“I have the same hope, Sir Edward,” said Henry. For a moment, the two men looked straight at each other. Then, in a different tone, the Ambassador said, “And now you should talk to Bartholomew.” He pressed a bell on his desk, and Dorabella came in, quickly and quietly. “Chief Superintendent Tibbett, this is my secretary, Miss Hamilton. Dorabella, please take Mr. Tibbett to see Inspector Bartholomew. My dear Tibbett, it has been a great pleasure to renew our acquaintance. Good luck.”
Again the huge hand was extended, and engulfed Henry’s. Henry said, “You’ve been very kind and helpful, Sir Edward.”
“I hope to be more so in the future. If you have any questions to ask of me, don’t hesitate. Dorabella will always arrange an interview. And I imagine that you may want to visit Tampica at some stage. That will be easy to arrange. Just let us know what facilities you need and we’ll do our best to supply them.”
The Ambassador gave Henry’s hand a final, agonizing squeeze, and then relinquished it. The interview was over. Henry followed Dorabella out into the hall and across to the small library where Inspector Bartholomew was waiting.
The two men got along well together from the start. Before leaving London, Henry had looked up Bartholomew’s record from his C.I.D. course, and had been impressed by the Tampican’s obvious ability and common sense: now, face to face, he saw that these virtues were coupled with modesty, frankness and great charm. Bartholomew knew all about Chief Superintendent Tibbett’s reputation, and was prepared to be overawed and even a little resentful. He was instantly disarmed by the small, sandyhaired man with dark blue eyes and diffident manner, who was obviously eager to tap Bartholomew’s knowledge of Tampica and of the principal characters in the case.
Bartholomew’s thumbnail sketches interested Henry particularly, because he judged them to represent the view of most intelligent Tampicans who were not on terms of personal contact with the people concerned—that is, they represented public images rather than inside knowledge.
It was quickly made clear that Eddie Ironmonger was a folk hero to the islanders. “Our greatest man,” said Bartholomew earnestly. “He will lead our country one day, you will see. He is an inspiration to us all. He was born in a slum, you know, the son of a poor fisherman. He has made himself what he is, by his own efforts alone.” He paused, then added, “With the help of Bishop Barrington, of course.” He smiled at Henry. “We are independent now, and we are proud of it—it is the independence of a son who has grown to manhood. The British government was our mother, if you like—sometimes a stern and even harsh one, but individual British people, like the Bishop and Mrs. Barrington and Doctor Duncan—they are our uncles and aunts. We shall not forget what they did for Tampica.”
Henry smiled back. “You put it very nicely, Inspector. I understand.”
“Even people like Mr. Nelson,” Bartholomew went on, “cannot bring themselves to dislike the Bishop.”
“Mr. Nelson? You mean, the First Secretary here?”
“That’s right. He has been a great fighter for independence, and he had no good words for the British government. Yet he regards the Barringtons almost as his own family. He was at their home when he heard the news of Lady Ironmonger’s death.”
“At their home? You mean, they live in Washington?”
“Oh, yes. They were at the reception and had invited Mr. Nelson to dinner afterwards, so Miss Hamilton tells me.”
“And what about Mr. and Mrs. Holder-Watts?”
“They are respected. I would not say that they are loved.”
“And Lady Ironmonger?”
There was a considerable pause. At last, Bartholomew said, “She was a very beautiful lady. She enjoyed life; she laughed a lot. We Tampicans laugh a lot. We understand. Also, she was greatly loved by Sir Edward.”
Henry said, “Inspector Bartholomew, this is a police investigation. We must speak plainly.”
“Yes, sir.” Bartholomew’s face had suddenly taken on a wooden look.
“For God’s sake, man,” said Henry, “the wretched woman was murdered. There must have been a reason.”
“None that I know of, sir. It is a great mystery.”
“And likely to remain one, if you maintain that attitude,” said Henry. Bartholomew’s mouth set in a stubborn line. He said nothing. “Oh, all right. Play it your own way, but it’ll do no good in the end. Now, have you got the guest list of the reception?”
By the time he had concluded his talk with Inspector Bartholomew and walked back to Margaret’s house, Henry was feeling depressed. He carried in his pocket a summary of the interviews already conducted with Embassy staff by Bartholomew, and also a list containing over a hundred and fifty names. Since nearly all of these were “Mr. and Mrs.,” there must have been almost three hundred people at the Tampican reception, and any one of them might have been responsible for the death of Mavis Ironmonger.
Henry had, however, marked some names for personal interviews. These included Winston Nelson, Dorabella Hamilton, Bishop and Mrs. Barrington, Mr. and Mrs. Holder-Watts and Mr. and Mrs. Otis Schipmaker.
Margaret had given Henry a key to the little blue house, so that he could come and go as he wished. As he let himself into the narrow hallway, he was greeted by a wave of laughter from the drawing-room, and hesitated at the foot of the stairs. He could distinguish Emmy’s voice, and Margaret’s, but there was also a masculine voice taking part in the lively conversation. Margaret must have a visitor, and the last thing Henry wanted was to be dragged into a social occasion. However, there was no way of reaching the sanctuary of his bedroom except through the drawingroom. He decided that he would stay for the minimum time required by courtesy, and then escape to the upper floor. He climbed the stairs.
“Ah, Henry! There you are. You’ve got a visitor,” Margaret called as she heard his step on the stairs.
“I have?” Henry stopped, taken aback, then came up into the room.
Sitting on the big sofa flanked by Margaret and Emmy, was an elderly man with a shock of white hair and a lined face burnt brown as a chestnut. He wore an ancient and dilapidated suit. He rose to his feet as Henry approached, held out a gnarled but still beautiful hand, and said, “Chief Superintendent Tibbett, I presume? Forgive this intrusion, sir. I’m Doctor Duncan.” Before Henry could reply, he added, “Twice in a week. Wouldn’t have believed it. I’ve traveled in an aeroplane exactly three times in seventy years—and twice in four days! Don’t tell Eddie.”
Henry said, “I’m delighted to see you, sir. But I wasn’t expecting—”
“Of course you weren’t. Eddie has no idea I’m here, and in the ordinary way, nothing would have got me into that infernal machine again. But Sam told me you’d be here, and I thought I ought to come. How is Eddie?”
“Very unhappy,” said Henry.
“Of course.” Doctor Duncan turned to Margaret and Emmy. “Dear ladies, your delightful company has more than compensated for the discomfort of the journey from Tampica, but my time is short, and I must talk to the Chief Superintendent privately. If you would be so kind—?”
“Of course. We’ll go and get supper . . .” Margaret and Emmy disappeared downstairs in a flurry of laughter. Dr. Duncan watched them go, beaming. “Charming,” he said. “Enchanting. Both your wife and her friend. You are a very lucky man, sir.”
“I know it,” said Henry.
The doctor shook his head. “It’s a lottery,” he said. “Not everybody can win. I did.” He sat down again, and looked at Henry. “I think we should have a talk.”
8
Henry grinned at Dr. Duncan. “Where shall we start?” he said.
“Well, now,” said Duncan, “that’s always a problem, isn’t it? However, since you are a policeman, and accustomed to conducting interviews, why don’t you ask the first question? Like . . . why have you come here, Dr. Duncan?”
“That’s a good question,” said Henry, “but it wouldn’t be my first one.”
“It wouldn’t? Then what would?’’
<
br /> Henry said, “Why did you look for disulfirame in Lady Ironmonger’s body?”
There was a pause. Then Duncan shook his head with a wry smile, and said, “They told me you were a clever man.”
“I don’t think,” said Henry, “that it required any great brilliance to ask that question. I’m no pathologist, but I suppose I’m more knowledgeable about autopsies than the general public is. Most people seem to think that a post-mortem examination is some sort of magic process, like an X-ray, which will inevitably show up anything and everything that was wrong with the deceased. I know that nothing will be found unless it’s looked for. In a case of suspected poisoning, of course, tests will be made for every sort of toxin. But here, you had a bullet wound in the head—an obvious cause of death. Something must have made you look further, and I have a feeling that when you tell me what it was, you will also be telling me why you came here today.”
Duncan hesitated. Then he said, “I was on the lookout for a dose or overdose of some sort of drug because of inconsistencies in the story I was told.” As Henry seemed about to speak, he raised his hand in a silencing gesture. “Not inconsistencies of fact. Inconsistencies of character. You see, Mr. Tibbett, I know all these people very well. Known them all their lives. Except Mavis, of course, but I’ve known her ever since she came to Tampica as Eddie’s wife. I felt certain from the beginning that Mavis had been killed—by somebody who had an ingenious idea for committing an undetectable murder but who did not know her very well.”
“You are talking about Lady Ironmonger?”
“Yes. She was not the suicidal type.”
“And yet,” Henry said, “I understand that several people in what I might call the inner circle of the Embassy were convinced that she had killed herself, until you made your report.”
“Exactly.” The doctor took a gulp of his drink. “Winnie Nelson and Dorabella and Eleanor Holder-Watts. They all hated Mavis, and they all jumped at the suicide idea, for different reasons. Oh, I did quite a bit of nosing around and talking to people in my short stay here. All the reasons are wrong and the results of inflamed emotions.”
“Would you explain, Doctor?”
“Certainly. All this is in strict confidence, of course. Let’s take Dorabella first. She has been in love with Eddie for years. She hated and resented Mavis, and leapt at the idea that Mavis—for some extraordinary and undefined reason—planned a suicide during the reception in order to embarrass Eddie and wreck his career. This notion is patently idiotic and illogical, but then, so is love. Or so they tell me.”
He paused, then went on, “Winnie Nelson hated Mavis because he was, and is, fanatically devoted to Eddie. He knew that she deceived him—if that’s the word, although I don’t think Eddie was ever deceived—with a number of other men. He especially resented her liaison with Michael Holder-Watts, who is Winnie’s career rival, and who also stands for the old colonial order. I have also heard it rumored, Tibbett—and I must warn you that I am a great old rumor-hound—that Winnie was one of the very few men with whom Mavis refused to go to bed. He therefore found it very opportune to impute her suicide to Holder-Watts’s callous treatment of her. Illogical, again, but so is fanaticism.
“Eleanor’s is an altogether simpler case. She was violently jealous of Mavis’s affair with Michael, chiefly because she felt it humiliated her. Now, a suggestion of murder might bring the whole thing out into the light of a public inquiry, whereas a suicide not only removed her rival, but did so quietly. So, like Dorabella, she opted for the notion that Mavis had committed suicide out of spite and a desire to ‘get her own back.’ Also illogical, but so is jealousy. I realized at once that none of these stories was viable and that Mavis had probably been killed.”
“I still don’t get the disulfirame connection,” Henry said.
“I’m coming to that, young man. Be patient.” Dr. Duncan took another drink and mused a little. “Of course, Mavis was a pushover for murder. She was not, as far as I know, an alcoholic—but she liked to drink and she had a weak head for liquor. I think it was Ernest Hemingway who remarked rather bitchily that both Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald would pass out after even a moderate amount of alcohol—moderate by Hemingway’s standards, that is —in order to avoid a difficult situation. Mavis was very much like that. If someone had been feeding her vodka that evening, and she suddenly realized she was getting drunk, her instinctive defense mechanism would be to pass out. After which, it would be simple for her murderer to shoot her and stage a suicide. On this assumption, I expected the autopsy to show that she had drunk a considerable amount. To my surprise, there was very little alcohol. About the equivalent of one stiffish drink. And yet, I was told that she could barely stand when Eleanor got her upstairs.”
“You mean, she was pretending to be drunk?”
“That was a possible explanation, and would have reinforced the suicide theory—but I didn’t believe it.”
“You mean,” Henry said, “that Lady Ironmonger wouldn’t have committed suicide under any circumstances whatsoever?”
“I didn’t say that. I can imagine one such circumstance.”
“What would that be?”
“If she had been incurably ill, or was about to lose her beauty —or both. I almost hoped to find indications of cancer or some other fatal disease. But no. Mavis was perfectly healthy when she was shot. So, if her passing out was not faked, it must have been chemically induced by something other than alcohol. Naturally, disulfirame suggested itself. You know the stuff?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Henry said. “And naturally I boned up on it when I heard your report. I presumed that Lady Ironmonger was being treated for alcoholism, and that somebody who knew about it slipped some vodka into her fruit juice, knowing that it would have a drastic effect.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Duncan. “And now we are getting near the answer to the second question. Why I came all this way to talk to you.” He paused. “Eddie Ironmonger is almost like a son to me, Tibbett. It would break my heart to see his career smashed and his reputation shattered. Nevertheless, I have to tell you what I know. First of all, Eddie has emphatically denied to me that Mavis was having any such treatment.”
“He might not have known,” Henry pointed out.
“I suggested that. He at once replied that she had been in the habit of drinking her usual amount of alcohol during the last days of her life—which would have been impossible if she had been taking regular doses of disulfirame. It is also a sad but undeniable fact that, from the point of view of his career, Eddie is very much better off without Mavis.”
“This is all very interesting, Doctor,” Henry said, “but it still doesn’t explain why you made this journey to see me.”
“I’m coming to that. You know that Eddie sent for me, so that I could make an examination and take the body back to Tampica?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“The room where Mavis died was locked. Eddie himself had the key and let me in. He assured me that the room w?as sealed. As far as I know—and I admit I cannot be sure—nobody had been in there except Eddie himself, Michael Holder-Watts and the American doctor who certified death. I am an inquisitive old man, Tibbett. While I w?as in there alone, I not only examined the body. I also snooped in Mavis’s bathroom. And in the cabinet, I found a half-full bottle of a well-known brand of disulfirame tablets—Alcodym. It didn’t look as though anybody had tried to hide it—it was just standing there on the shelf. You will now understand why it was not difficult for me to decide to look for that particular drug in the body, and why I felt I must talk to you.”
“You mean that Sir Edward was lying?”
“That’s for you to decide, Tibbett. At least, you know the facts now. I would suggest you search the room as soon as possible. I didn’t touch the bottle of tablets. It will be interesting to see if it is still there.”
“And from this you infer—?”
Duncan stood up, slowly. “I infer nothing, young man. Th
at’s your job. I’ve told you what I came to tell you because I did not care to say it over the telephone. Also, I wanted to meet you. The futures of many of my friends are in your hands. I feel sure they are secure.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And now, if you would be kind enough to call me a cab, I shall return to the airport and board that dreadful machine once again. I hope that you will come to Tampica. I look forward to meeting you again.”
Dr. Duncan was still on the doorstep, taking obvious pleasure in kissing both Margaret and Emmy good-bye, when Henry contacted Inspector Bartholomew by telephone.
“The bedroom? Well, as a matter of fact, no, Chief Superintendent. Sir Edward has the key, and I was waiting until you . . . I was just packing up to go home . . . yes, in a hotel round the comer . . . I really don’t know, I think he’s going to some sort of a reception . . . yes, I think it would be best if you spoke to her . . .”
Dorabella was displeased. “It is six o’clock, Chief Superintendent,” she said, as tartly as her gentle Caribbean voice could manage. “Sir Edward is about to leave the Embassy. I really don’t think I can—”
At this moment, she was interrupted by Ironmonger’s deep voice. He must have been listening on another line. “Tibbett? What is it? You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes, Sir Edward. I wondered if it would be possible for me to examine Lady Ironmonger’s bedroom this evening.”
There was a tiny pause. Then Ironmonger said, “Of course, my dear fellow. No problem at all. I have the key—I intended to give it to you this afternoon, but I’m afraid it slipped my mind. Can you come over at once? I have to leave in a few minutes, but I would like to hand the key over to you personally. You understand?”
“Perfectly, Sir Edward.”
Edward Ironmonger was waiting in the hallway of the Embassy when Henry arrived. He made an impressive figure in evening dress with decorations—which included several colorful ribbons bestowed by the new-born state of Tampica, as well as several more restrained and more highly prized honors from the United Kingdom.
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