by W E Johns
“I’ve heard of curare. Your Indians didn’t have it?”
“No. The Maconchi concocted an even more deadly potion called Wourali. That also contains snake venom. The poison glands of the counaconchi, sometimes called the bushmaster on account of the deadliness of its bite, are mashed with various poisonous plants, notably the wourali vine, from which the stuff gets its name. One scratch with that is enough.”
“I’m surprised the Indians dare handle it.”
“Once in a while some silly fool would accidentally prick himself with one of his own darts. From familiarity they became careless with them so that was only to be expected. I actually saw a man do that one day. He realized what he’d done and knew there was nothing he or I could do about it. He gave up all hope of life but took it quite calmly.”
“What exactly happened?”
“For about two minutes he remained standing, his body becoming rigid, his eyes glazing. Then he sank down. Another minute he was flat on his back. In that position he went into a coma, but his heart was still just beating. By the fifth minute, by my watch, after a slight spasm, he was dead. He died without a sound and as far as I could judge, without pain. One would think he’d just lain down and dropped off to sleep.”
“A nasty experience. You were never able to find an antidote?”
“No, and I doubt very much if one ever will be found. The action of the stuff is too swift, much faster than any snake bite. Once a spot of the affected blood touches the heart it’s all over. It appears to paralyse the muscles and that’s the end. It has no effect taken in the stomach, so a bird or animal that has been killed by a wourali dart can be eaten without any harmful effect. That’s the whole idea, of course. An Indian can’t afford to waste time hunting for fun. It’s always food he’s after.”
“You must have carried out quite a few experiments with wourali.”
“I did. All I learned was, the larger the animal the longer it took to die. As a medical man I was naturally interested in the possible uses of the stuff in medicine. Quite a number of native Indian concoctions have been found to have curative properties if properly used. Quinine, for instance, a product of the cinchona tree, was once the only known specific for fever. It’s still used. Ipecacuanha, once a popular emetic, is the root of a Brazilian violet. Sarsaparilla is a derivative of a flower of the smilax family. Angostura, from the bark of a tree that grows wild in Venezuela, originally a powerful tonic, is now used chiefly to give a bitter principle to gin. Hence gin and angostura.”
“I believe the largest animal you experimented on was a cow. It took seven minutes to die, although it was unconscious before that.”
“How do you know?” The Doctor spoke sharply.
“I’ve just read your book.”
“Ah. Now I understand.”
“You say wourali leaves no trace?”
“None whatever.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s practically colourless, but when exposed to damp it appears as a grey mildew.” The Doctor’s eyes were now on Biggles’ face.
“I have an idea you brought some of this stuff home with you,” went on Biggles, evenly.
After a brittle silence that must have lasted for a good five seconds the Doctor said softly: “So that’s why you came here.”
“It is.”
“So you know.” The Doctor breathed the words. The colour had left his face and there was a curious gleam in his eyes.
“I know now,” returned Biggles dispassionately.
“Who are you?”
“At the moment I’m a casual visitor on holiday at the hotel.”
The Doctor drew a deep breath. “All right. I won’t deny it.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Dress the stalks and thorns of your roses with wourali.”
“I brought home a small quantity to continue my experiments. The thought occurred to me to try the effect of the stuff on greenfly.”
“Why use such deadly stuff as wourali to kill flies when there are plenty of cheap and efficient insecticides on the market? Come, Doctor, you can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”
The Doctor suddenly blazed into passion. “Very well. I admit it, I did use it for a different purpose. I had a good reason. For years just before the Flower Show my best roses, those I had cultivated specially for exhibition, have been stolen. As if that were not enough the thieves had the infernal audacity to exhibit them as their own, and I had the mortification of seeing them carry off the prizes.”
“You could have complained to the committee.”
“What was the use of that? I did, but I had no proof. I had the whole village against me because I was a stranger. All that did was make me hated, victimized by lying propaganda put about by the guilty party. I decided to leach the thief a lesson.”
“I’d hardly call killing someone a lesson.”
“I had no intention of killing anyone.”
“Then what did you intend?”
“The poison was old stuff and I imagined it would have lost most of its potency; instead of which, by evaporation, it must have become more concentrated. I thought it might give the thief a sore finger, possibly a brief period of nausea or a headache, but nothing worse than that.”
“After the experiments you describe so vividly in your book you must have known it was a dangerous thing to do.”
“What else could I do? I’m too old and infirm to sit up all night guarding my roses. And why should I? It was the only way I could think of to catch the thief.”
Biggles continued relentlessly. “You knew perfectly well that if there was a serious accident as a result of what you’d done the Flower Show which you hated might have to be abandoned—as in fact it has been. Wasn’t that how you intended to get your own back?”
“Nothing of the sort. No such thought occurred to me.”
“I suggest that to have been able to stop the Show must have afforded you considerable satisfaction.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Had those roses gone to the show, as you expected, you might have killed half a dozen people, judges and others, who had nothing whatever to do with the theft. As it is you’ve killed two innocent women.”
“How could I have imagined that a charming girl like Vera Harrington would stoop so low as to steal flowers from an old man’s garden?”
“She didn’t. Someone else took the roses and gave them to her.”
“Then why wasn’t that person affected?”
“That’s the irony of it. He took the precaution to wear gloves in order not to prick his fingers in the dark. You must have realized what had happened when you discovered some of your roses had disappeared and Vera Harrington had been found dead.”
“I suspected it.”
“You knew it.”
“I was shocked.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police at once what you’d done?”
“That wouldn’t have saved Vera.”
“It would have saved Miss Lewis. In failing to report the facts to Superintendent Smalley you were directly responsible for her death.”
“I realize now I should have done that, but I admit frankly I shrank from the ordeal. 1 haven’t much longer to live and I couldn’t face the publicity.”
“I hope you’re able to face having the deaths of those two unfortunate women on your conscience for the rest of your days,” returned Biggles grimly.
“I did consider going to the police.”
“You didn’t even give it a thought. All you were concerned with was yourself.”
“How can you say that?”
“How can I say it? Not only did you fail to go to the police but you were cowardly enough to try to throw suspicion on someone else.”
“Who?”
“Trelawny.”
“I saw him go to the house in the middle of the night.”
“Yes, and you weren’t long letting the police know abo
ut that, although you knew perfectly well that he had nothing to do with Vera’s death because you yourself were guilty.”
“He might have been the thief who stole my roses for all I knew.”
“And for that you were prepared to see him arrested on a charge of murder. That was the idea, wasn’t it?”
The Doctor did not answer.
Biggles went on remorselessly. “Still trying to protect yourself at the expense and perhaps the lives of other people the next thing you did was go into the garden next door and remove the proof of what you’d done. You took away the roses which you knew would be thrown out before the house was closed. Or perhaps you saw Miss Lewis do it. You were prepared to let that harmless old woman do that although you must have known she wasn’t the thief who took your roses. What did you do with them—burn them?”
“Yes. They can do no more harm.”
“That’s what I thought. I saw the bonfire. I believe I’m right in saying you also sprayed the rose trees in your own garden to remove any poison that remained on them.”
“I sprayed them with water. The stuff is soluble in water. I didn’t want any more accidents.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t. What you mean is, you were taking good care the accident didn’t happen to you,” asserted Biggles, with caustic sarcasm. “From first to last, all you’ve thought about is yourself, pandering to your own miserable spite, regardless of what happened to other people.”
There was another short silence. The Doctor’s face was ashen. “What do you intend to do about it?” he asked, dully.
“I shall do what you should have done in the first place—inform the police,” answered Biggles, frostily.
“Then they don’t know—what you know?”
“Not yet. But they soon will.”
“You can’t prove a thing.”
“Don’t hang any hopes on that. When you were so careful to remove the poisoned roses from the garden next door, to destroy the evidence of what you’d done, you overlooked one. It was the one that killed Vera’s cat and it lay apart from the others. I have it in my room at the hotel. The poison is still on it.”
The Doctor’s breath was coming fast. “Don’t tell the police,” he pleaded.
“I shall tell Superintendent Smalley. These deaths must be accounted for and by your silence he’s been put to enough trouble already.”
“I assure you it was all an accident. I swear I had no intention of killing anyone.”
“You’ll have to try to convince a judge and jury of that but I doubt if you’ll succeed. You did a damnable thing and you know it.”
“Had I wanted to murder anyone it would have been the easiest thing in the world. I could have used this.” The Doctor got up and unhooked the blowpipe from the wall. “I’ll show you how it works. It’s quite simple.”
He raised the mouthpiece to his lips. Then, in a flash, he had swung the tube round to point at the face of his accuser.
Biggles ducked. At the same time he flung up an arm and dashed the blowpipe from the Doctor’s hands, but not before there was a soft sound like phut behind him. Snatching up the weapon he broke it across his knee.
The Doctor fell back in his chair, white, and shaking as though with ague. His eyes glared. His lips moved, but no sound came from them.
For a second Biggles stared at him, pale and tight-lipped. “You wicked old man,” he rasped. “When I came here I thought you were nothing worse than vicious; but now I know you for what you really are— a cold-blooded murderer.”
With that he strode out of the house and on down the street towards the hotel.
CHAPTER XIII
BIGGLES EXPLAINS
BIGGLES arrived at the hotel to find the Superintendent, with his driver, on the terrace waiting for him. Also present were Major Payne, and Captain Gower back from Truro.
Biggles did not speak, but dropped into a chair and mopped a damp face with his handkerchief; for not only was the sun hot, but the last hour had been a greater strain than he had expected.
He was regarded by three expectant faces.
The Superintendent spoke first. “Well,” he inquired lightly. “Are you going to tell us who killed Vera Harrington?”
Biggles took out his cigarette case with hands that were still not quite steady. “Yes, I can do that now. I’ve just been talking to the murderer.”
“Who was it?”
“Doctor Venner.”
“What! That doddering old man? What are you trying to give me?”
“I’m telling you, believe it or not, that Venner was the devil responsible for the deaths of Vera and Miss Lewis. Admittedly, he wasn’t sure who he was going to kill so it’s hardly surprising you couldn’t find a motive. And it certainly wasn’t one you’d be looking for. But it was there, make no mistake about that. A few minutes ago he tried to kill me in much the same way, so if I hadn’t been a bit too quick for him you’d have had another body on your hands.”
In the silence that followed Biggles lit a cigarette.
“You realize what you’re saying? Are you quite sure about this?” asked the Superintendent, incredulously.
“Quite sure.”
“You can’t be serious,” remonstrated Major Payne. “That nice old boy, and a cripple into the bargain. It’s preposterous!”
“If what happened to me a few minutes ago had happened to you, you’d have thought it serious enough. I’ve had some close shaves in my time but I’ve never been nearer to Old Man Death. That kindly old gentleman, as you take him to be, is about as gentle as a tiger that’s just had its tail twisted.”
The Superintendent stepped in again. “But why in the name of heaven would he want to kill anyone?”
“You’d be surprised. Don’t stand up. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it. His motive had its roots in the Flower Show.”
“Are you asking us to believe that a man, any man, would commit murder on account of a village flower show?”
“I’m not asking you to believe anything. I’m telling you that Vera and Miss Lewis, and the cat, were killed by a deadly South American blood poison called wourali. A prick, or a scratch, is enough. Death follows in a matter of seconds.”
“How the devil did you know about that? How did you come to suspect it?”
The Doctor told me.”
“He told you!”
“Not intentionally. I got the information from reading his book on his experiences in British Guiana. You saw me reading it. I told you you’d find it enlightening if you’d trouble to glance through it. When a man writes a factual book he usually dwells at some length on the subject that is of greatest interest to him. With Venner the subject was poisons, native Indian poisons; in particular a hellish brew called wourali. It seemed to fascinate him. He had plenty of opportunities for experiments and studying its action. In his book he had a lot to say about that.”
“But how did he use it, and why? We could find no trace of poison.”
“For the simple reason that the amount required to cause death is so small that it doesn’t leave any trace— although, as a matter of fact, you told me there were indications suggestive of poison. But the doctors wouldn’t be looking for anything like wourali. It’s unlikely they’d know anything about it and it wouldn’t have made any difference if they had.”
“Tell me; what exactly happened?”
“The sequence of events, as I see them now, must have been something like this. As Payne knows, and told me, Venner has a bug in his brain about the Flower Show. He claims his best roses were always stolen just before the day. He saw them at the Show. Saw them win prizes. That made him mad. This year, deciding to teach the thief a lesson, he anointed the stalks and thorns of his best roses with this damnable stuff wourali.”
“What a dastardly thing to do. Are you quite certain of this?”
“I’ve just had it out with him. He admitted it.” Biggles smiled faintly at the expression on Captain Gower’s face.
“So that’s where you
’ve been all the afternoon.”
“Yes. We had a lot to talk about and I had to take my fences carefully, one at a time, to prevent him from guessing what I was leading up to. But let me go on. On the afternoon of the night Vera died Paul Graveson went to Truro. He promised to bring Vera some roses—”
“Which we know he did.”
“Yes, but he didn’t buy those roses in Truro—or anywhere else.”
“He said he did.”
“I know. But he was lying because he was afraid to tell the truth. He went to Truro but forgot all about the roses. Rather than disappoint the girl, or have to admit he’d forgotten his promise, he had the nerve to pinch some roses from the Doctor’s garden. Naturally, he chose the best blooms, which were of course the very ones that had been treated with poison.”
“Then why wasn’t he killed?”
“Because knowing what he was going to do, although not by the wildest stretch of imagination could he have suspected the roses were a death trap, he wore his leather driving gloves to protect his fingers from the thorns. My God! He little knows how lucky he was. Now you know why I warned you to be careful how you bundled those gloves. There was a remote chance that a thorn had been left in one of them, and had you pricked your hand on it yours would have been the next mysterious death.”
“Thanks. But how did you know he’d pinched the roses?”
“He told me.”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“I wouldn’t expect him to, although he couldn’t have had the slightest suspicion that those roses were the direct cause of Vera’s death.”
“Why did he tell you?”
“I forced it out of him. I knew he was lying, and told him so.”
“How did you know? Did you go to see him?”
“No, but I told you I’d seen him. It was in the yard, quite by chance, I heard him getting his car out.”
“To do what? Run away?”
“Yes.”
“The young devil, I told him to stay here.”
“I wouldn’t lay too much stress on that. To be suspected of murder knowing oneself to be innocent is enough to make anyone panic. That’s the state he was in. I persuaded him not to do anything so silly. If he was innocent we should be able to find a way to prove it. The upshot was we sat in the car and had a chat. There were a couple of weak spots in his statement and I tackled him on them.”