by Henry Wade
The one essential was access; he could do nothing without that. Even if it was safe to assume that Desmond was being treated with a hypnotic, it was imperative to discover how that hypnotic was being administered; if the hypnotic was being given subcutaneously—and with a nurse in the house that was quite likely—then there would be practically no chance of monkeying with the dosage; on the other hand, if it was being given in liquid form, then he must find out where the bottle was kept and how to get at it. All this would need careful reconnoitring. Mrs. Toumlin was the snag; there was no getting away from the fact that she was a watch-dog whom it would not be easy to get past.
The whole thing would take time, and there was little time to spare—six weeks. Not only time, but infinite care. There must be no breath of suspicion against himself; it would be too dangerous after that business in Scotland. Eustace did not know how much liaison there was between the Scottish and English police—whether any report of David’s case would have reached London. Probably not, but the English police had an uncanny knack of knowing everything about one and if suspicion touched him over Desmond’s death they would be sure to think about David’s—and then they would put two and two, or rather, one and one, together!
Eustace had not stayed long at the Junior English Universities Club after Henry Carr had thrown that bombshell at him. He had made no attempt to hide from his host what a shock that news about Desmond’s definite decision had been, and Carr had behaved very decently—left him alone, fetched a couple of brandies, and raised no objection when he said that he thought he would be getting home. Henry Carr was all right, a good fellow really, but no use to him now; he had got to act for himself—the lone hand. As he walked home—to his first night in the new flat—Eustace had thought out all the implications of Carr’s news, had come to his decision that only the death of poor Desmond could save the situation now.
As he had discovered before, when deciding to kill David, it was a very different matter to carry that decision into effect. All the difficult and tedious details must be thought out and executed, all the risks actually faced. Waking in the grim, grey light of early morning, Eustace found himself dreading this second terrible task which he had laid upon himself. He would have given anything to turn away from it, but the alternative was ruin.
Flinging himself out of bed, Eustace dressed in a mood of gloomy determination. He had got a job to do that very morning; there could be no more delay. He had got to find out how he could get into Desmond’s flat and have a good look round, without interruption. Obviously Mrs. Toumlin must be out of the way and the only practical way of discovering when she would be out of the way was to watch her get out of it. Probably she would see Desmond comfortably settled on the balcony and then go out and do her shopping. Eustace was vague as to what that shopping might be or even whether a woman in Mrs. Toumlin’s position would do it, but somehow he had a feeling that she would leave nothing of that kind to a servant—she would choose even the Brussels-sprouts herself. No time to be lost, then; it was already nine o’clock.
An hour later Eustace was ensconced behind a Daily Telegraph on a bench in the churchyard close to Regent’s View Mansions. He could not actually see the entrance to the flats, but it was a monkey to a mouse-trap that anyone bent on shopping would come this way; anyhow, it was the best he could do; he couldn’t hang about on his feet outside the entrance—it would be far too noticeable. Fortunately it was a pleasant day and there were other people on the benches, either reading or thinking or just sitting, so that he was not at all noticeable. His patience, however, had begun to wear thin when, just after the church clock had sounded eleven, he saw the erect figure of Mrs. Toumlin, with two books and a basket, come round the corner and, a minute later, board a south-bound bus.
Nothing could be better. The books probably meant a library, the basket other shopping, and the bus at least some distance—and consequently time. Giving her five minutes’ start, Eustace handed his paper to a neighbour and made for the flats. The porter knew him by sight now and touched his cap, whisking him up to the fifth floor without enquiry. Gladys opened the door and at once showed signs of the embarrassment which Mrs. Toumlin had displayed on the occasion of his last visit. What was the matter with the women? Surely Desmond couldn’t have told them of his great-grandfather’s disapproval? Anyhow it was no use wondering; he’d got to keep his wits about him and needed all his attention for the work in hand.
“Good morning”, he said. “Can I see Mrs. Toumlin?”
Eustace was aware that he possessed good looks of the type which appeals to many women—the dark, rather sinister type so much in demand for film lovers. He put across his most charming smile and was gratified to see the girl, who was herself not unattractive, blush and drop her eyes.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Toumlin’s out, sir”, she said in a low voice.
“Oh, what a pity. I thought I should be sure to catch her. Does she always go out about this time?”
“Generally at eleven, sir; she’ll be in at twelve for sure.”
Admirably done. What could have been more natural or more completely successful?
“Well, I daresay I can have a talk with Mr. Desmond then”, said Eustace.
The blush had disappeared, but the embarrassment was if anything greater.
“Oh no, sir; I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible. Mrs. Toumlin never allows anyone to visit Mr. Hendel when she’s not here.”
Confound the woman, with her rules and regulations. However, regulations have been broken before now. Eustace gently clinked the silver in his pocket and produced another smile.
“That can hardly be applied to me, Gladys, eh?” he asked in a confidential voice.
But the girl’s mouth hardened. She stood her ground.
“I’m afraid so, sir”, she said firmly.
Another rock. Try a fresh tack.
“Oh well, I must just wait for her, then. You won’t mind my coming in and sitting down, I suppose?”
Gladys hesitated. This was evidently a problem outside her instructions. Her natural sense of hospitality made it difficult for her to refuse such a harmless request.
“I . . . well, I’m afraid I couldn’t show you into the sitting-room or the dining-room, sir; they both open on the balcony and Mr. Hendel would know you were here.”
“That’s all right; I’ll sit in the hall.”
Eustace walked in and sat himself firmly down on a wooden chair. The hall would do admirably; easy access to Desmond’s bedroom from there—and the medicine cupboard. Or to Mrs. Toumlin’s, if that was where it was.
Gladys, still uncertain of her duty, hovered for a moment and then made her way along a short passage into what was evidently the kitchen. A murmur of voices reached Eustace and presently Gladys returned.
“I’ll just send a message and let Mrs. Toumlin know you’re here, sir”, she said. “I think I know where to get her.”
She approached the telephone.
“Oh no, please don’t do that. I wouldn’t for the world bring her back till she’s ready. Really, I can quite well wait. I’m in no hurry at all.”
This really was maddening. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?
“It’s quite all right, sir. I know Mrs. Toumlin would wish to know. Welbeck 3781. No, 3781, please.”
“But look here, really . . .”
Eustace was conscious of a feeling of helplessness. Men one could deal with, but these obstinate women. . . .
“Is that the Times Book Club? Will you give a message to Mrs. Toumlin, please, when she comes to change a book for Mr. Hendel; yes, Guaranteed Subscriber. Please tell her that Mr. . . . er . . . er.” The maid broke off, eyeing Eustace uncertainly. “Mr. Eustace Hendel, isn’t it, sir?”
Eustace nodded gloomily.
“. . . that Mr. Eustace Hendel has called and will wait till she comes back. Yes, that’s all, thank you.”
Gladys hung up.
“I don’t think she’ll be long, sir”, she said.
“There’s a 53 bus all the way to the corner. Would you like a paper, sir?”
“Thanks.”
Still a chance. The woman couldn’t get back in less than a quarter of an hour at the very earliest. Once this silly girl was back in her pantry. . . .
“Thanks. Don’t you bother about me. I’ll be quite all right.”
Eustace opened the paper and over the top of it watched the maid disappear through the door just opposite the sitting room—probably the pantry. But she did not shut the door; it remained ajar, as it had been on that previous visit when he came out of the sitting-room. Why on earth couldn’t servants learn to shut doors properly? He must give her a minute or two to settle to her work and then . . . reconnoitre.
There was no sound of work, no clink of plates, no running tap. Perhaps she was sewing, or polishing silver; that wouldn’t make a noise. Quietly Eustace folded the paper and laid it on the floor, rose, and was tip-toeing towards the door of what he took to be Desmond’s room when he saw a shadow move on the thin patch of pantry wall that was visible to him. Instantly he checked, holding his breath, watching that strip of wall. Yes, there it was again—a slight movement, but clear enough now to show that someone—no doubt Gladys—was standing just inside the door, listening, watching. No, not actually watching him, because the way the door opened made it impossible for her to do that; but she was there on the watch, none the less; if she heard him move, heard a door open, she could easily peep out and see that he had left his seat. It wouldn’t do. It was too risky. He simply could not afford to be seen doing anything even faintly suspicious.
Eustace slipped back onto his chair, picked up the paper, cursing the whole regiment of female busybodies. Curiosity, of course; there couldn’t be any earthly reason for Gladys to watch him; just downright busybodying curiosity—‘rubbering’, as the Americans so expressively put it.
As he turned over the pages of the ‘Morning Post’ with unseeing eyes, Eustace experienced an uncomfortable feeling of doubt—almost of despair. How was he going to defeat these female watch-dogs? One on guard had been difficult enough, but evidently there were two, like parent eagles guarding their precious young. It was all very admirable, of course—protecting the invalid from undue disturbance or worry—but surely this was overdoing it. How was he going to evade this watch? How get into Desmond’s room, how find . . . ?
A faint whirring sound announced the rising of the lift, the clang of a gate, a shadow on the glass panel of the front door, the scratch of a key . . . and Mrs. Toumlin walked into the hall. She was flushed and breathless, but at sight of Eustace rising, paper in hand, from his hard wooden chair she pulled herself together. Out of the corner of his eye Eustace was aware that Gladys had looked out of the pantry, withdrawn her head, and shut the door.
“I’m sorry that you should have had to wait for me, Mr. Hendel”, said Mrs. Toumlin, putting down her two books and a still empty basket.
“I am still more sorry that you should have hurried back on my account”, Eustace assured her. “I told Gladys that I could quite well wait.”
“Gladys was right to tell me. You will excuse my not asking you to come into the sitting-room, Mr. Hendel, but I do not want Desmond disturbed.”
“Is he seriously ill, Mrs. Toumlin . . . worse, I mean?”
“I trust not, but . . . I have to be most careful that he should not get overtired.”
“Surely you will let me have a little talk with him? I promise I won’t tire him.”
Again Eustace experienced the sensation of helplessness in face of female obstinancy; it was like beating at a blanket.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Hendel, but that is quite impossible. Desmond has visitors to lunch and he must rest quietly all this morning.”
“Visitors?”
“Yes, his cousins, Mr. William Hendel and his son.”
Chapter Eighteen
Another Hendel Dies
EUSTACE had little heart for the first of the house-warming parties that night—Jill’s party. He played his part as a host, distributed drinks, flirted with the young women, refrained from kicking the young men; but at the back of his mind all the time he was conscious of the gnawing thought that he was up against a bigger proposition than he could manage. How to get past those two women; that was all. A nurse and a parlourmaid. He was checkmated—or at least in danger of being checkmated—by just that—Queen’s Bishop and Pawn.
Force was no use to him, violence out of the question. Even the passive, persuasive force that he had used that morning—his attempt to bribe Gladys—had been dangerous, and it had been unsuccessful. Mrs. Toumlin was hostile to him already—heaven might know why; he simply dared not try to force his way past that blanket again. He must he low, till the attempt had been forgotten. In the meantime, the precious hours were flying. Only six weeks—and he was already forced to ground, to lie low, like any hunted fox. No, that was an exaggeration. There was no question of being hunted. It simply was that he must avoid calling attention to the fact that he was the fox!
The last and noisiest of the guests departed soon after half-past one, and Jill joined him in a final drink before taking her own departure.
“What’s biting you, darling?” she asked, ruffling his hair. “Haven’t you liked my little friends?”
“It’s not that”, said Eustace; “they’re all right. Only . . . I’m rather up against it.”
He explained as best he could the difficulty in which he found himself. Jill listened in silence, her mouth hardening as she heard his decision to ‘lie low for a bit’.
“Are you backing out of this, Eustace?” she asked when he had finished.
“No, of course not, but . . .”
“‘No . . . but’ nothing!”
Jill sat up straight and taking the lapels of his coat in her two hands gave him a shake.
“If you back out of this now I’m through with you”, she said sharply. “I refused a good cabaret engagement this morning because I thought you meant business. If you . . .”
“Of course I mean business”, he retorted irritably. “It’s just that I don’t see how I’m going to get at him now. Those two women never take their eyes off him.”
“Those two women! You make me tired!”
Jill’s eyes flashed angrily.
“Why don’t you use your brains? You can’t expect to walk in on him and hand him the stuff in a glass! They’re looking for you; you mustn’t go near him.”
Eustace stared at her.
“Looking for me?” he stammered.
“Of course they are! Isn’t it obvious? You’ve got your head in the sand. If anything happens to Desmond now they’re bound to suspect you.”
“Then how on earth can I . . . ?”
“Why, send it to him, of course. Patent medicine, fruit, chocolates. There are dozens of tricks. Don’t you ever read anything? That’s always being done. Didn’t someone send poisoned chocolates to Lloyd George?”
Chocolates! Desmond’s table flashed into his mind; the box of cigarettes for his guest, the chocolates for himself. Eustace had wondered at it at the time, but soon realized that many men who did not smoke had a passion for chocolates. Peppermint chocolates; the big round ones in the well-known cream and gold box—Dudeville’s. Just such a box lay on the table now amid the wreckage of the refreshments.
Eustace rose to his feet, his brain beginning to spin. Excitement always had that effect on him.
“You’d better be off now, Jill,” he said curtly, fetching her coat.
Jill looked at him curiously. A smile slowly spread over her face. She pulled his face down to hers and kissed his lips; then without another word let herself out of the flat. Eustace stood for a moment listening, then walked to the table and picked up the box of chocolates. It was a two-pound box, bought only yesterday; now there were only a dozen or so chocolates left in it—a mixed lot, hard and soft, among them one large round peppermint cream. Eustace picked it up and examined it carefully. It was beautifu
lly made, smooth and glossy; it would be a very difficult matter to open it, remove and replace the contents, and reseal the chocolate without obvious signs of interference. It would certainly be necessary to experiment, but that could probably be done on an inferior brand; it would certainly be unwise to buy any more of Dudeville’s if it could be avoided.
The remaining peppermint cream in this box of Dudeville’s assumed a special value now; it would not do to leave it to the tender mercies of Hamilton, whose particular line in petty theft had not yet disclosed itself. Instead of returning it to its fellows, therefore, Eustace locked it up in a drawer of his writing-table, a drawer which contained a tiny, thin glass bottle. Then, feeling dead tired, but slightly less depressed, he went to bed.
In spite of his tiredness Eustace found great difficulty in getting to sleep. It was only the second night in his new flat and he had always had difficulty in becoming acclimatized to new surroundings. The noises were different, the window was in a different place; even the bed, though he had slept in it for years in his St. James’s flat, felt strange to him now, after its long sojourn in Maple’s Depository. Worse still, his brain had begun to work again at the very time when it is better inactive; the problem of the chocolate, the problem of lethal dosage, the problem of substitution, one after the other, raced through his brain, becoming more and more confused as he grew more weary. The grey rectangles of the windows were lightening, noises were increasing in the outside world, when at last Eustace fell into the drugged sleep of utter exhaustion.
It was with difficulty that he struggled back to consciousness, aware that something unusual was happening. At first he thought it was a dream and allowed himself to slip back into sleep; then the disturbance became too acute to be ignored and he realized that he was being shaken. With an effort he opened his eyes and saw the barely familiar face of his new man-servant, Hamilton, close to his own.