by W E Johns
The change of weather Trelawny had forecast as a possibility had not developed and again the day was fine and warm; so, finding a seat in the shade in a corner of the terrace, he settled down to read.
Just before noon he was interrupted by the arrival of Chief Superintendent Smalley.
“So there you are,” observed the police officer. “Nice to have nothing to do except sit and read.”
Biggles smiled as he closed the book. “I’m on holiday —remember? One can’t just sit and do nothing. I’ve managed to pick up an interesting book. You should read it some time.”
“What’s it about? One of these clever murders, with clues lying about everywhere?”
“Nothing like it. It’s about British Guiana.”
“My foot! I’m never likely to go there. I’ve something better to do.”
“It’s a fascinating country.”
“I’ll take your word for it. You’ll have heard about Miss Lewis?”
“Of course.”
“I found her myself.”
“So I’m told.”
“That doesn’t make things any easier. In fact it only complicates things.”
“Where are you bound for now? Were you by any chance looking for me?”
“I happened to be passing and it struck me that you’d be interested to know that we haven’t been able to find any trace of poison in anything— the sherry, the chocolates or the strawberries we found in Vera’s room. That confirms the report on the body. So we do at least know Vera wasn’t poisoned. That goes for Miss Lewis, too, of course.”
“And the cat.”
“I’m not interested in the cat.”
“I think it’s a bit early to rule out poison altogether,” said Biggles dubiously. “As you know, there are poisons which can kill without affecting the stomach. I mean those that can cause death only by getting into the blood stream. Some of them can be taken internally with impunity.”
“You mean things like snake venom.”
“Yes.”
The Superintendent looked slightly amused. “Are you pulling that forward as a theory—that these two women died of snake bite?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t think so, either. I’ve heard there are adders on Bodmin Moor but I’ve never heard tell of one being seen around here.”
“It wouldn’t matter if there were some. An adder bite rarely kills a healthy adult. A child perhaps. Or a person already sick might pass out, the venom of the bite being aggravated by shock. Even that would take time. There’d be no question of the person just dropping dead, as apparently these two women did. By the way, I thought the inquest on Vera was to be today?”
“That was the intention, but in view of what’s happened to Miss Lewis it has been postponed for a couple of days.”
“In your place I’d feel inclined to ask for a postponement longer than that.”
“Oh! And why?”
“Something may come to light. You never know.”
“It’s hard to see what can come to light now. There’s no murder weapon to look for. In fact, there’s damn-all to look for.” The Superintendent spoke helplessly and irritably. “I’ve just been over the ground again and I don’t mind admitting I’m stumped. This business would stump anybody. Not a scrap of evidence to work on.”
Without a flicker of an eyelid Biggles agreed.
The Superintendent became vehement. “Yet I’m as certain as I stand here those two women didn’t die natural deaths. That’s a bit too much of a coincidence. Too much for me, anyhow. But what killed ‘em God alone knows.”
Biggles thought for a moment before he continued. “Listen Chief, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way but I’m going to suggest you do something.”
The Superintendent frowned. “You said you weren’t going to interfere.”
“Nor have I. You can’t say I’ve got in your way. But that doesn’t prevent me from thinking,” Biggles shrugged. “However, please yourself. It isn’t my funeral.”
“Well? What is this big idea?”
“What happened to those gloves that were found in the Thatched House—Paul Graveson’s gloves?”
“They’re in my office.”
“Where in your office?”
“What the hell does it matter? But if you must know they’re in my desk.”
“Is your desk sometimes left open?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Have you got a safe?”
“Yes.”
“Then what I suggest you do is this. Put the gloves in the safe and keep it locked. But don’t on any account handle them with your bare hands. Either move them with a pair of forceps or put on a pair of gloves, the heavier the better. Leather for choice.”
The Superintendent’s eyes were saucering. “What the devil’s all this?”
“I’ve given you my advice. I’d rather not say any more at present.”
“And what if I don’t take your advice?”
“You may be the next to die a sudden and inexplicable death.”
“For God’s sake! Is this some sort of a joke?”
“Murder and sudden death are not subjects to joke about, Chief. I’m not saying you will die if you handle those gloves. In fact, the chances are a thousand to one you won’t. But you might. You can please yourself about taking the chance.”
The Superintendent’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got an idea you know more about this business than you’re telling me.”
“Possibly.”
“Then let’s have it.”
“Not now. Later. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“You can’t withhold evidence from the police. You know that.”
“I haven’t any evidence to withhold. If I had I’d pass it on. But I’m hoping to find some. I’ve learned it can be dangerous to say too much before one is sure of one’s facts.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“With the exception of you and Major Payne the only people I’ve spoken to have been Paul Graveson and Mick Trelawny.”
“Did you go up to Graveson’s room?”
“No. You would, quite properly, call that interference. He happened to come down for a few minutes and I spoke to him.”
“What about?”
“Just a word of encouragement. I told him if he was innocent he’d nothing to worry about.”
“What about Trelawny?”
“I ran into him on the beach before he did the round of his lobster pots.”
“What did you talk to him about?”
“The ghost. Or rather, shall we say, the alleged ghost.”
“I’ve heard this tale about the Thatched House being haunted. Mrs. Payne told me. She thinks that might have some bearing on the case, holding the view that Vera died from shock.”
“Rubbish.”
“What do you know about this so-called spook—if anything?”
“All I can tell you is, there isn’t one.”
“Who are you to say that? You’re only a visitor here.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“Then why worry. You can take my word for it there’s no spook in the Thatched House, and never was.”
“You’re probably right; but I’d like to know why you’re so damn sure of it.”
“Say I don’t believe in ghosts, either. Forget it. Don’t clutter up your brain with things that don’t matter. No ghost had anything to do with the death of Vera Harrington, or Miss Lewis, And you can leave Mick Trelawny out of it. He may look rough and tough but he’s as easy to read as a book. There isn’t a suspicion of guilt in him. To him, Vera was on a pedestal as high as the Nelson monument.”
The Superintendent was looking hard at Biggles. “You must have done a hell of a lot of thinking, if nothing else.”
“I have. I couldn’t help it.”
“Why do you have to worry?”
“I don’t. I took an interest primarily because I was sorry for Paul Graveson’s parents.
They dote on him. If he was charged with Vera’s murder it’d be the death of them.”
“So what? He hasn’t even been arrested.”
“No, but when you found that jar of cyanide you were within an ace of popping him in. You thought he’d done it, and not without reason. I took the view that he couldn’t have done it.”
“Couldn’t! I like that. Why couldn’t he?”
“Became I failed to see how he could have locked and bolted the doors on the inside after he was outside. Put it like this. Miss Lewis said when she came down in the morning she found the doors and windows secured for the night. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Had Paul been back into the house after he’d said good night to Vera he would have had to leave something open to get out, even if it was only a window unlatched. He couldn’t latch it from the outside—anyway, not without breaking a pane of glass, which would have been noticed. That goes for anyone else, of course. I started with the view, therefore, that nobody could have been in the house when Vera died except the two women.”
“I didn’t overlook that, of course,” asserted the Superintendent.
“Naturally. You wouldn’t,” returned Biggles, evenly.
“I also took into account the possibility that Paul had planted something in the house before he left.”
“I considered that, too. What could he have planted?”
“A poisoned chocolate, for instance.”
“Cyanide.”
“Yes.”
“You say no cyanide has been found in Vera’s body, or in the chocolates that had remained uneaten.”
“I know that now, but I wasn’t to know it early on.”
“I take your point. But for Paul to leave a poisoned chocolate seemed most unlikely, unless he was a complete idiot. It presupposes he knew she was going to eat more chocolates before she went to bed.”
“She might.”
‘Very well. Let’s say she might. For the sake of argument let’s say there was a poisoned chocolate in the box. In that case anyone might have eaten it. As Vera could pick and choose from the box what was to prevent her from eating it while Paul was there, he knowing that if she did so she would at once be taken ill, if, in fact, she didn’t drop dead before his eyes. I’m still thinking in terms of cyanide, of course, which acts fast. Would he be such an imbecile as to risk that, knowing what the result would be? That he would instantly be suspect? I couldn’t see that. But all this is beside the point because we know now that Vera didn’t die of cyanide poisoning. I’ve merely told you, since you raised the question, why I was pretty sure Paul was innocent at the time you were contemplating his arrest on suspicion of murder. I was relieved to see you didn’t do that.”
There was a brief silence.
“Look here, Bigglesworth, I’m going to ask you a straight question,” said the Superintendent, bluntly.
“I don’t like this beating about the bush. You’ve got something up your sleeve. Honestly, now; do you know who did kill Vera Harrington, assuming she was murdered?”
“No. But I have a rough idea. At the moment it’s no more than that. If I’m right it may turn out that more than one person had a hand in Vera’s death.”
“More than one! For God’s sake. Isn’t one enough?”
“It might have been, but I don’t think it was. At present what’s in my mind is only surmise. I may know more about it tomorrow—that is, if you don’t mind me sticking my neck out.”
“I don’t care what you do.”
“That’s fine. If you’ll look in here about five o’clock tomorrow afternoon I’ll tell you if I’m wrong. If I’m right I’ll put my cards on the table on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You keep my name out of it. You’re welcome to any credit that may be going. I want no part of it.”
“I must say that’s mighty generous of you.”
“Not at all. Don’t forget I’m supposed to be on a rest cure, and if it got to the ears of my Chief that I’d been fiddling with a murder case he might take a dim view of it.”
The Superintendent allowed his face to relax in a smile.
“Very well. It’s up to you. Let’s leave it like that.” He got up. “I might as well go back to my office for all the good I’m doing here. I’ll look in tomorrow about five. If you can tell me how Vera died, and who killed her, I’ll take my hat off to you. I shall feel like eating it.”
Biggles grinned. “Don’t do that. You’d find that shiny peak heavy going. Buy me a drink instead. Anyhow, without making any promise I’ll do my best to oblige. Don’t forget what I said about those gloves.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard,” advised Biggles seriously. “There are enough bodies to be accounted for already, without having yours thrown in.”
The Superintendent barked a short, cynical laugh. “I suppose you know what you’re talking about, but this sounds like mediaeval stuff to me. I seem to remember reading somewhere of an unpleasant type named Cesare Borgia who had a trick of bumping off people who were in his way by making them a present of a pair of poisoned gloves.”
“Somebody has yet to produce evidence that Cesare Borgia ever poisoned anyone,” returned Biggles. “That’s by the way, but I’m sure he would have been vastly intrigued by the gloves we’re talking about.”
“Tell me about it sometime. So long.” With a parting wave the Superintendent went on his way.
Biggles resumed his reading.
He spent the rest of the day deep in the book, pausing occasionally to digest what he had read.
There were no more shocks, and no one came to interrupt his train of thought.
CHAPTER XII
THE ACCUSING FINGER
The weather remained settled and the following day brought more blue sky and sunshine. The sea lay placid, its whispering to the sand almost inaudible.
Biggles followed his customary routine; the morning dip, a leisurely breakfast and then a stroll along the beach to a secluded niche among the rocks. It was all very pleasant, but his mind was not on the weather or the scenery. He wanted to think. He had an ordeal facing him, a difficult one; one that would almost certainly be embarrassing and possibly painful; and he was anxious to be clear in his mind as to the best way to open the proceedings.
The early excitement over the tragedy that had struck the village appeared to have abated somewhat. The Paynes were again busy in the hotel, and Captain Gower had gone to Truro to do some shopping, to Biggles’ relief, for at this juncture he did not want to listen to more of his arbitrary theories.
He had his lunch, took his coffee on the terrace, and at three o’clock by his watch walked slowly up the village street to Dr. Venner’s house. Not seeing the Doctor in the garden he went to the front door, which stood wide open, and knocked. It was answered by the Doctor himself, hobbling painfully on his two sticks, his daily woman, as Biggles had anticipated, apparently having gone home. From his expression the old man did not seem too pleased at being disturbed.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” began Biggles. “I’m staying at the hotel. I wondered if you’d be so kind as to allow me to have a few words with you?”
“What about? I usually rest at this hour.”
“British Guiana. I understand you’ve spent some time in the country and I’d like to ask you a few questions about it.”
“I spent a great many years there. Come in. If we’re going to talk we might as well sit down and make ourselves comfortable.”
Biggles followed the doctor down a short hall into what was evidently his sitting-room although it had more the appearance of a museum, being decorated, in fact partly furnished, with objects of native Indian workmanship. Various pots and bowls, carved wood or earthenware, some crudely painted, stood wherever a place could be found for them. The walls were hung with a wide assortment of weapons, knives, spears, clubs, bows and arrows. A dried head, brown and shrivelled, with its lips sewn togeth
er, was suspended from a nail by its hair. There were several snake skins. One, probably that of an anaconda, reached from one side of the room to the other. Above the mantelpiece was a slender eight feet long tube which Biggles recognized as an Indian blowpipe.
“It’s plain you’ve been around, sir,” he said, as he accepted a chair. “I imagine you collected all these souvenirs yourself?”
“I did. Most of my life has been spent in South America, chiefly in the Guianas. For some years I was in the deep forests of British Guiana, medical officer for a timber company that held a concession there.”
“You must have had some unusual cases to deal with.”
“Unusual would hardly describe some of them. I’d say unique. Mostly accidents, of course. Practically all our labour was native. They were mostly Indians of the Maconchi tribe, and to say they were a wild lot would hardly describe them.”
“I’m surprised they were willing to work.”
“They worked for one reason only; to get money to buy drink. On pay day they’d all get drunk, and in that condition they went raving mad and became uncontrollable. It was not uncommon for them to end up slashing at each other with their machetes, or cracking each other’s skulls with clubs, just for the fun of it. One of my jobs was to sew them up. No anaesthetic, but they never flinched. Another job I often had to do was get an arrow out of a man. That’s not easy. You can’t just pull an arrow out, or even cut it out. The only way you can deal with it is to push the arrow right through and cut off the head, when the shaft can be withdrawn. If there was a vital organ in the way it was just too bad. There was nothing one could do about it and the man died. His friends didn’t care. Still, I’ve known men make astonishing recoveries. I got one man on his feet after his skull had been split open with an axe.”
“These arrows couldn’t have been poisoned, then?”
“No. They used poison for hunting, though. Practically all Central and South American Indians make poison of one sort or another for tipping the darts they use in their blowpipes. In Equador it’s curare, which I’ve seen made by thrusting at a venomous snake a lump of rotten liver on the end of a stick. When the liver becomes impregnated it undergoes some tribal rites and it’s ready for use.”