I looked round quickly and saw two men, each grasping the other by the hair and both yelling like Bedlamites, one accusing the other—in Italian—of being a cheat and the other retorting—in French—that his accuser was a liar. A table and two chairs had been capsized, and very soon, as the combatants gyrated wildly and clawed at each other, more tables were capsized. Then the occupants of those tables joined in the fray with suitable vocal accompaniments and in a moment pandemonium reigned in the previously quiet room. As Foucault and his two friends sprang up and charged into the midst of the mêlée, the door burst open and Cassidy rushed in like an angry bull.
“We’d better clear out of this,” said Gillum. “If they keep up this hullabaloo they’ll bring the police up.” As I agreed heartily, he grabbed up his winnings (but I observed that there were now only two ten-shilling notes) and we retrieved our hats from under the chairs and stole out as well as we could through the little crowd of spectators from the restaurant-room who had gathered round the door to look on at the battle. With the aid of my pocket lamp we made the perilous passage of the stairs—not forgetting the loose tread—and at last emerged safely into the street.
“My word!” exclaimed Gillum, as we crossed the road the more completely to sever our connection with the club, “how those dagoes do yell when they have a bit of a scrap. Just listen to them.”
There was not much need to listen for the uproar was such that windows were opening and various night-birds were appearing from the doors of adjacent houses. Evidently, it was desirable for us to get out of the neighbourhood as quickly as possible; which we did, walking briskly but with no outward sign of undue hurry until we were safely out in Wardour Street, where we turned to the left and headed for Leicester square. Here we had the good fortune to encounter prowling, nocturnal taxi, the driver of which Gillum hailed by voice and gesture. As the vehicle drew up to the kerb he turned to me and asked: “Whereabouts do you hang out, Mortimer?”
“I live at Highbury,” I replied.
“Yes, but that’s a trifle vague. What’s the exact address?” I gave him my full postal address which he communicated to the driver. “And,” he added, “you can drop me at Clifford’s Inn Passage, opposite the Inner Temple Gate. Will that do for the whole journey?
“That” appeared to be a ten-shilling note and the driver replied that “it would do very well, thank you, sir,” whereupon we got in and the cab trundled away towards the Strand. I made some ineffectual efforts to refund my share of the payment, but Gillum declared that the calculation was beyond his arithmetic and suggested that we should work it out on some more suitable occasion. We were still arguing the point when the cab stopped in the shadow of St. Dunstan’s Church and Gillum got out.
“Well, good night, Mortimer,” said he, “or good morning, to be more exact. I hope you have had a pleasant and instructive evening. You have certainly had a full one what with corpses, illegal gambling, and the battle of the dagoes.”
He shut the door and waved his hand, and the taxi resumed its journey, turning up Fetter Lane and later heading for Gray’s Inn Road. Now that I was alone, I felt a strong disposition to go to sleep; but by an effort I managed to keep awake and watch the familiar landmarks as they slipped by until, in a surprisingly short time, the taxi drew up at the gate of the eligible suburban residence which enshrined the two rooms that served me as a home. The driver actually got out to open the door for me—possibly suspecting some temporary disability, or perhaps as a demonstration of his satisfaction with the fare. At any rate, he gave me a cheerful “good night” and I inserted my latch-key with ease and precision as the clock of a neighbouring church was striking two.
CHAPTER IV
Abel Webb, Deceased
The events of the evening which I had spent with Gillum gave me a good deal to think about. There was no longer any mystery as to what he did with the large sums that he drew from the bank. He just gambled them away. As to how much it was possible for an inveterate gambler like Gillum to drop in any one transaction, I could form no guess. Apparently there was no limit excepting the total amount that the gambler possessed. I had heard and read of players who had lost thousands in a single game, but it had always seemed to me incredible. Now, however, judging by what I had seen, and still more by what Gillum had said, I felt that nothing could overstate the monstrous truth.
The reflection was a sad and depressing one. It made me quite unhappy. For Gillum was no longer a mere customer. He had become an acquaintance, almost a friend, and I had found him a pleasant, likeable man, and apparently a man of good intelligence apart from his insane hobby. It really distressed me to think of a man with his brilliant opportunities frittering away the means of achievement in this puerile sport. And then, what of the future? If his source of supply was a permanent one he might go on indefinitely, simply flinging away his income as fast as he received it. But suppose it were not a stable, continuing income. Suppose it should dwindle or cease? What then? It was pretty certain that this relatively wealthy man would very soon be reduced to actual poverty.
But the mystery of Gillum’s expenditure was not completely solved. Apart from the big drafts in cash at irregular intervals there were those regular, periodic drafts which I had regarded with such suspicion. Had our evening’s experiences thrown any light on them? I could not say positively that they had. And yet there was at least a suggestion. The whole atmosphere of that sordid gaming house with its deeply shady frequenters: the sinister-looking proprietor—manifestly hostile to Gillum—the painted Jezebel, his wife, the ruffian Cassidy, obviously a paid bully, and finally, Gillum’s long and mysterious conference with Madame; if these did not actually offer a suggestion of blackmail, they did at least suggest the very conditions in which blackmail is apt to occur.
From Gillum and his affairs my thoughts turned at intervals to the dead man who had been the means of our introduction. I had read a brief notice of the discovery in the morning paper and had expected to receive on the same day a summons to attend the inquest. Actually, I did not receive it until the evening of the second day, when I found it awaiting me at my lodgings, requiring my attendance on the following day at two o’clock in the afternoon. Accordingly, on my arrival at the office in the morning, I showed it to our manager, and, having received his authority to absent myself from the bank, duly presented myself at the time and place appointed.
The body had been identified as that of a man named Abel Webb, and that was all that was said about him in the first place. Further particulars were left to transpire in the evidence.
There is no need for me to describe the proceedings in detail apart from the essentials. The coroner opened with a concise statement of the matter which formed the subject of the inquiry, the jury were then conducted to the mortuary to view the body, and when they had returned and taken their places the coroner proceeded to deal with the evidence.
“I think,” said he, “that we had better begin by calling Mr. Mortimer. His evidence is of no great importance but it comes first in the order of time.”
My name was accordingly called, and when I had given the necessary particulars concerning myself, the coroner said: “Now, Mr. Mortimer, just tell us how you came to be connected with the subject of this inquiry. We can ask any necessary questions later.”
Thus directed, I gave a plain and rather bald account of my discovery of the body and the circumstances leading thereto, to which the jury listened with eager interest; naturally enough, since the coroner’s statement had given but the barest indication of the nature of the case.
“We understand,” said the coroner, “that you did not recognise deceased as a person whom you had ever seen before?”
“That is so,” I replied. “The man was a stranger to me.”
“Would it have been possible for anyone passing along the alley as you did to fail to notice the body?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and not only possible but rather probable. It was dark in the alley and still darker in t
he church porch. I am not sure that I should have seen the body myself but for the fact that I had found the hat and was on the lookout for the owner. Moreover, I was walking very slowly at the moment when I saw the body.”
“You think, then, that a person walking at an ordinary pace and not closely observing his surroundings, might have passed the porch without seeing the body?”
“I think it extremely likely,” I answered. “In fact, while I was waiting for the constable, a man did actually pass through without noticing the body. He was certainly in a great hurry, but I think if he had not been, he still might not have noticed anything.”
“That,” said the coroner, addressing the jury, “is, of course, only an opinion, but it agrees with the facts to which the witness has deposed; and the point may be of some importance. Does anything further occur to you, Mr. Mortimer, or do you think that you have told us all that you have to tell?”
“I think I have told you all I know about the matter,” I replied; whereupon the coroner, having invited the jury to ask any questions that they wished to ask and receiving no response, the depositions were read and signed and the next witness called.
Constable Walter Allen of the City Police, having completed the preliminaries, deposed as follows: “I was on duty in Cornhill on the evening of Monday the ninth of September. At eight-two P.M. on that evening I was accosted by the last witness, Mr. Robert Mortimer, who informed me that he had seen the dead body of a man lying in the passage leading from St. Michael’s Alley to the churchyard. I went with him at once to the place mentioned and there saw the body of deceased in the church porch. The body was partly sitting and partly lying. It was seated on the lowest of the three steps and was leaning back in the corner against the church door. I examined the body sufficiently to assure myself that the man was really dead and then I went away and telephoned to the station in Old Jewry, reporting the discovery and returned to the passage to wait until I was relieved.”
“You have heard what the last witness said about the darkness of the passage,” said the coroner. “Do you agree that it would have been possible for anyone to pass through the passage without noticing the body?”
“Yes,” the constable replied,” I do. It was growing dark out in the street, and in the passage, which is a sort of tunnel, the light was very dim; and in the porch, which is about eight feet deep, it was practically dark. A person might easily have passed through the covered passage without seeing the body in the porch.”
This completed the constable’s evidence, and as he retired, the name of Inspector Pryor was called; whereupon that officer came forward, and having been sworn, proceeded to give his testimony with professional conciseness and precision. Taking up the thread of the constable’s story, he confirmed the description of the body and its position in the porch and agreed that it might have been lying there unnoticed for some time—perhaps as long as half an hour—before it was discovered.
“Were you able,” the coroner asked, “to form any opinion as to how deceased met with his death?”
“Yes. When the body had been put on the stretcher, I examined the place where it had been lying and there I found the pieces of a broken hypodermic syringe and some drops of liquid on the stone step. The fragments of the syringe gave off a smell rather like bitter almonds and so did the liquid, which I took up with a piece of clean blotting-paper. The fragments of the syringe are in this box but the blotting-paper was handed to the medical officer.”
He handed a small cardboard box to the coroner who opened it, peered in, sniffed at it, and passed it on to the jury. Then he asked: “Were there any fingerprints on the fragments of the syringe?”
“Only a few smears that were quite undecipherable. I examined the button of the plunger very carefully, but even there I could find nothing but a smear.”
“You were able to ascertain the identity of deceased?”
“Yes, there were a number of letters in his pocket addressed to Abel Webb, Esq. which enabled us to make the necessary enquiries.”
“Besides the syringe, did you find anything on the spot that could throw light on this mysterious affair? Any signs of a struggle, for instance?”
“Nothing whatever,” was the reply. “But as to a struggle, seeing that the floor of the passage is paved and that of the porch tiled, there would hardly be any traces even if a struggle had occurred.”
“No,” said the coroner, “I suppose there would not.” He reflected for a few moments, and then, as there was apparently nothing more to be got out of the Inspector, he intimated that the examination was concluded; and when the depositions had been read and signed, the officer retired.
“I think,” said the coroner, “that, as I see that Dr. Ripley is present, we had better take the medical evidence next so as not to detain the doctor unnecessarily.”
The new witness, a small, very alert-looking gentle man, having been sworn and having stated his name and professional qualifications, looked enquiringly at the coroner; who, after a brief glance at his notes, opened the examination.
“Perhaps, Doctor,” said he, “it would save time if you were to give us your evidence in the form of a statement. You saw the body, I think, shortly after the discovery.”
“Yes,” replied the witness “On Monday evening, the ninth of September, at eight-fifty-six, I received a summons by telephone from the police to go to the mortuary to examine a body which had just been brought in. I went at once and arrived there at five minutes past nine. There I found the body of the deceased which had been undressed and laid on the mortuary table. At the first glance I formed the provisional opinion that deceased had died as a result of poisoning by hydrocyanic acid or some cyanide compound. The face, and especially the lips, were of a distinct violet colour. The eyes were wide open, set in a fixed stare. The jaws were firmly closed and there was slight stiffening of the muscles at the back of the neck. The hands were tightly clenched and the finger nails were blue. These are the usual appearances in cases of cyanide poisoning, but the froth on the lips, which nearly always occurs in such cases, was absent.
I examined the body for bruises or other signs of violence, but there were none, excepting that on the left thigh, a couple of inches from the groin, was a very distinct puncture which looked as if it had been made with a hypodermic needle of unusually large size. I was shown a broken syringe which had been found close to the body. It was not an ordinary hypodermic syringe but a larger kind; what is known as a serum syringe; and the needle was not a regular serum needle, but a longer and stouter form with a larger bore, such as is used by veterinary surgeons. I produce for your inspection an exactly similar syringe, but fitted with an ordinary serum needle, which you can compare with the broken syringe that was handed to you by the inspector.”
He laid the syringe on the table and paused while the coroner and the jury compared it with the fragments in the box. When they had made the comparison and put the two syringes aside, he resumed: “The broken syringe and the needle both contained minute quantities of a clear liquid, which I collected in a pipette for subsequent analysis. But, at the time, I could tell by the characteristic smell of bitter almonds that it was one of the cyanide compounds.”
“So that, in effect,” said the coroner, “you had then established the cause of death.”
“Yes,” was the reply, “there was practically no room for doubt. The body showed the distinctive appearances of cyanide poisoning. There was no froth on the lips, which suggested that the poison had not been swallowed. There was the mark of a hypodermic needle, and there was a syringe containing traces of a cyanide compound. It was all perfectly consistent.”
“You subsequently made a post mortem examination?”
“Yes; and, as it is very important in cases of poisoning by hydrocyanic acid or cyanide, I made the post-mortem the same night. But first I analysed the liquid in the pipette; which I found to be a concentrated solution of potassium cyanide.”
“Did the post-mortem throw any fresh lig
ht on the case?”
“Not very much, but it converted the inference into an ascertained fact. I can say with certainty that deceased died from the effects of a very large dose of potassium cyanide injected into the upper part of the thigh—the region which is known as Scarpa’s Triangle. But one, possibly important, fact came to light, which was that the needle of the syringe entered the great vein of the thigh—the femoral vein.”
“In what respect is that fact of importance?” the coroner asked.
“In its bearing on the rapidity with which the poison will have taken effect. Five grains of potassium cyanide will, if swallowed, produce death in about a quarter of an hour. The same quantity injected hypodermically would cause death in a minute or two at the most; while if it were injected into one of the great veins, death would probably follow in a matter of seconds. Now, in the present case, a much larger quantity was discharged directly into this great vein; from which I infer that death must have occurred practically instantaneously.”
“Is it possible to say how much was injected?”
“Not in exact terms. I made only a qualitative analysis. Anything like an exact estimate of quantity would have involved a long and complicated procedure and it would have served no useful purpose. But I can say confidently, that the amount of cyanide injected was at least ten grains.”
“When you first saw the body, did you form any opinion as to how long deceased had been dead?”
“Yes. Judging principally by the temperature of the body, I should say that he had been dead about an hour.”
“You mentioned some stiffening of the muscles—apparently rigor mortis. Would that occur so soon after death?”
“The clenching of the jaws and hands was not due to rigor mortis. It was really cadaveric spasm and will have occurred at the moment of death. But the stiffening of the neck muscles did indicate the beginning of rigor mortis and was, of course, much earlier than in the average of cases. But there is nothing remarkable in this early onset. It very commonly occurs in cases of violent death and especially of suicide. I don’t think deceased had been dead more than about an hour.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 192