Dr. Poggioli: Criminologist (The Lost Classics Book 14)

by T. S. Stribling

  He pushed his host aside, and began a correct timing of the respirations. At that moment Goolow appeared in the door with a great brass basin on his head, and his arms stuck full of bottles.

  “Now, what’ll we give her?” cried Blackmar, hurrying to the negro. “What poison was it? What could she have taken?” cried Poggioli. “Why, a snake—that garter snake!”

  “No, damn it, no! The chimney has never been entered....Something else. But what, in heaven’s name—” He stared about the room as if he would see the poison. His glance fell on the plate of fruit once more. A sudden possibility flashed over Poggioli.

  “Listen!” he cried. “Was your wife familiar with the fruit out of that jungle?”

  “No, of course not; this is the first time she was ever here!”

  “Did she—could she possibly have eaten the seed of any of that fruit?”

  Blackmar looked at his guest with a sharp surmise in his face.

  “That was her habit—to bite the seeds of fruit....She said they tasted like almonds. Could that have anything to do with it?”

  Poggioli motioned to Goolow. “Mustard—eggs—milk—quick!”

  The three men began working with the recovering girl. “But Poggioli—why?”

  “It’s the Kaffir oranges. Their seeds are poisonous, but their flesh is good. It never occurred to me she didn’t know that.”

  The men got the emetics down the girl’s throat. The ebony Goolow bent over the shining copper basin of hot water, bathing the bride’s small feet. Gradually their ivory turned pink with a renewed stirring of her blood. She passed through the usual phases of extreme nausea and hemorrhage. After a long while the sleep of recuperation fell upon her.

  Blackmar still sat watching her closely; Goolow had left the room; and the criminologist seized the opportunity to pick up the logbook from the table where he had placed it, and withdrawing to a window, leafed it through. The first entries that caught his eyes were the records of the purchase of a Malay palm from a Señor Moa, a horticulturist in Havana.

  Such a proof at such a time, when Elora Blackmar, who had wanted it so, was near death, stung Poggioli with its ironic barb. The pathos of the thing set him so to trembling he could hardly turn through the book. There was mention of the purchase of other rare trees. The log made it clear that old Captain John bought the strange crowded jungle of trees that screened the end of the tunnel.

  But there was much more in the log: entries of sails sighted; of ships captured; booty taken; men and women dispatched; and their names and addresses. Old Captain John Blackmar had used a scientific precision in everything he did. With this yellowed log Poggioli could prove that the first of the Blackmars had purchased his trees in peace; but the Mendezes, also, could have proved their contention that their ancient enemy had been a pirate.

  Poggioli glanced again across the room toward the bedside....Elora seemed awakening, and her husband entirely preoccupied with her. So the criminologist again leafed rapidly through the log, selected all the exonerating passages he could find, quietly tore them out, then took a match and set fire to the rest of the volume. Then he stepped over to the bedside.

  Elora smiled at him weakly. The bridegroom tried to say something, but his voice was so emotion-torn that Poggioli was afraid he would excite the invalid. The scientist began in the cheerful tones one uses toward the sick:

  “I found something that will please you very much: The log of the schooner your grandfather Blackmar used to run. I have proof positive that Captain John Blackmar bought every one of his trees from a Señor Moa, in Havana. I found it in the chimney.”

  The girl turned her head wonderingly toward the old fireplace. “He did—buy them?”

  “Every single one. You can prove it to anybody.” Poggioli walked across to the table where he had laid the leaves out of the log.

  Pleasure shone like a pale sunbeam in the young wife’s pallid face.

  “Oh, that’s—such a relief.” She drew the short breath of the very weak. “What—what is that—still burning—in the fireplace?”

  “Oh, that’s where I started a fire....I thought at the time we were going to heat the water up here.”

  THE SHADOW

  With wind and rain whipping at his umbrella, the bank clerk Samuels opened the door of his apartment house and handed Mr. Poggioli inside. He followed after him, opened the inner door, permitting its gush of light to fill the dark street, then closed it again, leaving himself and the psychiatrist still standing in the dark entry.

  “Now we ought to see him in a moment,” he whispered.

  The two men shook the water from their clothes, moved their feet with the slight motions of men settling for a watch.

  “You opened this inside door to make a show of going in?” queried Poggioli in a low tone.

  “Well, I waited the other night—several minutes . . . Finally I did that and he came.”

  “I see.”

  “He may have just happened to get here then.”

  “Mm-hm,” murmured the psychiatrist.

  The two men stood listening to the rain thrum the windows and curse the pavement. Finally the clerk began in an undertone of nervous complaint:

  “Look here, isn”t there some law against this sort of thing? Can anybody shadow anybody else for no reason at all?”

  The psychologist reflected.

  “I’m no lawyer. Might bring an action of nuisance, possibly . . . Never heard of such a thing . . . You don’t know why he is doing this—can’t think of anything you’ve done?”

  “Oh, no.”

  The psychologist gave a whispered laugh.

  “The reason I asked—almost any man can think up something he’s done that deserves—oh, almost anything.”

  The younger man seemed not amused. He remained quiet a moment, then said: “You—you would be in a better position to give me advice if—if you knew what possibly might have caused it?”

  “I—imagine so. Of course, I can’t tell until I hear what it is. The thing you have in mind may have no connection with this beagle that’s trailing—”

  The bank clerk interrupted him nervously: “It—it’s a sanitarium.”

  Mr. Poggioli shifted his gaze from the street to his host.

  “A what?”

  “Sanitarium.”

  The psychologist stood for upward of a minute fitting this unexpected bit of information into the shadowy hypotheses he had in mind. “Is it a—a New York sanitarium?”

  “Yes.”

  “Park Avenue?”

  “Fifth.”

  “Same thing.” Poggioli frowned. Finally, he broke out, puzzled: “Look here—

  you’re not keeping somebody in a private sanitarium?” Mr. Samuels was shocked.

  “Oh, my Lord, no. There was a—a friend of mine in the sanitarium....We—went out for a taxi-ride to break the monotony.”

  “This friend—was a woman, of course, Mr. Samuels?”

  “If it’d been a man, I’d have sat in his room and talked.”

  “Certainly....And you’ve known this lady for a long time.”

  “How did you come by that?”

  “A man doesn’t go into a hospital to make new acquaintances, but to see very old ones.”

  “That’s true . . . I’ve known her ever since we were children.”

  “I see—children.... Then—then she comes from Pennsylvania, the same as you?” The bank clerk was astonished.

  “You guessed that by my accent?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I didn’t know I had one.”

  “Well, nobody does.... They think other people have them.” The bank clerk gave a little laugh.

  “You must have made a study of it?”

  “I have. It’s very convenient sometimes to know where a man comes from without asking him. Now and then it is still more convenient to know where he comes from after you’ve asked him.”

  The younger man began laughing again, then broke off in the middle of his
mirth. After a moment he continued soberly:

  “Yes, both of us came from Everbrook, Pennsylvania. I came a year or two before she did.”

  “H’m—then let me see—what sort of family did this young lady come from— wealthy, middle-class, laborers—”

  “Middle-class....Her father was a doctor.” Mr. Poggioli nodded thoughtfully.

  “Then in that instance she must be married and wealthy. I should surmise that she married a wealthy man and came to New York to live.”

  Came a moment’s pause; then the bank clerk asked in an odd voice: “Why do you jump to that conclusion?”

  “Money had to come in somehow, Mr. Samuels,’ argued the psychologist. “A Fifth Avenue sanitarium is a very expensive thing. It wasn’t likely the girl made the money herself, or she wouldn’t have been in a sanitarium in the first place. The fact that she went there at all suggests she was married—unhappily married; and a Fifth Avenue sanitarium certifies to a husband of wealth.”

  The clerk was astonished.

  “Well, I declare—that is simple, isn’t it? One thing follows the other just as natural as two old shoes—if you happen to think of it.”

  The psychologist smiled at the naïve compliment.

  “Now, let me see: the last thing you were saying was, you took this lady, this Mrs.—”

  “Hessland—Margaret Hessland.”

  “—out for a taxi-ride. Then you told me before that the man who is shadowing you—if he had any reason for doing such a thing at all—was doing it because of the sanitarium. That, I’ll confess, I don’t understand. Why a sanitarium should shadow you—”

  Samuels drew a breath.

  “Well, it’s simple enough when I explain it. We drove out together—but we didn’t drive back together.”

  “Did you send her back by herself?”

  “No....I—I drove back without her.”

  “Why didn’t you bring her back with you?”

  “I couldn’t.” Samuels moistened his lips. “She had—disappeared.”

  “What! She didn’t step out of the cab and leave you?”

  “No; that wouldn’t be disappearing. She disappeared—vanished! It was this way: I found I needed some matches, and stopped the chauffeur and went into a cigar store. I don’t suppose I was away three minutes. When I came back outside, cab, girl, and chauffeur were gone.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I telephoned the sanitarium.”

  “And what did the authorities there say?”

  “Told me to come back at once for an interview.”

  “You went back?”

  “Certainly, and explained what had happened.”

  “But since you think this—this man who is trailing you is working for the sanitarium, evidently the superintendent didn’t believe you?”

  “I—suppose not,” agreed Samuels gloomily.

  “What do you suppose the superintendent does believe?”

  “I have no idea at all.”

  “He couldn’t be—well, looking for his patient, could he?” Samuels lifted a nervous hand.

  “I—I don’t know....I suppose maybe he is.”

  “But you have no idea what became of Mrs. Hessland?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  The two men stood quiet, peering out into the dark street.

  “Did Mrs. Hessland ask you to come to take her for a drive, or did you suggest it?” Samuels considered.

  “Now that you mention it, I believe she did....Yes, I think she did.”

  “And who wanted the matches—she or you?”

  “Why-y—she did.”

  “Were you two riding in a new type of cab?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, look here: when she asked you to get out and get her some matches,

  didn’t you know she was going to drive off and leave you?” The bank clerk turned.

  “No. Why should I?”

  “Because women enjoy little gadgets like cigarette lighters; she would never have dreamed of sending you after matches unless—”

  The bank clerk lifted a hand.

  “But, Mr. Poggioli, we are not all of us analytical psychologists; and besides that, it’s a lot clearer what she was up to, on looking back at it, than looking forward at it.”

  Poggioli tapped the floor with his foot impatiently.

  “But look here, man, that’s the point: you wouldn’t have needed to think. You would have handed her the lighter automatically; then if she had asked for matches—if she had asked after that for you to stop the car and get out and buy matches, you couldn’t have helped knowing—”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Yes, I see you didn’t,” agreed the psychologist in a flattened tone. “Look here, there is no earthly use in your trying to confuse me as to the motives behind your actions. In the first place, you couldn’t if you wanted to. In the second place, you came to me as your psychiatrist. You are paying me money to get rid of your nervousness and depression. So tell me why you deliberately stepped out of that taxicab, walked into the cigar store and allowed Mrs. Hessland to drive away?”

  Samuels began a stammering, then drew a sharp breath: “Look, look yonder!” he whispered. “There he is!”

  Both men fell silent and watched a dim figure on the opposite side of the street. At times the curtain of the rain almost obscured him.

  “Now what will he do?” whispered Poggioli, whose heat at the bank clerk was purely professional and vanished the moment another notion entered his head.

  “Nothing, just stand at the corner and watch this house.”

  “Trying to find out where you have—er—concealed Mrs.—er—do you suppose?”

  “Damn it, I suppose that’s his idea,” jerked out the bank clerk.

  “But look here, if he is looking for Mrs. Hessland, why doesn’t he follow you off somewhere—why does he watch this apartment?”

  “Oh, hell! I don’t know! I suppose he thinks I’ve got her in my rooms!”

  “You haven’t, have you?”

  “No! No! Of course not! How long would a bank clerk hold his job with a— Aw, the man’s a fool!”

  “He must be....Hello, this fellow doesn’t seem to be stopping on the other side of the street!”

  “He isn’t?” The younger man peered out, then drew back a step, stood staring, but finally drew a breath of relief. “Oh, that’s all right. He’s not the man who’s been following me. It was a much bigger man than he is—as big as you are.”

  Poggioli watched the figure crossing the street toward them, then went back to the point they were discussing:

  “You were telling me, I believe, that you stepped out of the taxi to allow Mrs. Hessland to drive away—”

  “My God, no, I wasn’t telling you anything like that!” ejaculated the bank clerk. “Not in so many words, perhaps....But why should I probe into that? It has nothing to do with your nervousness, has it?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” assured the younger man.

  The third man had now crossed the street and was climbing the stoop of the apartment house. He stepped into the entrance, blinked, stood a moment letting the water run from his overcoat, and said:

  “Will you tell me—is this Number 215? I can’t make it out in the dark.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Does Mr. Oliver Samuels live here?” The bank clerk looked at the newcomer. “I’m Oliver Samuels.”

  “Mr. Samuels, I have a paper here to serve on you. It makes you co-respondent in the case....Lemme see—” The fellow held his paper up toward the dim top light of the entry. “

  “Hessland versus Hessland.’ . . . I’ll read it to you.” And he began unfolding his summons.

  The bank clerk stood with a hand on the inner door as if holding himself upright.

  “Hessland,” he repeated.

  “I think it’s Hessland....Yes, it’s Hessland.”

  “Why, I don’t know where Mrs. Hessland is . . . I haven’t the faintest notion
.”

  “Well, you know, sir, I haven’t got nothing to do with that. I’m the processserver.”

  “But listen,” pleaded the bank clerk, “I don’t know—I really don’t. And if I get made co-respondent—what is it, a divorce suit?”

  “Why, I suppose so, sir, by you being made a co-respondent.”

  “I’ll lose my job.... I’m sure to lose my job in the bank. Listen—couldn’t you fail to find me—would that help?”

  “But I have found you, sir.”

  “Suppose you’ve found fifty, or a—a hundred dollars instead.... You understand how this is, Mr. Poggioli—I simply don’t know anything about the woman, and why should I lose my position for something that will do nobody any good?”

  The smallish man smacked his lips.

  “Why-y-y . . . no, sir, I fancy not.... I know some of the boys who—who have gone out and found—er—money instead o’ men; but in the long run, sir, it really don’t pay—especially in comp’ny like we are, sir.”

  The fellow made a notation, gave Samuels a copy of the paper, and turned about once more into the rain.

  The bank clerk stood holding the paper, staring into the darkness where the process-server had disappeared. The psychologist studied his companion intently.

  “You really didn’t expect that fellow, did you?” he asked in a puzzled tone. Samuels got a breath.

  “Why—why, Mr. Poggioli, if—if the roof had fallen in on me—” The psychiatrist nodded.

  “Yes—I see. You really are amazed and shocked.”

  “I certainly am.”

  Poggioli pulled slowly at his chin.

  “That creates rather a riddle, Samuels: Your actions in the cab with Mrs. Hessland assert one thing, but your shock at being mentioned in divorce proceedings testifies with equal truth to its opposite.” The scientist made a little gesture. “Now somehow both those things are true, but I am frank to admit at first glance I don’t see it.”

  Samuels looked at his companion, evidently without seeing or hearing him. He stirred himself out of his consternation, batted his eyes and looked around.

  “Well,’ he said uncertainly, “I—I don’t suppose there is any use watching any longer.” He peered into the darkness again. “Suppose we go up to my rooms?”