Waiting for Orders (10 page)

‘Then it wasn’t murder?’ said Denton.

Dr Czissar smiled. ‘Oh, yes, it was murder, Inspector. There is no doubt of it. But consider Mr Jones’s cleverness. He planned to murder his third wife. Very well. He realized at once that however skilfully he made it look like an accident, the police would suspect murder because of the first two cases you mention to me. Here is his cleverness: he decides to use your suspicions to make himself quite safe from conviction. You
believed, naturally, that he stole back and turned on the main tap. Think how much he helped you to that belief! He had the gas-fire installed in spite of the fact that there was efficient steam-heating in the room. Very suspicious. He asked specially for an obsolete type of fire, which would enable him to say that the affair was accidental. Very suspicious. His alibi is not perfect. Again suspicious. The only thing he did not help you to was the
proof
that he returned to the flat. And he knows that you cannot get it for yourselves. Why? Because it does not exist. He did
not
return to the flat. He is therefore safe. What does it matter to him if he is suspect? You cannot prove anything against him, because you are trying to prove something that did not happen.’

‘Blimey!’ said Denton.

‘Blind you, indeed!’ agreed Dr Czissar courteously. ‘For me, however, things were different. I did not know of these other murders. I saw only the facts of this case. I saw only a woman poisoned by carbon-monoxide and a man who has been an industrial chemist inheriting a fortune. Coal-gas? So
he
says. But he is suspect.’

‘But, dammit – !’ began Mercer explosively.

‘Coal-gas,’ pursued Dr Czissar, ‘is undoubtedly poisonous because of the carbon-monoxide contained in it. But for an industrial chemist there would be other ways of filling a room with carbon-monoxide. A small charcoal brazier, for instance.’

‘There was,’ said Mercer, ‘no charcoal brazier in the flat.’

‘Nor any sign of one,’ added Denton.

Dr Czissar giggled. ‘Dear me, no. I did not expect that there was. I give you only an example. But did you notice, Assistant-Commissioner, that although much was made of the strangeness of the gas-fire in a steam-heated flat, no one found it strange that there should also be an electric radiator there.’

‘You mean he put charcoal on the electric radiator?’

‘No, please.’ Dr Czissar raised a finger admonishingly. ‘I did not say that. The man is a chemist. What is the laboratory method of preparing pure carbon-monoxide? I will tell you. One reduces chalk by heating it with zinc dust. He would not need much. One part of carbon-monoxide in one hundred parts of air is a sufficient concentration to kill in a very short time –
little more than an hour. And pure carbon-monoxide has
no
smell.’

‘But – ’

‘Attention, please!’ said Dr Czissar sharply. ‘I think the murder was done this way. Before he went out that day, Mr Jones took the radiator and put it on its back underneath his wife’s bed. He then sprinkled the heater elements all over with the mixture of chalk and zinc dust, and, having plugged the radiator into the power point, said goodbye. Next, he sent the hall porter up with the magazine to establish that his wife was alive when he left. But she was not alive for long. When the radiator became hot, the chalk and zinc dust reacted together and produced large quantities of carbon-monoxide. When he returned home at six o’clock she was dead. He then removed the radiator and turned on the gas-fire. When the flat smelled strongly of coal-gas he summoned help.’

‘But the proof, man – the proof!’

‘Oh, yes. The zinc dust would have to be purchased from a laboratory supplier. It is much used as a reducing agent. Examination of the radiator will be helpful also. Your chemist will be able to find traces of both calcium and zinc oxides on the elements. And it is probable that the carpet under the bed will be scorched. Even the backs of radiators get very hot.’

Mercer looked at Denton. ‘Better ask the coroner for an adjournment, hadn’t we, Sir?’

Mercer nodded. Then he looked again at Dr Czissar, who was nibbling his sandwich.

‘Well, Doctor,’ he said as heartily as he could, ‘we’ve got to thank you once again.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you!’

Dr Czissar dropped his sandwich. His pale cheeks flushed slightly. He beamed with pleasure.

‘I have not yet tasted English whisky,’ he said quickly, ‘but I know the English toast.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheerio! All the best!’ he said in ringing tones.

He drank, put the glass down, and shuddered violently.

‘All the best,’ he repeated bravely, and took a large bite out of the sandwich.

T
HERE
are at New Scotland Yard patient, disillusioned men whose business it is to examine the work of England’s great army of anonymous letter-writers. They read, they classify, they file. One letter in a thousand may possibly be worth more than momentary consideration. Assistant-Commissioner Mercer can scarcely be blamed for the attitude which he adopted towards the affair which the newspapers later called ‘the drunken Socrates case’.

Yet it must be admitted that, even had there been no question of anonymous letters, Mercer would have disliked the case from the beginning. The reason is simple. The case was brought to his notice by Dr Jan Czissar.

A wound to his self-esteem is unpleasant enough even for an ordinary man. For an Assistant-Commissioner at Scotland Yard it is positively demoralizing. And when it is considered that Dr Czissar had inflicted on him not one such wound, but four, Mercer must be excused. On four separate occasions had Dr Czissar been able to prove, politely but irrefutably, that Scotland Yard in general and Assistant-Commissioner Mercer in particular were not infallible; and, though a simple soul might expect Mercer to be grateful, he was not.

It so happened that on the December afternoon on which Dr Czissar chose to intrude for the fifth time into the affairs of Scotland Yard, Mercer was feeling pleased with himself. He had just brought a difficult case to a triumphant conclusion. The Commissioner had congratulated him. The very existence of Dr Czissar had been forgotten. He felt strong and capable.

And then Dr Czissar was announced.

Wounds to the self-esteem do not heal easily; not even when they are forgotten. If Mercer was surprised and annoyed by the
sudden tightening inside his chest which was the immediate result of the announcement, he was infuriated by the behaviour of his mind. Before he realized it, his mind was passing in quick review the various cases on which his department was working at the moment and wondering which of them was about to receive the disruptive attention of Dr Czissar. He pulled himself together savagely. He was losing his sense of proportion.

‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ll see him.’

A minute later he heard the flapping of Dr Czissar’s long drab raincoat echoing along the corridor outside and waited, like a prisoner awaiting the next turn of the thumb-screw, for Dr Czissar’s inevitable greeting. It came. The Doctor walked into the room, halted, clapped his unfurled umbrella to his side, clicked his heels, and intoned loudly: ‘Dr Jan Czissar. Late Prague police. At your service!’

‘How are you, Doctor? Please take a seat.’

The round, pale face relaxed. The brown, cow-like eyes enlarged behind the thick pebble spectacles.

‘I am well, thank you, Assistant-Commissioner Mercer.’ He sat down. ‘Quite well, but a little worried. Otherwise I would not take your time. It is about a very curious case.’

Mercer steeled himself. ‘Yes?’ He laughed with ghastly jocularity. ‘What has the Yard done this time, Doctor? Let another murderer slip through its fingers?’

Dr Czissar looked shocked. ‘Oh, no, please. I think that that is most unlikely. Everything is most efficient here. There is, I think, a murder to be considered but I do not think that Scotland Yard has failed. The police do not know of this case. I must explain that it is only because of my landlady that I know of it.’

‘Your landlady?’

‘I live, Assistant-Commissioner, in Metternich Square, in Bloomsbury. It is a very nice house. Very clean, and there are only four other lodgers – students at the University. It is owned by my landlady, Mrs Falcon. It is this lady who, knowing that I have some experience in police matters, brought the matter to me for my advice.’ The cow-like eyes became more pathetic. ‘And so now, Assistant-Commissioner Mercer, I bring it to
you
for advice, if you will be so kind.’

Advice! Dr Czissar was asking
him
for advice! Mercer could scarcely believe his ears.

‘Of course, Doctor. Anything we can do.”

‘You are so kind. May I tell you about this case?’

‘Yes. Please do.’

‘It begins,’ said Dr Czissar solemnly, ‘with a death. On 20 June of this year my landlady’s brother, Captain Pewsey, died suddenly at his house in Meresham, which is a town twenty miles from London. It was a very distressing thing for my landlady, who was very fond of her brother, in spite of his faults. You see, Assistant-Commissioner, he drank too much whisky. About five years ago he married a woman much younger than he was. Mrs Falcon thinks that this Mrs Pewsey did not make him happy.

‘I have said that the Captain drank a lot. About a week before his death he went to a doctor in Meresham and complained of his heart. The doctor examined him and found a little cardiac weakness. He advised the Captain to drink less whisky and to live carefully. There was no great danger, he said, but it would be as well if the Captain avoided excesses.

‘For several days after that visit to the doctor the Captain drank less whisky, but on the night of 20 June he spent the evening with a friend – Mr Stenson.

‘The Captain was in the business of selling life insurance policies, and he had met Mr Stenson through selling him a policy. The friendship continued through the game of golf. There was, perhaps, a financial reason for the Captain’s liking for Mr Stenson: Mr Stenson works in the City of London and he has made much money and knows important persons. The Captain would have found him useful.

‘The first part of that evening of the 20th the Captain spent with Mr Stenson and other men at the golf club; but at about ten o’clock the Captain and Mr Stenson left the club together and walked towards their houses. Mr Stenson’s house was reached first and the Captain went in with him to drink more whisky. Soon after eleven o’clock the Captain left and went to his own house. It seems that he was then a little drunk. His wife had already gone to bed, and she said afterwards that she heard him stumble along the passage to his room. Then she went to sleep. In the morning, when she went into his room, she found him
sitting in an armchair still dressed. He was very blue in the face and seemed dead.

‘She called the doctor immediately. He came and found that the Captain was indeed dead. The doctor was a little puzzled. He had examined the Captain a week before, but he had not thought that his heart was in so bad a state that a little too much whisky would kill him. He told these things to Mrs Pewsey and said that before signing the death certificate he would ask her permission to make a post-mortem examination. She was reluctant, but as he insisted, she agreed. He made the examination, found that the death had been due to a respiratory failure, and concluding that the cause of it had been the weakness of the heart, issued a certificate to that effect.

‘A very cautious doctor,’ commented Mercer.

Dr Czissar’s cow-like eyes contemplated his. ‘Doctors should always be cautious, I think. But I will continue with the story. A month ago Mr Stenson married Mrs Pewsey.’

Mercer raised his eyebrows. ‘Quick work!’

Dr Czissar nodded sadly. ‘That is what Mrs Falcon thought. She heard about the marriage from a friend who lives at Meresham. She was most upset. She had rarely seen her brother since his marriage, as she did not like Mrs. Pewsey; but her affection for him remained. She thought it unpleasant that his widow should have shown so little respect for his memory. It was also a surprise to her, for she had heard nothing of any friendship between the two at the funeral. And then’ – he delved into his pocket and produced three folded sheets of notepaper – ‘Mrs Falcon showed these to me. There are three of them, and they are marked in order.’

Mercer took the sheets and selected Number One.

It was typewritten. He glanced quickly at the remaining letters, saw that they were similar and looked up.

‘Well, Doctor? We get plenty of this sort of thing here. Do you know who wrote them?’

Dr Czissar nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Mrs Falcon wrote them.’

‘To herself!’

‘Yes. She said that she had thrown the envelopes away. Also’ – Dr Czissar smiled sadly – ‘there are phrases there of which Mrs Falcon is very fond. Mrs Falcon is a kind woman, but she is disappointed. She had hoped, I think, that her brother, the Captain, would leave her some money. But those letters are interesting, are they not?’

‘The usual poisonous trash.’

‘Oh, yes. But interesting. They succeeded in their object too. Mrs Falcon wished me to go down to Meresham and make a scandal with questions. I have been and I have asked some questions. There will also, I think, be a scandal.’

‘But you surely don’t take this stuff seriously?’

‘I do.’ Dr Czissar leaned forward. ‘And I wish you to do so also, Assistant-Commissioner.’

‘But why? The suggestion is, I suppose, that Stenson killed Pewsey. From the facts you have given me, that’s obviously absurd. Pewsey was a heavy drinker with a weak heart. He got drunk, had a heart attack and died. The cause of death is confirmed by an autopsy. Perfectly straightforward. If your Mrs Falcon isn’t careful, she’ll find these accusations of hers landing her in the dock.’