Keep It Quiet

by Richard Hull

  So far as his rather confused mind could follow the argument, it seemed to mean that Beethoven was always performed whenever Notts played. Well, perhaps it was a good thing, but it seemed strange. He gave it up and went on to the next point. ‘But the sister-in-law?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, that I must admit is a slight flight of fancy. It might be a niece, or even – though that is less probable – a nephew. But it will be someone of that kind.’

  ‘Because?’ Ford prompted.

  ‘Every spring, at varying dates, but never later than 10th May, one novel of Dorothy Sayers goes. During the rest of the year the works of that excellent authoress are spared. Therefore we may, I think, safely assume that our thief does not desire them for himself, but gives them away – clearly a birthday present as the time is not Christmas, and clearly to a relative since a second-hand copy is considered adequate. I suggest, after some thought, a sister-in-law, since I think that Miss Sayers appeals on the whole more to women, but, as I say, the exact relationship is not certain. One should never jump to conclusions.’

  He folded his hands judicially, and seeming more incapable of irony than unconscious of it, continued calmly:

  ‘Last spring he obtained his book on the day that he went to watch Notts County play Millwall somewhere near the Docks. Rather a rough game, I gather. The London club got into trouble on account of its spectators, and incidentally were relegated at the end of the season to the Third Division. I gather that they were, in fact, deserving of a very great deal of sympathy, but then I hardly know anything of these things.

  ‘But to resume. Much the same line of reasoning applies to the wife and the card playing, though here, definitely, we are in the realm of conjecture. You see, if he has a wife, he must explain somehow how he is able to obtain so readily a supply of secondhand books, many of them having perhaps some mark identifying them with the Club. The most ready suggestion is that he buys second-hand packs of cards from the Club in the usual way, and explains the second-hand books as being a similar convenience. But that, as I said, is perhaps stretching the imagination rather far.’

  Ford thought it was stretching it a good deal, but he hardly liked to say so. Instead, he enquired as to how Cardonnel had decided on the man’s politics. ‘Because,’ he said magnanimously, ‘I don’t think one ought to assume that because he’s a thief he’s necessarily a Socialist. Of course, I know, give a dog a bad name, but still–’

  ‘Oh, no. That isn’t my reasoning at all. As you have noticed, there have been many books of memoirs, biographies and so on amongst the list of those books that are missing.’

  ‘And very expensive too,’ the secretary interposed.

  ‘Quite. And all written by staunch Conservatives.’

  ‘Well, but – wouldn’t that show that he supported them? I mean, if he wanted Conservative memoirs?’

  ‘Not at all. He did not want them. One or two of them were so dull that nobody could possibly have wanted them. Quite the contrary. He wanted to destroy them as poisonous propaganda – from his point of view, of course, from his point of view.’

  This seemed definitely confusing to Ford. After all, if you went on those sort of lines you could argue in any direction, but Cardonnel’s voice recalled him again.

  ‘Much the same line of thought has given me his age. All the memoirs are largely concerned with the “naughty nineties” – obviously our thief was a young man then, and the period interests him.’

  ‘But isn’t that exactly the opposite method to the one you have just been advocating – I mean about his politics?’

  Cardonnel looked at him pityingly.

  ‘How could you dislike a period so much that you wanted to destroy all traces of it? No, no. I think you’ll find when we catch our man that I am right. When we get those full bedroom lists of yours we can move on a stage. Meanwhile, I’m studying his hobbies.’

  ‘Hobbies?’

  ‘Yes. Chiefly negative results so far, judging by some of the books he has not taken. It is almost certain, for instance, that he does not collect coins–’

  ‘Very few people do.’

  ‘No, but I do know one member of the Club – a highly suspicious character to my mind, too – who does collect coins, and possibly on that fact alone we ought to delete him from the lists of suspects. I think, however, that he may be thinking of travelling in the East Indies – two travel books about that part of the world have recently gone.’

  ‘At the age of sixty or seventy!’

  ‘A good point, my dear Ford, a good point. Perhaps he is studying aboriginal customs. Keep an eye out to see if anyone is reading Frazer’s Golden Bough, will you? I remember both these travel books, as it happens, and if my memory serves me in each there was a chapter on native poisons. Now do you happen to know anyone in the Club who is interested in poisoning? Why, what’s the matter, Ford?’

  The word ‘poison’ had produced its usual effect on Ford. He was looking slightly sick. With some remnant of presence of mind, however, he managed to make the usual conventional suggestion that perhaps it was the fire at his back that had upset him. In a few minutes he had recovered.

  ‘The only trouble though, sir, is that so far I can’t think of anyone who answers to your description. Here is a list of all the people who live in Nottinghamshire, and none of them is about that age. Nor do I think – though this is only my memory – that they have been up in London on the days when the books have gone.’

  ‘Then I expect the man lives just over the border of the county; or perhaps there is some detail wrong. I am sure that if I go on on these lines, eventually we are bound to get our proof.’

  ‘Proof will be a bit hard, won’t it? Moral certainty perhaps.’

  ‘Oh, once we know who he is, we can set some trap.’

  Ford shuddered. He did not like traps.

  ‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘first catch your thief–’

  To his credit, Cardonnel just managed to refrain from saying that he never cooked thieves.

  ‘There is one point, you know,’ went on Ford, ‘where the latest results do not seem to bear you out.’

  ‘And that is?’ Cardonnel’s voice sounded a little disapproving.

  ‘The books that have been going recently.’

  ‘They are still going?’

  ‘Oh, yes! I am afraid I have not put up the list for some time, nor told you about it.’

  A shade of annoyance crossed Cardonnel’s face. It was so like Ford not to give him all the information! He had probably not kept the list up to date for weeks!

  ‘Well, what has been going?’

  Ford produced a rather crumpled piece of paper.

  ‘A Frenchman in Khaki by Paul Maze, the last volume of Lloyd George’s War Memoirs, A Village in a Valley by Beverley Nichols, and A Letter to a Young Lady on the Occasion of her Approaching Marriage by Ambrose Hoopington. It’s a varied selection,’ he broke off to comment.

  ‘But very sound and all interesting.’

  ‘What would so old a man want to know about the war?’

  ‘Well, a young one would not be interested at all.’

  Finding no answer to this, Ford contented himself by remarking that the last-named was said by the Morning Post to be disgusting, cynical, immoral, ‘which was why I got it in,’ he added, apparently without irony, ‘and then there is The Serial Universe by J. W. Dunne, which I believe is incomprehensible, How Like an Angel by A. G. Macdonnell, and two detective stories.’

  ‘Which are also incomprehensible,’ Cardonnel chuckled. ‘Well, let me have the complete list some time, would you? It’s a line I must follow up.’

  18

  In Bedroom Number 4

  As the days went on Ford began to wear a more harassed expression. Not a day passed but that he was reminded that he had still taken no action about dismissing Hughes, and each reminder told him that, if he did not, something would happen which would automatically raise the question of how Morrison had died. To add to his other worrie
s he was almost sure that Anstruther was getting similar letters, and was even more frightened than he was. Indeed the doctor seemed now to be an absolute bundle of nerves.

  The second of January was to be his final day of grace. The day before he was so much on edge that even Laming thought that he must be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and attributing it with a good deal of accuracy to his having been compelled to stay too much in the Club and getting too little fresh air, induced him to get out into the country for the day. It was hardly the time of year for a country walk, but nevertheless, the change of scene was some use, or would have been if for one minute Ford had been able to stop asking himself what on earth would happen next, and how soon it was to happen.

  Perhaps fortunately, he had not long to wait. He had managed to keep away from the Club until after dinner time, and it was nearly ten before, rather muddy and tired, he had come in to be greeted immediately by a message that Dr Anstruther wanted to see him at once in Number 4 bedroom. Mr Pargiter had been taken ill.

  Directly he opened the bedroom door he saw that there was something very wrong indeed. Anstruther was standing, a syringe in his hand, with a look of wild terror on his face. On the bed Pargiter was lying, apparently unconscious. His usually florid face was rather pale, but otherwise he showed no particular expression.

  ‘It’s no good, it’s no good. I can’t get any further sign of life out of him.’

  To his surprise Ford found himself rather calmer than the doctor.

  ‘Don’t make such a noise, man. You’ll attract the whole household.’

  Unexpectedly a nervous giggle startlingly left the doctor’s lips.

  ‘What! Keep it quiet again? It can’t be done, man. Can’t be done.’

  ‘Keep what quiet?’ Then, seeing the hysteria on Anstruther’s face, even Ford realised. ‘You don’t mean to say Pargiter’s dead too.’

  A nod. ‘And I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean to let him out of my sight this evening after that warning. You know, I showed you the warning.’

  Though he strongly resented what seemed almost an attempt to drag him into something from which he was fondly hoping that his day in the country excluded him, Ford could not deny having seen the warning. He brushed it aside and asked what had happened.

  ‘I had gathered – as no doubt you did – that this was the dangerous day for Pargiter, and so instead of being away all day – where have you been, by the way? – I have, as far as possible, been keeping an eye on him. All went well until after dinner – at least, Pargiter seemed quite well – but during dinner I must have eaten something which disagreed with me. I’ve been sick and dizzy ever since, and so I couldn’t go on watching him.’

  ‘You’ve been ill? Do you imagine you’ve been poisoned?’

  The doctor seemed startled. ‘I suppose I must. I never thought of that.’

  ‘Who was sitting next to you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was too busy watching Pargiter. Besides, it might have been before dinner.’

  ‘Well, I can find out from the head waiter. But go on about’ – he pointed to the bed – ‘him. I say, oughtn’t you to be doing something?’

  ‘No good now. But to go back. I remember now saying to Hughes that the glass of sherry I had before dinner tasted a trifle odd.’

  ‘Let’s go into that later. About Pargiter.’

  ‘There’s very little to say. I returned from one of these attacks to find him sitting exactly where we found Morrison. Of course I suspected at once, and I’ve been doing everything I can to bring him round, but’ – he indicated the syringe – ‘of course it was useless from the start. Hyoscine’s absolutely deadly in big doses.’

  Ford looked at him curiously. ‘I don’t know what hyoscine is; but how did you know that it was hyoscine and that it was in big doses?’

  ‘Can’t you guess? My God, I thought I’d made the doses weak enough, but this fellow must know more than I gave him credit for.’

  ‘What! Do you mean to say that you have been supplying this stuff, and now Pargiter’s been murdered by it. But, heavens, doesn’t that make you an accessory before the fact?’

  ‘Yes. And you too.’ Anstruther sat down and was suddenly violently sick.

  By the time that he had more or less recovered physically, his nerves seemed to have gone to pieces more completely. He seemed to be in an abject mortal funk.

  ‘How many more times are we two going to have to meet, and go through this scene? How much more have we got to put up with before we find out who this fellow is? Aren’t you doing anything to find out who it is who is torturing both of us?’

  Without thinking exactly what was implied Ford answered quite literally.

  ‘Cardonnel’s nearly found out who the book thief is – at least he thinks he has – we might get him to help.’

  ‘Cardonnel? Cardonnel?’ The doctor seemed appalled. ‘I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.’

  ‘Oh, I think he’s a decent fellow. But, look here, there’s no question of trusting anyone or finding anything out. We’ve got to go straight to the police.’

  With a stifled shriek Anstruther jumped up.

  ‘You fool! You fool! Don’t you see that this fellow has got us – got us absolutely. Call in the police and I get penal servitude for life I should think, if I am not hung, and you get – I don’t know what – but a good long sentence.’

  The threat did not appall Ford. He might be careless, lazy, weak, but as he had shown when he refused to sack Hughes, there was a limit, and this idea of trying to frighten him by telling him what the unpleasant consequences were for himself was beyond that limit.

  But Anstruther was no fool. He very quickly saw that by appealing to fear, he was arguing on the wrong lines. He shifted his ground to that of loyalty. After a while he appeared to quieten down and went on in a quieter voice.

  ‘I see. Your conscience won’t let you. You prefer to let me down – to let me in far worse than you will be involved yourself, and remember, too, that it was you who originally induced me to help you to keep it quiet in the first place. So much, however, for relying on other people. Very well, then, go and ring up Scotland Yard. I’ll stay here.’

  Despite the touch of theatricality, the implication of disloyalty stung Ford to the quick. It was the one virtue on which he really prided himself, and prided himself with justification.

  ‘But my dear fellow, what can one do? It isn’t as if he was your patient this time.’

  ‘As a matter of fact he is. But, if you’ve made up your mind, of course that’s quite irrelevant.’

  For a moment there was no sound in the small bedroom except Ford drumming with his fingers against a wardrobe.

  ‘But could you do it? You said yourself just now you couldn’t. I mean is it safe? I mean two deaths from heart failure in the same chair, and both your patients?’

  ‘I know I did say it couldn’t be done, but I was a bit hysterical at the time. Forgive me, Ford. I think I can manage a similar certificate. Not, I think, heart failure this time. A clot of blood or a haemorrhage, described in the proper medical terms, and no one will notice the coincidence. After all, why not? Quite a lot of the members of this Club, though you may not know it, are my patients. I attract them to me by saying nothing. It’s a sort of self-hypnotism. And many of them are old and have weak hearts.’ A curious look passed over the doctor’s face as if he were considering other elderly patients of his. ‘I think, yes, I think that it will be safe for me to sign the death certificate again. There may be talk, but after all, supposing the talk gets so bad that we are found out, are we any worse than before? You see, we’re committed already.’

  At the time Ford believed him – he always did believe what people told him.

  ‘You mean,’ he said, ‘that we may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb?’

  Anstruther gave a slight shiver.

  ‘Not hung, I hope.’ Then seeing that Ford had gone rather white, he added: ‘It’ll be all right, my dear fell
ow. You leave it to me. I’ll see you through.’

  At the time Ford did not notice that the doctor seemed to have completely recovered his nerve. Before he quite realised what he was doing, he found that he had agreed that once more he would help to hush the thing up.

  ‘But this time,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘we must find the fellow and deal with him.’ He did not specify, even in his own mind, how the dealing was to be done.

  ‘We’ll start on it tomorrow – and I think we’ll start from that glass of sherry.’

  Ford drew himself up. ‘If you think it was Hughes, you’re quite wrong. I know it’s none of the staff. It might of course be any of the members, they elect each other. But I hand-pick the staff myself.’ It was one of his favourite sentiments.

  ‘Quite so, quite so. We’ll discuss it tomorrow. You know I think we’re rather forgetting–’

  With a start Ford realised that he had completely forgotten Pargiter. As he made his way down the passage towards the library, he thought of the peculiar relationship he had just entered into with Anstruther. A nasty muddle, and a nasty man with whom to be involved, he was beginning to think. ‘His honour,’ he quoted to himself, ‘rooted in dishonour stood. And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.’ He reached the landing and absent-mindedly picked up a weight from the weighing machine.

  ‘I really think that that man should show more respect for the dead. At any rate he ought not to be sick. It’s all wrong.’ He shook his head sadly. He weighed, he found, thirteen stone five. Angrily he got off the machine. He was letting his mind wander.

  19

  The Amateur Poisoner

  If Ford had been able to see into Anstruther’s mind, or had even been able to glance for a second at his face as he stood in bedroom Number 4, he would have been even more surprised.

  As the door closed behind the clumsy figure of the worried secretary, the expressionless mask had fallen from the doctor’s face. He had suddenly exploded into uncontrollable, if silent, mirth. It was all right! Despite his error it would be all right after all! Once more he had bamboozled Ford, and once more the very incompetence of that worthy man had come to his rescue. The fit of laughter over, he mopped his brow with a blue silk handkerchief, the excellence of whose quality did not quite succeed in disguising the garishness of its design. It had been a near thing – too near a thing to be pleasant. He glanced at the syringe, still lying on a table, and put it carefully away.