Puzzle of the Silver Persian

by Stuart Palmer

  “I’m afraid that no one can do anything,” Miss Withers told her. They were at the fifth floor and hurrying down the hall. At Candida’s door Miss Withers burst in without hesitating.

  A tremendous surge of relief came over her as she saw that Candida Noring was sitting in a big chair which faced the fireplace, staring at the coals, and that from beside her a trail of blue smoke still rose toward the ceiling.

  “Excuse me—” she started to say. Then she sniffed and ran forward.

  “Candida!”

  But Candida Noring did not answer. Her head was bent forward at an almost impossible angle, and the smoke at her side arose from a smouldering circle where her cigarette had burned its way down into the arm of the chair.

  “She’s asleep!” hazarded the Honorable Emily. But Miss Withers caught the girl by the shoulders. Her head rolled to one side horribly, and then, in spite of everything that the school teacher could do, Candida Noring slid from her chair in an untidy tumble of bare thighs and crumpled bathrobe and lay woodenly on the floor.

  Chapter VIII

  The Doctor’s Stirrup-Cup

  INSTINCTIVELY THE HONORABLE EMILY turned to Miss Withers for guidance. “What must we do? Police?” Her eyeglass slipped, and she caught it in midair.

  “Of course. But—wait a moment.” The school teacher knelt by the body, and it was limp and warm to her touch. She deftly pulled back one eyelid and then pressed her fingers to the temple.

  Her voice was incredulous. “Quick—she’s not gone yet! Help me get her on the bed!”

  They managed it, not without difficulty, for Candida Noring was heavier than she appeared to be. Miss Withers searched her memory for information she had read regarding poisons. Then she ran to the dressing table. “If I only had some sal ammoniac!” She saw nothing but a trumpery japanned powder box.

  The Honorable Emily tore open her handbag. “I always carry smelling salts,” she said. “To sniff when I have my heart seizures.”

  Miss Withers was already wringing out a washcloth beneath the water bottle. She applied it vigorously over Candida’s face and the back of her neck. Then she snatched the smelling salts from the trembling fingers of the distrait Englishwoman and held the little bottle under Candida’s nose.

  There was a faint widening of the nostrils and a movement of the head. “Run for a doctor,” Miss Withers ordered. “And the police as well. Scoot, now!”

  The Honorable Emily scooted. Almost immediately she was back, hustling along an elderly gentleman with sideburns. He introduced himself as Dr. Gareth, resident physician of the hotel. “What’s the trouble here?”

  “Trouble enough,” Miss Withers snapped at him. “Inhalation of prussic acid, I think.”

  Dr. Gareth sniffed. “Right you are. Room’s full of it. Open the window, somebody.”

  He busied himself with his kit, and Candida moaned and tried to sit up. “I’m all right,” she said weakly. “It was—only the cigarette. It was too strong.”

  “Lie down and drink this,” he said. Candida coughed at the taste of the neat spirits, but they gave her a new flood of strength.

  The doctor bent and listened at her breast. “Heart is satisfactory—breathing nearly normal. You must have got a very light touch of it, young woman. We shall have to give you a hot-water bottle for your feet.”

  “I’ll get the maid,” Miss Withers offered. Then she saw that, luckily, the maid stood in the doorway, where a uniformed police constable was barring her path.

  “I only came to turn down the bed for the night…” the woman began. Under her arm was a rubber bottle filled with hot water, and Miss Withers seized it. “You can’t go out, ma’am,” the constable told her. “Nobody but the doctor leaves or enters this room until the chief gets here!”

  Miss Withers didn’t want to get out. She looked inquiringly at the Honorable Emily.

  “I asked at the Yard for Chief Inspector Cannon,” said that lady. “He lives close by, in Kensington, and he’s on his way.”

  “Splendid,” said Miss Withers.

  “But I don’t understand!” Candida was protesting in a rather weak voice. “I just sat down to have a cigarette before I went to bed, and then all of a sudden everything went black…”

  The doctor nodded. “I’ll just have a look at that cigarette.” He went over to the chair before the fire and stared for a long time at the burned hole in its upholstery. He could see nothing but charred cloth and gray ash.

  Then he crossed over to where the ebony gift box was lying on the dresser. He sniffed again. “Um,” he said. “Brand-new—and only two cigarettes missing.” He closed the box, and placed it under his arm. “I’ll just take charge of this,” he said.

  Candida protested weakly. “But—there can’t be anything wrong with it—a friend sent it to me.”

  Miss Withers made frantic signals to her, but Candida did not see. “And just who was your friend?” inquired Dr. Gareth casually.

  “Why—Leslie Reverson—that woman’s nephew.” Candida pointed at the Honorable Emily. “A messenger brought it up at just about dinner time. Leslie’s card was in it.”

  Candida subsided on her pillow. The two older women looked at each other, while the doctor measured a few drops of reddish liquor into a glass of water. “Take this when you wake up,” he advised Candida. “You’ve had a very narrow escape—you’re a lucky young woman.”

  “Thanks to you,” said Candida, looking toward Miss Withers. “If you hadn’t come back…”

  “But I did come back,” the school teacher announced cheerfully.

  “I’m terribly grateful, at any rate. You—you seem to know everything.”

  Miss Withers smiled grimly. “I don’t—but I intend to.”

  There was an interruption. Chief Inspector Cannon, with his tie under one ear and his spats half buttoned, came into the room. “Who knows everything about what?”

  Dr. Gareth gave the detective a résumé of the situation. “Light case of prussic acid poisoning,” he said. “No danger now—I’ll arrange for a maid to sit in her room for a few hours.” He handed over the box of cigarettes.

  “This is a new one,” decided Cannon. “I never heard of poison administered in a cigarette before.”

  “Cyanide in any form is a pretty mean thing,” declared the doctor. “I must rush along now—but I’ll look in again during the night. I’ll leave it to you, inspector. And I hope that you’ll be able to keep the name of the hotel out of the papers.”

  “I’ll keep the whole thing out of the papers if I can,” promised Cannon. He was engrossed in the box of cigarettes. “Easy to trace,” he announced softly. “Dipped in poison and then dried, eh?” He sniffed and made a wry face.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Miss Withers put in, advancing from the corner where she had remained with the Honorable Emily, “I don’t think the cigarettes were dipped in poison. And if you value your health I advise you not to get your nose so close to them.”

  “Eh?” The inspector recognized her with a start. “You here again?”

  His tone lacked geniality. “Yes, I’m here again. And a lucky thing that I came at the right moment,” Miss Withers retorted. “I’ve just been making a little experiment.”

  She showed him one of the perfumed, silk-tipped cigarettes, which she had snapped in the middle. A little cascade of white powder fell to the floor, and Cannon gasped. “Loaded, eh? Tobacco drawn out, and then replaced. Why, this is a new exhibit for the Black Museum.”

  The room smelled more strongly of bitter almonds. “Don’t you think we’d better continue our conversation somewhere else?” Miss Withers gestured at the girl on the bed.

  “Don’t mind me,” Candida told them. “I’m all right now.” But Cannon nodded, and ushered the two women toward the hall. The Honorable Emily put her hand on Miss Withers’ arm, when the Yard man stepped back into the room for a moment.

  “You don’t think Leslie—”

  “I do not,” said Miss Withers comforting
ly. But she was frowning.

  Cannon joined them in a moment, replacing a small white envelope in his pocket. “Scrapings from the burned chair,” he enlightened them. He produced his notebook. “And now, if you ladies will give me your statements—”

  The maid who was sent to sit with Candida arrived and entered the room. “Suppose we go down the hall to my room,” suggested Miss Withers. “I’ll tell you all I know.”

  She told him—not all, but enough. “I suppose that you know about the anonymous letter Candida received?”

  “Just like Todd’s? Yes, Secker sent me a memorandum. We work together at the Yard. It looks like a nasty bit of business.” Cannon turned to the Honorable Emily. “Where is this precious nephew of yours?”

  “My nephew will be on hand when he is wanted,” said the Honorable Emily stiffly. “I give you my word—and since you seem ignorant of the fact, let me inform you that I am the daughter of the late Earl of Trevanna.”

  Cannon was polite but not too impressed. He had seen earls and earls—one or two of them had come under his official scrutiny.

  “I doubt very much if the boy would be foolish enough to enclose his card in a poison package—even if for any reason he desired to put an end to a young lady whom he admires very much,” Miss Withers suggested.

  “Oh, yes,” said the Yard man. “The card—where is it?” He opened the ebony box and searched diligently. “It wasn’t on the dresser, either…”

  He faced Miss Withers. “Did you pocket that, too?”

  She said nothing, but stared at the Honorable Emily. That lady flushed. “I don’t suppose you would care to have me searched?”

  “Hand it to him,” said Miss Withers kindly. “You’re not doing Leslie any good by keeping it.”

  “How did you know?” gasped the Honorable Emily. But—she produced the card. Cannon took it gravely.

  “Leslie Pendavid Reverson,” he read aloud.

  “You have our statements,” Miss Withers told him. “Wouldn’t it be fair of you to ask young Reverson about this, instead of beating around the bush?”

  “Yes,” put in the Englishwoman, arising. “I’ll go and fetch him.”

  But the inspector halted her. “Where’s his room?” he demanded. “I’ll have the constable go, if you don’t mind.”

  Leslie arrived, in dressing gown and slippers. He was too bewildered to say anything more than, “Oh, I say!”

  “Did you send a package to Miss Noring today?” demanded Cannon.

  “A package? No, of course not. Why—yes, but it wasn’t a package. I sent her some chrysanthemums by a page, just before dinner.”

  “Chrysanthemums, eh? Well, she never got any chrysanthemums. Was your card attached?”

  “Why, yes. Yes, of course. I met the boy a few minutes afterward and asked him what she said when she got them.” Leslie was blushing furiously. “He said that nobody was in the room but that he’d put them on the dresser.”

  “She was out—to buy buns and milk,” said Miss Withers softly.

  “It’s a good story,” Cannon told him. “We’ll soon see if it’ll wash.” He put down his notebook and produced the ebony box. “Ever see this before?”

  Leslie shook his head.

  Cannon nodded. He opened the box and extended it. “Care to have a smoke?”

  “Don’t care if I do.” Then Leslie drew back his hand. “I don’t care much for that kind,” he said. “Too sweet.”

  “Much too sweet,” agreed Cannon. He put the ebony box away again. “That’ll do for you. But mind, you’re not to leave town.”

  Leslie Reverson grinned at his aunt. “I’m doing my best not to,” he said. Then suddenly the smile was wiped from his face. “Oh, I say! Nothing’s wrong with Candy, I mean Miss Noring, is it?”

  “Nothing serious,” he was told. “She’ll be all right in the morning. But somebody made a jolly good effort to put her to sleep everlasting. Any idea who might have done it?”

  Leslie Reverson looked as if he hadn’t an idea in his head. “That’ll do,” said Cannon impatiently. “Come on downstairs and point out that page boy to me. If he bears out your story, that’ll give us something to work from.”

  Miss Withers and the Honorable Emily were alone. “Don’t look so worried,” said the school teacher.

  The Honorable Emily tried to smile. “But Leslie is such an odd boy sometimes,” she said. “That’s why I was pleased to see him interested in Candida Noring, she seems so sensible. You don’t suppose he would possibly be capable of—”

  “He’s not the masked marvel who’s behind all this monkey business,” said Miss Withers absently. “At least, I don’t see how he could be.” She began to stride up and down the room. “No, the Leslie Reverson I’ve seen isn’t the type to carry on in such a dime-novel fashion. But it’s all such a puzzle…”

  “I feel considerably more confident with you around,” confessed the Englishwoman. “The police are at such a loss, and you seem to take hold of things.”

  “To use an American expression, I’m afraid I’ve bitten off more than I can chew,” Miss Withers admitted. “As you may have guessed, I’ve had experience with homicide before. Wherever I go I seem to run into it.”

  She wanted this woman’s confidence and on an impulse went over to her suitcase and drew out a silver badge. “I’m not just a snoop,” she explained. “I was given this some time ago—by the New York police. It’s purely honorary, of course.”

  The Honorable Emily leaned back in her chair. “Tell me!” she begged. And for more than an hour she listened, engrossed, while Miss Withers recounted some of her adventures. “And so they hung both of them at San Quentin,” she finished. “I’m afraid it isn’t a very pleasant bed-time story.”

  “You’ve given me something to think about,” said the Honorable Emily, and hurried off to bed.

  Miss Withers slept, and was awakened shortly before noon by a crash of her door against the chair which she had placed as a barrier. She rose sleepily and found the maid standing outside.

  “Excuse me, mum—”

  “Never mind. It’s high time I was up. Send a waiter with some breakfast, will you? I’m starved.” Miss Withers had a sudden doubt. “I don’t suppose I’ve slept two nights and a day, have I?”

  “This is Thursday, mum.”

  “Then it’s all right. By the way, how is the young lady down the hall? The one in 505?”

  “Her that was sick last night? She’s peaked, mum. But she ate a good breakfast. The perlice was up to see her, and just a few minutes ago I saw her going downstairs with a young man.”

  “A young man? A policeman?”

  The maid was loquacious. “No, mum. The handsome young man down on the third floor.”

  Miss Withers heaved a sigh of relief. “All right, you can go. And tell the waiter I want two eggs this morning.”

  She had finished the eggs when she had another caller. Sergeant Secker knocked on her door.

  “Good-morning,” she greeted him. “Going to accept me as a consultant?”

  He declined a cup of tea. “As a matter of fact, I came on such an errand. You can help us, if you will. I’m not giving away any secrets when I tell you that we’ve traced that box of cigarettes.”

  Miss Withers had not expected this. “You know who packed it with poison?”

  “Well, not exactly. Our laboratory expert, Sir Leonard Tilton, had a look at it this morning and found that only a dozen or so of the topmost cigarettes were doped. The prettiest ones, as a matter of fact. And he’s still trying to figure out just what the effect would have been if the girl had finished smoking one. He never ran up against cyanide used as incense before.”

  “Yes,” urged Miss Withers. “But who sent it?”

  “That’s what I’m here to ask you,” said the sergeant brightly. “You see, the box was sold by the main store of the manufacturer, Empey’s, of the Strand. It was ordered by telephone and sent C.O.D. to a Mrs. Charles at the Norwich Hotel. That is a li
ttle lodging-house place, full of transients, on an alley off Charing Cross. Mrs. Charles only booked her room for a few hours, it seems. All the record they had of her—she hadn’t even registered, unfortunately—was that she wore a gray fur coat.”

  Miss Withers dropped her teacup. “A what?”

  “Not a what. A gray fur coat. The people who run the place have their own reasons for not being too friendly with us at the Yard.”

  Miss Withers was staring at the wall. After a moment she said, “Did they mention a long blue silk scarf?”

  “They didn’t mention anything,” said Secker. “We dragged it out of them. No, I heard nothing of a scarf.” The sergeant cocked his head. “I came over to ask if you knew any woman connected with this case who has such a coat?”

  Miss Withers shook her head absently, more at herself than in answer to his question. “Tell me,” she demanded. “Did you have sense enough to search the room of this mysterious Mrs. Charles?”

  The sergeant nodded. “The room was without personality,” he said. “Just a bed and a chair and a bureau. One of those gas heaters that you put a shilling in, you know.”

  “But there was nothing? Not even a pin or a scrap of paper?”

  The sergeant fished in his pocket and brought out a racing form, two lottery tickets, and finally an envelope. “Only this scrap of paper,” he said. “It was with some ashes underneath the gas heater.”

  Miss Withers saw, as she had feared to see, a tiny bit of charred paper, paper of a cream color and bearing a faint blue rule across it.

  “I see,” she said. But she most emphatically did not see.

  “I’ll be running along,” said the sergeant. “Oh, by the way. No need to worry over young Reverson. His story about the chrysanthemums seems to be truthful. The florist remembered him, and so did the page boy. Somebody must have thrown away his flowers and stuck his card in the poisoned cigarettes.”

  “As simply as that, eh? So the chief inspector has it all figured out.”

  Sergeant Secker looked at her. “Don’t you underestimate old Cannon,” he said. “He’s a real bloodhound. And you know, he’s been handed over this whole affair to sort out—Noel, Todd, and the attempt on Candida Noring’s life. Me, I’m still stuck with the Fraser suicide, and messenger-boy errands in between. Which reminds me that I’d better get back to my sleuthing for a lady in a gray fur coat.”