcome this repulsion, but I have been unable to do so. For some time I even lost my nerve as an anæsthetist. Then I was called in for an urgent case with heart disease and the operation was successful.” He showed Alleyn his stethoscope and told him its history. “This instrument represents an interesting experiment in psychology. I began to mark on it all my successful cases of heart disease. It helped enormously, but I have never been able to face an injection. Perhaps some day I may. Sir John is aware of this — peculiarity. I told him of it the first time I gave an anæsthetic for him. It was some time ago in a private house. He very thoughtfully remembered. I believe that in any case he prefers to give the hyoscine injection himself.”

He turned very white as he made this unhappy confession, and it was curious to see how, in spite of his obvious distress, he did not lose his trick of formal phraseology.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Roberts,” said Alleyn gently. “We need not trouble any more about that. Now, you say you were worried almost from the start about Sir Derek’s condition. Would you describe this condition as consistent with hyoscine poisoning?”

“Ever since Thoms rang up I have been considering that point. Yes, I think I should. In the light of the autopsy, of course, one is tempted to correlate the two without further consideration.”

“Did you notice any definite change in the patient’s condition, or did the same symptoms simply get more and more acute, if that’s the right way of putting it?”

“The pulse was remarkably slow when I first examined him in the anæsthetising-room. The condition grew steadily more disquieting throughout the operation.”

“But, to stress my point, there was no decided change at any time, only a more or less gradual progression.”

“Yes. There was perhaps a rather marked increase in the symptoms after Sir John made the first incision.”

“That would be after he had given the hyoscine injection, wouldn’t it?”

Roberts glanced at him sharply.

“Yes, that is true,” he said quickly, “but do you not see, the small amount Sir John injected — a hundredth of a grain, I think it was — would naturally aggravate the condition if hyoscine had already been given?”

“That’s perfectly true,” agreed Alleyn. “It’s an important point, too. Look here, Dr. Roberts, may I take it that it’s your opinion that hyoscine — a fatal amount — was somehow or other got into the man before the operation?”

“I think so,” Roberts blinked nervously. He had that trick of blinking hard, twice — it reminded Alleyn of a highly strung boy. “Of course,” he added uneasily, “I realise, inspector, that it would probably be to my advantage if I said that I thought the lethal dose was given when the patient was on the table. That, however, is, in my opinion, most improbable.”

“I must here trot out my customary cliché that it is always to an innocent person’s advantage to tell the truth,” Alleyn assured him. “Do you know, it’s my opinion that at least two-thirds of the difficulties in homicidal cases are caused by innocent asses lying for all they’re worth.”

“Indeed? I suppose there is no possibility of suicide in this instance?”

“It seems very unlikely so far. Why? How? Where’s the motive?”

“There need not necessarily be any usual motive.” Roberts hesitated and then spoke with more assurance than he had shown so far. “In suggesting this,” he said, “I may be accused of mounting my special hobbyhorse. As you have seen, I am greatly interested in hereditary taints. In Sir Derek O’Callaghan’s family there is such a taint. In his father, Sir Blake O’Callaghan, it appeared. I believe he suffered at times from suicidal mania. There has been a great deal of injudicious inbreeding. Mark you, I am perfectly well aware that the usual whole-hearted condemnation of inbreeding is to be revised in the light— ”

He had lost all his nervousness. He lectured Alleyn roundly for ten minutes, getting highly excited. He quoted his own works and other authorities. He scolded the British public, in the person of one of their most distinguished policemen, for their criminal neglect of racial problems. Alleyn listened, meek and greatly interested. He asked questions. Roberts got books from his shelves, read long passages in a high-pitched voice, and left the volumes on the hearthrug. He told Alleyn he should pay more attention to such things, and finally, to the inspector’s secret amusement, asked him flatly if he knew, if he had taken the trouble to find out, whether he himself was free from all traces of hereditary insanity.

“I had a great-aunt who left all her money to a muffin-man with coloured blood,” said Alleyn. “She was undoubtedly bats. Otherwise I have nothing to tell you, Dr. Roberts.”

Roberts listened to this gravely and continued his harangue. By the time it was over Alleyn felt that he had heard most of the theories propounded at the International Congress on Sex Reform and then some more. They were interrupted by the man-servant, who came in to announce dinner.

“Inspector Alleyn will dine,” said Roberts impatiently.

“No — really,” said Alleyn. “Thank you so much, but I must go. I’d love to, but I can’t.” The man went out.

“Why not?” asked Roberts rather huffily.

“Because I’ve got a murder to solve.”

“Oh,” he said, rather nonplussed and vexed. Then as this remark sank in, his former manner returned to him. He eyed Alleyn nervously, blinked, and got to his feet.

“I am sorry. I become somewhat absorbed when my pet subject is under discussion.”

“I too have been absorbed,” Alleyn told him. “You must forgive me for staying so long. I may have to reconstruct the operation — perhaps if I do you will be very kind and help me by coming along?”

“I — yes, if it is necessary. It will be very distasteful.”

“I know. It may not be necessary, but if it is— ”

“I shall do my part, certainly.”

“Right. I must bolt. This has been an unpropitious sort of introduction, Dr. Roberts, but I hope I may be allowed to renew our talk without prejudice some time. The average bloke’s ignorance of racial problems is deplorable.”

“It’s worse than that,” said Roberts crisply. “It’s lamentable — criminal. I should have thought in your profession it was essential to understand at least the rudiments of the hereditary problem. How can you expect— ” He scolded on for some time. The servant looked in, cast up his eyes in pious resignation and waited. Roberts gave Alleyn his book. “It’s the soundest popular work on the subject, though I do not pretend to cover a fraction of the ground. You’d better come back here when you’ve read it.”

“I will. Thank you a thousand times,” murmured the inspector and made for the door. He waited until the servant had gone into the hall and then turned back.

“Look here,” he said quietly. “Can I take it you think the man committed, suicide?”

Again Roberts turned into a rather frightened little man.

“I can’t say — I–I sincerely hope so. In view of his history, I think it’s quite possible — but, of course, the drug — hyoscine — it’s very unusual.” He stopped and seemed to think deeply for a moment, Then he gave Alleyn a very earnest and somehow pathetic look. “I hope very much indeed that it may be found to be suicide,” he said quietly. “The alternative is quite unthinkable. It would cast the most terrible slur conceivable upon a profession of which I am an insignificant unit, but which I deeply revere. I would hold myself in part responsible. Self-interest is at the bottom of most motives, they say, but something more than self-interest, I think, prompts me to beg most earnestly that you explore the possibility of suicide to its utmost limit. I have kept you too long. Good night, Inspector Alleyn.”

“Good night, Dr. Roberts.”

Alleyn walked, slowly down Wigmore Street. He reflected that in some ways his last interview had been one of the oddest in his experience. What a curious little man! There had been no affectation in that scientific outburst. The inspector could recognise genuine enthusiasm when he met it. Roberts was in a blue funk over the O’Callaghan business, yet the mere mention of his pet subject could drive any feeling of personal danger clean out of his head. “He’s very worried about something, though,” thought Alleyn, “and it rather looks as thought it’s Phillips. Phillips! Damn. I want my Boswell. Also, I want my dinner.”

He walked to Frascati’s and dined alone, staring so fixedly at the tablecloth that his waiter grew quite nervous about it. Then he rang up Fox and gave him certain instructions, after which he took a taxi to Chester Terrace to call on his Boswell.

“And I suppose the young ass will be out,” thought Alleyn bitterly.

But Nigel Bathgate was at home. When the front door opened Alleyn heard the brisk patter of a typewriter. He walked sedately upstairs, pushed open the sitting-room door and looked in. There was Nigel, seated bloomily at his machine, with a pile of copy-paper in a basket beside it.

“Hullo, Bathgate,” said Alleyn. “Busy?”

Nigel jumped, turned in his chair, and then grinned.

“You!” he said happily. “I’m glad to see you, inspector. Take a pew.”

He pushed forward a comfortable chair and clapped down a cigarette-box on the broad arm. The telephone rang. Nigel cursed and answered it. “Hullo!” A beatific change came over him. “Good evening, darling.” Alleyn smiled. “Who do you imagine I’ve got here? An old friend of yours. Inspector Alleyn. Yes. Why not hop into a taxi and pay us a visit? You will? Splendid. He’s probably in difficulties and wants our help. Yes. Right.” He hung up the receiver and turned, beaming, to Alleyn.

“It’s Angela,” he said. Miss Angela North was Nigel’s betrothed.