The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  “Well, at least we can safely say that the Marquesa is not fit enough to carry out such a bold plan.”

  “Perhaps,” nodded Dunkley. “Perhaps. But if your theory is correct, Doctor, I think we can narrow down the suspects even more. I can think of only one person, other than you, who is likely to possess a hypodermic needle.”

  “Dr. Nemcek,” I said.

  “Indeed,” agreed the constable. “I think it is time to pay the Doctor a visit, rather than the other way around, wouldn’t you say?”

  §

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE EVIDENCE OF THE BOHEMIAN PHYSICIAN

  Constable Dunkley and I rose from our chairs and decamped from the parlor. Exiting into the dining room, we found most of the guests of the hotel gathered there. Clearly, the constable’s instructions had been obeyed and no one was venturing far from the scene of the crime. Everyone looked at him with anxiety plainly stamped on their faces. My eyes involuntarily sought out Madame Dubois and found that she was looking at me with a long, questioning gaze. An absurd gush of hope rushed to my heart that she might share my feelings.

  “Dr. Nemcek?” called out Dunkley.

  “Yes?” replied my fellow physician. As he rose from his seat, I recalled when I had first seen this brother medico. Nemcek had been speaking intimately with Mr. Sims in this very room when I arrived at the Globe, though he had now removed the jacket from his neat suit and his top hat was nowhere to be seen. Despite the casual appearance of his dress, his person was still immaculately groomed.

  “Doctor,” continued Dunkley, “we would like to talk with you in your room.”

  “Certainly, sir.” If the man was discomforted by this thought, he hid it well. “It is upstairs.”

  “Yes, the first on the right, I know,” said Dunkley, who had plainly memorized Mrs. Foster’s map. “I will lead the way, if you don’t mind.”

  Nemcek and I followed the constable up the creaking stairs. As we reached the upper landing, Dunkley rounded upon the doctor. “Tell me, Dr. Nemcek, are you a heavy sleeper?”

  The man looked surprised by the question, but quickly recovered. “No, absolutely not. Years of being roused in the middle of the night for medical emergencies have habituated me to waking at the slightest sound.”

  “Have you noticed that these stairs tend to make loud noises when you walk upon them?”

  “Of course, sir. The door to my room is not heavy, and I can certainly tell when someone is climbing the stairs.”

  “Even during the night?” probed Dunkley.

  “Absolutely,” replied Nemcek.

  “And last night? Did anyone climb the stairs after you retired?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, there were three sets of steps, all together, about midnight.”

  “How do you know it was at midnight?”

  Nemcek shrugged nonchalantly. “I was still awake reading a recent edition of The Lancet. I glanced at my watch when I heard the steps, as I thought they were rather late.”

  “And after those three?” said Dunkley, persistently.

  Nemcek shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “You are certain of it?”

  “Yes,” said the doctor, calmly.

  “If you are such a light sleeper, Doctor, then why did you not hear the seven gunshots that rang out last night?”

  Nemcek pursed his lips and shook his head again. “There are several walls between my room and that of the deceased. Surely these muffled the noise sufficiently enough as to cause me to confuse the shots with the sound of the booming thunder. You do agree, Constable, that the thunder was particularly loud last night?”

  Dunkley failed to answer this rhetorical question and instead indicated for Nemcek to open the door to his room. Once that task had been accomplished, the three of us entered only to find the small space a bit cramped. Dunkley indicated that Dr. Nemcek should sit on his bed, while he and I stood. “Your papers, sir?”

  Dr. Nemcek handed them over as requested. After a brief perusal, Dunkley looked up. “Leoš Nemcek, born 1847. You are a citizen of Austria-Hungary?”

  “Ano, yes,” he replied tightly.

  “From Prague?”

  “Indeed. I am a Bohemian.”

  I frowned and entered the interrogation. “I had always assumed that a Bohemian was one of the free-spirited artists that haunt the Montmartre district of Paris.”

  The man laughed deeply, flashing a golden filling as he did so. “Very amusing, Doctor,” said he, suavely. “I am afraid that you have read a bit too much of Thackeray’s Vanity Fair. No, I must admit that I do not fully comprehend how those artists appropriated our name, but I am a Bohemian in the truest sense of the word. The lands of my ancestors have been distinct since the ninth century.”

  “Are they not simply a Germanic nation?” interjected Dunkley.

  “Mit der dummheit kämpfen götter selbst vergebens,” muttered Nemcek.

  “What was that?” said Dunkley, sharply.

  “Nothing,” replied Nemcek, equivocatingly, obviously not suspecting that I was fully versed in my Schiller and well-conversant in German. I decided that the quotation was not very kind to the constable. ‘Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain,’ indeed!

  “So it is Slavonic then?” continued Dunkley.

  “Yes, the Bohemians are part of the western Slavs,” answered Nemcek, calmly, his irritation now apparently under control.

  “But as an Austro-Hungarian, are not the French your natural rivals?” persisted Dunkley.

  Nemcek smirked. “Hardly, Constable. The French may be vying with the Empire that rules Bohemia, but they are not my enemies. In fact, I took my medical degree in France.”

  “Where?” I inquired.

  “Montpellier,” the man replied with the name of one of France’s finest universities. “I studied there under Dr. Ainstree.”

  “France, eh?” interjected Dunkley. “So you must have been familiar with Mr. Dumas?”

  Nemcek shrugged his shoulders. “Honestly, Constable, I had never met the man before my arrival upon your fair island. France is a big land, you know. And Montpellier is tucked down in the far south.”

  “And why are you visiting Bermuda, Doctor?” continued Dunkley.

  Nemcek took off his glasses and used a piece of chamois leather to polish them as he replied. “I found that I no longer wished to live under the Austrian yoke, so I left Prague,” he explained. “After I completed my schooling, I initially spent some time in London with one of my uncles on my mother’s side, by the name of Antonín Dvořák. He keeps a large general store on the Commercial Road, and deals in items from the old country. Do you know the store, Doctor?”

  I admitted that it was unfamiliar to me. “I’m afraid that is Whitechapel. Royal London Hospital territory. My haunts were near the University by Russell Square and by St. Bart’s in Smithfield.”

  “Yes, well, I found that my medical skills were not in great demand in London, as the British tend to want to be treated by one of their own,” continued Nemcek. “In correspondence with one of my cousins, Rudolph, he put forward that no such prejudices exist in America, so I am joining him there in Chicago. I had entrusted my belongings to the Aberdeen Shipping Company, which ultimately proved to be an unwise choice. Everything was delayed at Cherbourg, and rather than arrive in the chaos of New York without my trunks, I thought it wise to delay for a few days upon this fair isle.”

  “Chicago is a rough town, Doctor,” interjected Dunkley. “It is filled with gangs of dangerous crooks.”

  “Ah yes, I have heard as much. Fortunately, I have prepared myself.”

  Dunkley’s eyebrows rose. “You have a pistol?” he inquired.

  “Of course,” said Nemcek, off-handedly. “We Czechs invented them, back during the Hussite Wars, and a true Czech would never be without one in today’s dangerous world. You gentlemen may find it interesting that the word ‘pistol’ is, in fact, the only word in the English language derived from the Czech.”


  “Indeed,” said Dunkley dryly, apparently uninterested. “May I see it?” he asked.

  “Certainly.” Nemcek arose from his perch on the bed and moved to where his valise rested under the north window.

  Before he could open it, however, Dunkley stopped him. “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I would prefer to open it myself?”

  Dr. Nemcek raised his hands in acquiescence. “But of course.”

  Dunkley set the valise on the bed and flipped it open. Inside laid a quaint carved wooden pistol box. He drew this forth and opened it to reveal a six-shot open-framed revolver, loaded via a hinged gate on the right side of the frame, through which empty cartridges were ejected via a rod running along the barrel. “Ah, this is a Lefaucheux M1858, is it not?”

  “That is correct. You know your guns, Constable.”

  “It does not appear to have been recently fired,” noted Dunkley.

  “No,” agreed Nemcek. “I fortunately have had little need.”

  “It is a French gun,” insinuated Dunkley.

  Nemcek shrugged. “Yes, you could view it in that fashion, since Monsieur Lefaucheux was of course French. But I believe that his pistol design was very popular. Models were purchased by half the nations of Europe and both the Confederate and Federal forces in the American Civil War.”

  “Si vis pacem para bellum,” I interjected, suddenly.

  Nemcek glanced at me. “Exactly, Doctor. I would not say that I am in favor of war, or any form of violence for that matter, but I do believe in being prepared.”

  I concluded from this little test that his Latin was excellent, as I would expect from any medical man. He certainly seemed authentic. But there was another method to test this, and that was to examine his satchel. The constable was clearly thinking along the same lines.

  “And your medical bag, sir?” said Dunkley.

  Dr. Nemcek handed over the satchel, which was a folding piece of nice brown leather with a silver clasp. From it Dunkley proceeded to extract various medical instruments, which by their worn nature were clearly the property of a busy physician. Amongst the other items in the bag were a cannula, some clamps, a phial of iodoform, some nitrate of silver, cotton wadding, and numerous carbolized bandages. Dunkley was plainly not interested these items or Nemcek’s stethoscope, and he tossed them aside onto the bed. He paused abruptly when he brought forth an ebony-handled knife with a very delicate inflexible blade marked Evans & Co., London. Its tip was guarded by a cork. “Now this is an interesting weapon, Doctor. I suspect that you could make a deep incision with this and leave barely a trace.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Constable. That is what we call a cataract knife. It is quite fine and used only for precise surgeries. It could not possibly be used as a weapon.”

  “Unless the victim was asleep, perhaps drugged?” proposed Dunkley.

  “Well, yes, I suppose that is possible” I agreed, reluctantly.

  Nemcek grew warm and interrupted us. “Gentlemen! I must protest. I have already heard from Mr. Sims that the Frenchman was shot. Why are you so interested in my knife? Do you not have one too, Doctor?”

  Before I could answer, Dunkley shook his head. “I am not really interested in the knife, Doctor. I am interested in this.” With a flourish, Dunkley drew a neat red goatskin gilded morocco case from the bag. Flicking open its hook, he flipped the lid to reveal a hypodermic syringe. He lifted the syringe from the case with nervous fingers and brought it up to his eyes for closer inspection. He touched the sharp tip with his finger and experimented with plunging the tiny piston. He measured the length of the needle, which plainly was sufficiently longer than that of a typical wine-bottle cork. “It appears to be clean.”

  Nemcek shrugged. “Of course, I have had little need for it recently.”

  “Then how do you explain these?” said Dunkley, holding up a pair of empty phials that he had removed from the satchel.

  “Many ladies onboard the vessel with me suffered from seasickness during the passage to Bermuda. I have found that a low dose of morphia is often helpful in alleviating these symptoms.”

  Dunkley turned and looked at me. “I agree with Dr. Nemcek,” I volunteered.

  Dunkley snorted in exasperation. “Well then, Doctor, are you acquainted with any of the other guests of the Globe?”

  “Certainly,” he nodded.

  “You are?” I asked, surprised.

  “Of course,” continued the man. “I’ve conversed with every person staying here, some more than others, Mr. Sims for example. And I’ve had little to say to the Marquesa, I suppose, but…”

  “What I meant was: ‘did you know any of the other guests before your arrival upon Bermuda?’” said Dunkley, interrupting him.

  “Oh no, definitely not,” replied Nemcek, assuredly.

  Dunkley pursed his lips. “May we have a copy of your handwriting then, Doctor?” He fished the note already written upon by Sims and Cordeiro out of his breast-pocket. “Just the same as the others, if you please.”

  Nemcek took the paper over to a small writing desk and carefully wrote out the prescribed phrase with a somewhat archaic nib pen. When complete, he picked it up and blew on the paper to assist in the drying process before handing it back to Dunkley. The inspector examined the paper and nodded to himself, before folding it up and replacing it in his pocket.

  “That will be all for now, Dr. Nemcek.” With a nod to me, Dunkley exited the doctor’s room. He paused for a moment upon the upper landing and glanced at me as if to ascertain my opinion, which I obligingly provided.

  “I have no doubt that he is a skilled physician. Therefore more than anyone else in the hotel he possesses the skill to add the optimal amount of laudanum to Sims’ bottle of wine that would permit the taste of it to pass undetected, and yet successfully stupefy all who drank from the bottle. And, of course, he had several empty phials.”

  “But you are not convinced?” probed Dunkley.

  I shook my head. “No, I am not. Yes, he trained in France and owns a French pistol. Thus it is certainly possible that he knew Dumas. But I still do not see a motive. For a physician to violate his Hippocratic Oath – ‘I will not give a deadly drug to anybody’ – would be a grave offense.”

  Dunkley snorted. “It certainly was ‘grave’ enough for Dumas! You are too trusting, Doctor. History is unfortunately replete with physicians who have ignored their oath and committed the most foul of deeds. Dr. Webster of Harvard, for example.”

  “Yes,” nodded I, in sad agreement, “I suppose that you are correct. We must keep Dr. Nemcek on the list of suspects. Whom do you plan to question next?”

  Dunkley shook his head. “The most solid clue that we have is the burned Turkish slipper. Which of the guests strikes you as being the most likely to own such a slipper?”

  I frowned in bafflement. “I suppose anyone could own a pair of Turkish slippers.”

  “But are they not uncommon? I suspect that the most likely person to own something from Turkey would be someone from that country.”

  “Ah, Mr. Bey, then?” said I, finally following his train of thought.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “Mr. Bey.”

  §

  CHAPTER XV

  THE EVIDENCE OF THE TURKISH ENGINEER

  Constable Dunkley and I made our way back down the creaking staircase to the dining room, where we found the assembled guests anxiously awaiting us. Dunkley surveyed the crowd before calling out, “Mr. Bey, if you would be so kind as to step into the parlor.”

  Bey rose from his place at one of the tables and followed us quietly into our appropriated room of interrogation. As the three of us settled into our placed in the parlor, Bey in the settee facing us, I took his measure. He was a small, wiry man with the swarthy complexion typical of his countrymen. His hair and eyes were dark, yet he wore a sardonic grin that animated his eyes in such a way so as to instill a sense of companionship in all whom he beheld. His eyes were covered by grey-framed rounded glasses that
imparted a scholarly air to his bearing. These rested upon his great curved nose, which in turn presided over his heavy moustache. He wore the same neat dark-grey suit that I had noted the first morning after my arrival, as well as his odd checked shepherd’s muffler. The only new piece of ornamentation was a silver necklace from which dangled a glass pendant with a series of concentric circles, first a deep blue outer rim, then white, then a lighter shade of blue, and finally a central black area, the combination of which greatly reminded me of a staring eye. If I thought to learn something profound from this inspection, however, I was greatly mistaken. The man and his passions were still a complete mystery to me.