Murder at the Open

by Angus MacVicar

  The plainclothes-man hovered behind the bench, unusually upset for one of his profession. He kept on asking if she could speak, repeating that it was of the utmost importance he should get a statement from her.

  The elderly man had a spare figure neatly clad in a grey tweed suit. His hair was iron-grey, matching the colour of his small, severely trimmed moustache. Exchanging a glance with his stoutly comfortable wife, he straightened up.

  “Boy!” he rapped out to the young fisherman. “Run! Run for an ambulance and ring the hospital. Tell them it’s a poisoning case. Matter of life and death.”

  “Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” With obvious relief, he dropped his rod and sprinted away — away from this scene of ugliness and doubt and pain.

  The plainclothes-man said, “Poisoned”

  “I am a doctor. Retired from the Army. My wife and I are here on holiday — for the Open. The symptoms of poisoning are unmistakable, though of course I’m not an expert and can make no suggestion as to the particular poison involved. She is easier now, but violent pain will recur at intervals.”

  My voice came out, like the voice of a ghost. “Is there any hope for her?”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is that immediate treatment in hospital is imperative.”

  The trees and the burn and the high bank were spinning about in my head, making a howling noise like the noise of the wind in the wood. Aidan caught my arm, gripping it tightly to steady me.

  The plainclothes-man said: “I want to question her. The point is”

  “Impossible at this stage.” The authority of the Army was sharp, decisive. “Later on, perhaps, if the treatment is successful. Just now she is — very ill indeed.”

  We stood in a small silent circle. Cradled in the arms of the doctor’s wife, Debbie was breathing in painful gusts.

  Her colour was ghastly. The whites of her eyes showed through half-closed lids. I wanted to be sick.

  Then, very quietly, Aidan began to talk. He explained to the doctor and his wife who Debbie was — who we all were. The doctor introduced himself and his wife more fully. Their name was Ladbrooke, it seemed. He’d just retired from the R.A.M.C. with the rank of Colonel. They lived in Surrey. In Chipstead.

  Debbie stirred and groaned, and I was terrified she was going to scream again.

  Then we heard the ambulance approaching, its bell stridently loud. The last time I’d heard that sound was when they’d come for her uncle’s body — early on Sunday morning. I felt I’d aged a lot since then.

  5. Thursday

  At ten minutes past midnight a call came from the hospital.

  It was put through by the plainclothes-man who’d accompanied Debbie in the ambulance and had remained at the hospital continuously since her admission. I knew his name now. It was Donald Smith.

  Big Sam took the call in the phone-box in the hall. A few minutes later he rejoined us in the upstairs lounge.

  His stout, well-nourished face was showing signs of strain. The big voice had become higher pitched, more liable to timbres of doubt. He was tired. You could see that. But then so were we all, with the possible exception of Aidan, who seemed to live on plentiful reserves of nervous energy.

  In the room, besides Aidan and myself, were Erica Garson, Bill Ferguson and Cliff O’Donnel. For the past two hours we’d been smoking and drinking and waiting — waiting for the news which Big Sam now brought us.

  “Smith reckons the doctors have saved her.” He slumped down in an armchair, and in a sibilance of relieved sighs mine may have been the loudest.

  Cliff O’Donnel said, “Thank God!”

  Erica Garson covered her face with her hands, as if to hide a womanly weakness of tears.

  Bill Ferguson’s eyes were bright. “May I go and see her?”

  “No!” Big Sam was still the Inspector, very much in charge. “No one may see her. Not at this stage. The treatment was — well, fairly drastic. Now she’s under sedation, and Smith has been told she won’t be in a condition to talk until tomorrow morning. If then.”

  He paused. No one seemed inclined to comment.

  He went on: “It was touch and go, apparently. Had she not been taken to hospital at once, she’d have died within a matter of hours.”

  After a time, as if merely for the sake of breaking the silence, Bill put in: “She’s said nothing then? I mean — ”

  “Nothing at all,” replied Big Sam. “And even if she does say anything, I doubt if it will throw much light on how the poison was administered.”

  Erica Garson looked up, her body taut as a sprinter’s on the mark. “Are you ruling out the possibility of it being … ” She hesitated.

  “Self-administered?” supplied Aidan, taking off his glasses and hooding his eyes like a chameleon.

  “Well, yes. After what happened this afternoon — ”

  “Rubbish!” he said, donning his glasses again to stare at her.

  I saw a flush spreading quickly across her white, drawn face. She wasn’t as accustomed to his manner as I was.

  The Inspector intervened, cumbrously logical. “From what Mr MacVicar has told us,” he said, “it’s almost certain she’d no idea she’d been poisoned. She imagined the onset of pain to be a kind of physical reaction, symptomatic of the breakdown of mental barriers.”

  Aidan nodded. “A well-taken point, Inspector. Completely valid, in my opinion.”

  The secretary glanced at him, without affection.

  In a voice that was hurt and tense, matching the look in his eyes as they searched my face, O’Donnel said, “Mr MacVicar, was there any clue in what she said — any clue at all to this — this killer?”

  I shook my head. “She was just beginning to tell me about something that happened seven or eight years ago, when suddenly — well — ”

  “And what was that? What had happened?”

  “I don’t know. She was talking obliquely — about a girl and a man. The girl was herself, I think. But I’m not even sure about that. As for the man, she just mentioned ‘a man’ — that’s all.”

  “God, if I knew who it was!” The chauffeur’s hands bunched on his knees, eyes blazing in a haggard face. “I saw her grow up,” he went on, his voice softening. “First a schoolgirl, laughing and — and pretty wild. Then a young lady, showing us her new frock for the college party. Finally a lovely woman, like — like — well, you all know her, I guess. Who could have hated her so much? If only somebody would tell me.”

  “Don’t you think we all feel exactly as you do!” Bill’s interruption was harsh. “Why labour the point?”

  A spark of dislike passed between them; but it died before kindling into flame.

  Erica Garson spoke, quietly. “What else did your detective say?”

  Big Sam frowned. “Smith will remain on duty at the hospital until he’s relieved,” he announced, indirectly. “As soon as Miss Lingstrom is fit to talk, the matron has promised to let him know, and my instructions are to question her gently about anything she may have eaten or drunk in the course of the evening — anything that may have tasted queer. As I said, however, I don’t expect much to come of this. Meantime, we are waiting to hear what kind of poison was used. So far, the doctors are puzzled. But they suspect strychnine.”

  “Strychnine! Good grief — ”

  “One moment, Mr Ferguson.” The Inspector raised his hand. “I know what you mean to infer. If strychnine was used, then it ought to be easily traced to the purchaser. I agree with you. I’m inclined to think that this time the murderer has made a serious error. And if Miss Lingstrom recovers and Mr MacVicar can persuade her to continue her story where she left off — well, our case ought then to be almost complete.”

  “I wonder?” remarked Aidan, thoughtfully.

  *

  And next morning the case was as far from a courtworthy solution as ever.

  The day began with a long message from the police in New York.

  Firstly, their inquiries as to Conrad Lingstrom’s connection with the Joh
n Rich Society had come to nothing. Erica Garson’s explanation of the tattoo-mark on his upper left arm was, therefore, probably true.

  Secondly, they had discovered a few bare facts about Erica Garson’s background. Her father had been a District Attorney in Manhattan, a reasonably wealthy man. He had now retired and was living with his wife in Long Island. But his wife, it appeared, wasn’t Erica’s mother. There had been a divorce some ten years before, about the time Erica had won the Ladies’ Championship and become Lingstrom’s personal secretary. Since then she had cut herself off from her father and step-mother. As Aidan said, it was a story which explained a lot in her character.

  Thirdly, the secretary’s statement that she and Debbie would share Lingstrom’s fortune equally had been checked with the family lawyer and found to be correct. On his arrival in Scotland on Friday morning, the lawyer would produce the will in confirmation.

  One detail in the message sounded to me off-beat and irrelevant. This was a note to the effect that during Bill Ferguson’s last visit to the Lingstroms in New York a burglary at the house had been reported to the police. A diamond brooch belonging to Debbie had gone missing from her uncle’s safe. Despite a thorough investigation, which officially was still going on, it had never been recovered.

  But Aidan was interested.

  Munching a soft St Andrews roll liberally spread with butter and marmalade, he said, “It could fit in, don’t you think?”

  The Inspector finished his breakfast coffee, lit a cigarette and glowered round the well-filled dining-room. “Ay, there’s plenty that seems to fit. But where’s our proof? Where’s the hard evidence that will stand up in a court of law?”

  “‘Ay, there’s the rub!’ But cheer up, Inspector. Remember those other lines in Hamlet: ‘For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ.’”

  “To hell with Hamlet!” said Big Sam.

  Aidan laughed.

  I said: “What’s going on behind all this erudite repartee? Have you worked out some kind of theory?”

  “I haven’t,” said the Inspector, grimly.

  Aidan’s laugh became a superior smile. He said nothing at all.

  Sergeant McCrimmon came in, looking fresh after a night off duty. “Smith reports Miss Lingstrom is still asleep. But the matron says her general condition has improved. Seems she’s going to pull through all right.”

  “Good!” Some of Big Sam’s natural vigour was restored. “Any official griff about the poison?”

  “Not what you’d call official — or final. They’re doing lab tests this morning. But Smith was talking to one of the young doctors and he’s pretty certain strychnine comes into it, though a few of the symptoms point to other types of poisons.”

  “H’m. A compound, maybe.”

  “We”ll get the lab report, sir, just as soon as it comes in.”

  “I should hope so, McCrimmon! Meantime, we shan’t let the grass grow under our feet. Are you all set to talk to the chemists?”

  “Yes, sir. As soon as they open up.”

  “Get cracking, then. Oh, and McCrimmon.”

  “Sir?”

  “Have Smith relieved at once. He’s had a long night.”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll send Blackstock.”

  “And keep the press at bay. Throw them a bone — the message from New York.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir. So far I think I have headed them off fairly well.”

  “Of course you have! Don’t start getting huffy, man!”

  As the sergeant went out, he almost cannoned into Bill Ferguson at the door. Warily they said ‘Good morning’ to each other.

  Bill came and sat with us and ordered a cup of coffee.

  “No breakfast, sir?” The waitress was surprised.

  “I told you — just coffee!”

  He was edgy. I don’t think he’d slept much. His shaving hadn’t been successful, either. Little islands of black stubble blotched his narrow chin.

  “I phoned the hospital,” he said. “Debbie hasn’t come round yet.” He looked as if he were afraid we might have later, less comforting news.

  Big Sam nodded. “Sergeant McCrimmon has just told us. But she’s holding her own. In fact, her condition seems to have improved.”

  The coffee came. Bill took a scalding gulp, coughed and lit a cigarette. There was a considerable silence.

  Suddenly he glared at us. “What the hell are you all doing — sitting here? Can’t you find this man — this mur — ”

  “Hold your horses, Bill.” Aidan was smoother than cream. “We”ll find him. Soon now.”

  “You said that before. But Debbie almost died. She may still die — someone else may die”

  “Not if I can help it!” Angrily pugnacious, Big Sam thrust his body forward against the table. “And if you don’t mind, Mr Ferguson, let’s cut out the dramatics. They get us nowhere.”

  “Nothing gets us anywhere — that’s the trouble.”

  “If Miss Lingstrom had been frank with us at the beginning, none of this would have happened. If you’re looking for someone to blame, what about yourself? You failed to get her to talk, just like the rest of us.”

  “Look, Bill,” said Aidan, pacifically, “everything is being done that possibly can be done. Meanwhile,” he added, “there’s a certain question I’d like to ask you.”

  “Yes?” He was suddenly alert.

  “Last time you were in New York, staying with the Lingstroms, I understand there was a burglary?”

  “That’s right.” Surprise ousted some of the bitterness. “Conrad Lingstrom gave Debbie a diamond brooch for her twenty-first birthday. It disappeared from the safe. But how did you know?”

  “Inspector McLintock requested information from the New York police, which was readily forthcoming. A great deal more is being done to try and solve this case than you seem to realise.” Aidan was at his most pompous. “But that aside,” he went on, “do you know if anybody in particular was suspected of stealing the brooch?”

  “No. Far from it.” The reply was quick and frank. “Conrad Lingstrom was shocked, of course, that his safe could so easily be opened and robbed — and in fact he had a new combination lock fitted at once. But I remember him saying how puzzled he was by the whole affair. The police questioned everybody — Lingstrom himself, Debbie, Miss Garson, O’Donnel, the whole staff — but nothing came of it.”

  “None of the staff was suspected at the time?”

  “On the contrary. Debbie told me the police were convinced of their innocence. But look here, Professor” — the edginess returned — “what has the theft of a diamond brooch in New York got to do with a murder and an attempted murder in St Andrews?”

  “Possibly nothing.” Aidan shrugged. “Probably everything.”

  “Quite so,” said Big Sam, weightily.

  I saw Bill flinch.

  *

  Aidan and I met O’Donnel on the stairs, coming down from his attic room to a late breakfast with the kitchen staff.

  We told him the encouraging news about Debbie. “Great!” he said, with an unsteady smile which conveyed to me his loyalty to Debbie and his affection for her. “Have they found out anything?”

  “Nothing at all,” Aidan said. “But the police are on the ball. They’ll trace the poison to its source all right.”

  “I hope so. Poor little Debbie.” There were tears in his eyes.

  He started to move past us downstairs, but Aidan stopped him. “You remember the burglary from Mr Lingstrom’s safe? The diamond brooch.”

  “Why, sure. That was a real mystery, I guess.”

  “From your knowledge of the household, can you tell me if anyone other than Mr Lingstrom knew about the safe — about the combination which opened it?”

  His expression became wooden. “Sorry, sir — I can’t tell you that for sure. But I did see Miss Garson open it once, when the boss asked her to.”

  “What were the circumstances?”

  “Well, she was goi
ng on a quick sales tour to Florida and wanted some ready money. I was there, waiting to drive her to the airport.”

  “I see. Miss Lingstrom would also know about the combination, I take it?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. But surely?”

  “I know. She wouldn’t be likely to steal her own brooch, would she! However, think it over, O’Donnel. If anything occurs to you about that burglary, let us know. Anything out of tune, shall we say?”

  He nodded and left us, the woodenness in his face fighting a losing battle with anxiety.

  Later in the morning, Aidan made a point of speaking to Erica Garson in the lounge. She was surprised by his reference to the burglary. Surprised and — to my suddenly suspicious eye — disturbed and even alarmed.

  “Yes, I knew the combination. I’d known it for at least two years, ever since the safe was installed. Are you suggesting — ”

  “I’m suggesting nothing, Miss Garson. It’s simply that my mind ‘flits like a butterfly from flower to flower’. I may say that the New York police are completely satisfied that you — and everyone else in Mr Lingstrom’s employ — had nothing whatever to do with the — with the disappearance of the brooch.”

  “I’m glad about that,” she said, unable to disguise a satirical undertone. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”

  He smiled, making a play with charm. “I can’t explain. Instinct, perhaps. A still small voice that warns me of a hidden clue.”

  “What possible clue?”

  “Let’s put it this way. The safe, I gather, wasn’t actually broken into. You agree?”

  “Yes.” The tentative alarm in her eyes suddenly burgeoned.

  “And as far as you know, only Mr Lingstrom, his niece and yourself knew the combination?”

  “I don’t think Debbie knew it.” She spoke quickly, leaning forward with a spread of her strong hands. “In fact, I’m sure she didn’t. When she wanted the brooch she always asked either her uncle or myself to get it for her.”

  “Ah, well, there you have it. What I’m driving at is this. If the safe wasn’t broken into, the logical inference is that it was opened by somebody who knew the combination. Now, only Mr Lingstrom and yourself knew it, and you have been exonerated by the police, so the logical conclusion is — ”