Back at Maudie's, however, things were happening. Deckhand Swanson, the customer whom 'Mopes' had glimpsed entering, did not take above thirty seconds to discover the sprawled body of Maudie and the peculiar puncture wound on her arm. He did not know what it signified, but he did know she was out cold. In ten minutes, an ambulance was rushing her to the general hospital. Once there, the authorities informed the Yard that a new snake victim had been brought in. Chief-Inspector Dawson and Harriday, both prepared for just such a contingency, were whipped from their respective homes to sudden duty.
In an hour, Maudie's place had been photographed fingerprinted and generally combed out. With this done, Dawson remained behind, tossing the phony sovereign slowly up and down in his palm as he stood thinking.
"We've got something, Bob," he said finally. "No snake ever did come into here—except a human one. That woman had only just been bitten about fifteen minutes earlier, according to the latest report from the hospital. That means the snake would still be here, and it isn't. That satisfies me that the snake-biting business is brilliant murder…" Dawson turned and took up the notebook from the counter. Since it had already been inspected and photographed for fingerprints, he could handle it freely.
"Whoever owns this has a mind like a cesspool," he said, studying some of the pages. "In fact, just the kind of mind to contemplate murder without a single qualm. Okay, we've done all we can here. Let's get to the hospital now."
Leaving a police constable in charge, and advising the deckhand, who was waiting in a back room, that he might be required later, Dawson and Harriday wasted no time in getting to the hospital. Eventually, they were joined in an anteroom by a white-coated surgeon.
"How is she?" Dawson asked quickly.
"Still unconscious. We've given her an antidote serum but, so far, it hasn't reacted. Apparently, she's been very badly bitten. Quite frankly, Inspector, snake-bite is a little out of our territory. It's a specialist's job, and I can't be sure where to locate one."
"At all costs, that woman has got to be revived," the Chief-Inspector said curtly. "Even if only for long enough to tell us what happened. Maybe I can help. Where's the nearest phone?"
The surgeon led the way out of the anteroom and to the telephone in an adjoining office. Dawson picked up the instrument quickly, and rang a Whitehall number.
"That you, Bedford? Dawson speaking. Get in touch with Mr. Ensdale immediately and have him ring me back here. He'll probably be at home, and I don't know his private number. Hurry it up: it's urgent."
This done, Dawson put the instrument down again and began to pace slowly. The surgeon excused himself and returned a few minutes afterwards with a shake of his head.
"No recovery yet," he announced. "Who's Ensdale, anyway? Think he can do something? I never heard of him."
"That's not very surprising. He's exclusive to the Yard, in the pathology and scientific branch. Knows a lot about snake-bite; investigated every victim so far—excuse me."
Dawson picked up the phone as it shrilled. Boyd Ensdale's voice came from the other end of the wire.
"Dawson here, Mr. Ensdale. I need your help—and quickly. There's a snake-bite victim here, but she isn't dead yet. She needs expert help, correct serum administration and all the rest of it. At all costs she must be revived."
"Whereabouts are you?"
"East London General Hospital."
"Okay. I'll come. Be as quick as I can."
"Thanks." Dawson put down the phone and looked relieved. "He's coming; everything depends on whether he'll be in time."
So, for all those concerned, there descended a deep uncertainty until Ensdale arrived—which was twenty minutes later. Though it was the early hours of the morning by now, he looked fresh and alert, carrying with him a significant looking black bag. Conducted by the surgeon to the room where the stricken Maudie was lying, Dawson and Harriday found themselves forced to wait in the anteroom once again. They had got through three more cigarettes before Ensdale reappeared.
"She's conscious," he said briefly, "and I think she'll live, too."
"Can I talk to her?" Dawson demanded.
Ensdale seemed to hesitate for a second, then he gave a nod.
"Yes, go ahead. I'll come with you."
Conducted to the side of Maudie's bed, Dawson sat down and studied her intently. She was definitely conscious again, and fully comprehensive of her surroundings as well.
"I'm a police officer, Miss Vincent," Dawson displayed his warrant card. "I suppose you know what's been happening? That you were bitten by a snake?"
"So I'm told," she assented. "I remember being hit by one, but not being bitten."
"Meaning what, exactly?" Dawson said, tensing forward sharply.
"Meaning that somebody you'd dearly love to lock up came into my shop this evening—'Mopes' McCall. I used to know him in the old days and I think he was trying to renew the acquaintance. He tried to pass a phony sovereign, but I held him to the point of my gun. He threw a fat notebook at me, hit me in the jaw, and I passed out. I don't remember anything more."
"You don't remember any snake?" Dawson asked deliberately.
"No. Maybe 'Mopes' could tell you something about that if you can catch him… hell!" Maudie broke off, wincing. "My arm's aching fit to drop off."
"Just take it easy, Miss Vincent," Dawson murmured "and thanks for telling me what you have."
Getting up, he jerked his head to Ensdale and Harriday and led the way back to the anteroom.
"The only explanation is that she must have been unconscious from the blow in the jaw when the snake-bite act took place," he said, turning from closing the door. "Which is a damnable pity. I felt sure we'd learn for certain this time that the snake-bites are artificial."
"I think you're up the wrong tree there, Dawson," Ensdale said. "This woman's wound is identical to all those inflicted on the other victims and I still maintain it is genuine snake-bite."
"Then how did that snake vanish so quickly? I'm no expert, but I'll swear no snake would move that fast."
"It could, you know," Ensdale said. "Rattlers move very fast on occasions, particularly when they hear footsteps. Anyhow," he added, shrugging, "I've done all I can and, as near as I can tell you, Miss Vincent will probably recover completely. If you need me again, just let me know."
"Yes." Dawson looked preoccupied. "Thanks, sir. You've been invaluable."
Ensdale took his departure and for several minutes, Dawson remained nearly motionless, following a chain of reasoning; then, at length, he caught Harriday's questioning eyes. The Detective-Sergeant was looking very tired and very disappointed.
"All that sweat for nothing sir, from the looks of it."
"Not entirely Bob—not entirely. I'll grant you that we're hamstrung on the snake angle, but we've got another one A mighty good one, too! I mean the notebook, of course."
"Yes?" Harriday's brow creased as he tried to see the point.
"We know," Dawson continued deliberately, "that 'Mope' McCall has one weak point—women. Any woman on earth can make a sucker out of him. That much is in his own case history at the records department. Now, suppose a highly delectable young woman were to insert an advertisement in the personal column of a daily newspaper, saying she had his notebook and wanted to return it to him. What then?"
"He mightn't read that particular paper," Harriday pointed out stolidly.
'You're a good policeman Bob, but you've no imagination," Dawson said patiently. "The ad would be in every worth-while daily paper, morning and evening and I'm darned sure 'Mopes' must read one or other of them in order to keep in touch with the outer world. On the other hand, he may rely on television or radio. If he does, we'll have to contrive something that way, but first, let's try the newspapers."
"He might bite," Harriday admitted dubiously, "but on the other hand. I can't see that there is anything incriminating enough in that notebook for him to take a risk to get it back. Certainly, we've got nothing out of it."
&n
bsp; "We're trying the psychological angle," Dawson explained. "I've never yet known it to fail, especially with the vain type of criminal such as 'Mopes.' The advertisement must be well thought out. It's got to bring him out of his lair. The notebook is not valuable to us, but it will be to him, because it lists the addresses and phone numbers of dozens of girls with whom he evidently had contact before getting jailed. He'll try and get it back—even more so if he learns what a bright young thing has discovered it."
"How will he know that? The advertisement won't say so."
"Not to begin with. I'll show you later what happens. He might even be dense enough to give away his address and, if so, the thing's easy. Once nail 'Mopes', and we'll nail everybody including the brains behind this counterfeiting, snake-biting racket."
"You're not suggesting Maudie Vincent as the delectable one, surely?" Harriday asked, in surprise. "All due respect to her, but her charm's had it. sir."
"I'm thinking of Gwenda Blane," Dawson mused. "She's helped us before, and will again, I'm sure—for a consideration. Pretty as they make 'em, and as tough as they come. A very curvaceous sprat to catch a mighty big whale, Bob."
V
BY MID-MORNING, Chief-Inspector Dawson had the 'Personal' advertisement framed in words that satisfied him, and it was immediately forwarded to every daily of repute. The possibility of an evening paper was one that Dawson ruled out as less likely to offer results. The other point he dealt with was suppression of all information concerning Maudie Vincent—at least, for the time being. Plainly, if 'Mopes' read that she had recovered, he would tie it up with the advertisement and probably that she herself was the possessor of his notebook; which, in itself, would be enough to prevent him walking into the trap. Depending on how matters were shaping, Dawson was prepared to circulate a false report concerning Maudie's death if necessary.
His next move was to have Gwenda Blane come over to the Yard and, as on other occasions, she did so the moment she was free—around lunchtime. Gwenda was a somewhat remarkable girl—artist's model, cover girl, swimsuit mannequin, and a chorine on occasion. She had beauty, brains and single blessedness and meant to keep all three. Above all things, she had plenty of courage and, more than once, had hired herself out as 'bait' for the Yard when they needed a girl of unusual attractiveness and plenty of intelligence.
"Whether this assignment will prove dangerous or not I can't say at this stage, Gwen," Dawson explained in a frank statement. "You can hear the details and then take it or leave it. In any case, we're obliged to you for coming along."
The girl, fake fur-coated and smiling in that particularly icy way she had, merely shrugged.
"I know you Yard men occasionally borrow your sisters and sweethearts to help you out in a case, so why am I different from them? Anything for a change. But what's it all about?"
"Spurious sovereigns, a dull-witted killer, and maybe a brilliant and completely ruthless scientist."
"Spurious sovereigns? Sounds like the Grindberg business to me."
"It is. We can't use a policewoman for this job, either—they automatically give themselves away to those criminal types accustomed to them. What we're trying to do is drag a woman-crazy killer into the open. Once we've got him we hope to have the whole racket broken wide open. He'll talk before we're through with him."
"Who is he?" Gwenda asked.
"'Mopes' McCall. Do I need to say more, or are you up on your newspapers?"
The girl smiled faintly. "I've read about him, Inspector, and he seems to be a charming personality. Well, what do I have to do?"
"Read this first." And Dawson pushed across a copy of the advertisement he had worked out. Gwenda took it in a delicately manicured hand and read out the words:
"Why mope about looking for your notebook? I'm worth dating up, too. Young, pretty, and willing. If you want me and the notebook, contact…" Gwenda frowned slightly as she saw the telephone number that concluded the advertisement. "Thanks for the build-up," she murmured, as she handed the paper back. "But where is that telephone number? It certainly isn't my mine."
"It's the phone number of a flat you will occupy while working for us. Been used before on other jobs, but 'Mopes' won't know that. Go there, live there, and wait there. The moment you hear anything, inform me immediately. Mind you, I don't know that this dimwit 'Mopes' will even fall for the ad., or even see it—but we're hoping he will. Well, still with us?"
"Certainly, provided I'm allowed to retain my .32 automatic. I don't feel safe otherwise. It's licensed and everything."
"Technically, you're against the law," Dawson replied, "but we'll let that pass for the moment. Now, here's the address of the flat. You can use your own name; it won't signify."
Dawson scribbled it out and handed it over. "You can go in the moment you're ready, and this is the key."
"Kensington, eh? Swank part thereof. Well, thanks very much. How long do you suppose the job will take? I'm contracted a fortnight hence for a French stage show."
"We'll get results before then, Gwen, or else release you. Meantime, here's your check. Half now, half when we finish, based on the same terms as other occasions. Fair enough?"
"Fair enough," Gwenda smiled, rising and shaking hands. "I'll be on to you the moment anything happens in this business."
Dawson saw her to the door and then turned to behold Harriday also looking at the door, somewhat in regret.
"Pity I don't fit into that part of the assignment, too sir," he sighed. "Of all the blondes I ever did see, she really…"
"Keep your mind on your work," Dawson growled, "and don't be too sure you won't be mixed up with Gwenda before we're finished. That's up to 'Mopes'." Dawson settled down at his desk and looked through the reports. "Nothing on the scrap iron dealers yet, I see, Bob."
"Afraid not, sir, though I've still a good few to visit."
"All right; keep on doing that. Not that I've any room to talk, either. I haven't located anything significant from the manufacturers of electronic equipment and similar gadgets. Our mastermind is keeping up to standard as far as subtlety is concerned. Maybe he's been ordering separate pieces from different firms to avoid buying a lot of stuff in one place."
"Could be," Harriday sighed, reaching for his coat. "And, incidentally, sir…"
"Yes?" Dawson lighted a cigarette and waited.
"I've been doing a bit of thinking on my own about this snake-bite business. If each snake-bite is a fake, how come that so brilliant a pathologist as Mr. Ensdale can't detect it?"
"I've wondered about that, too," Dawson murmured. "Very cunning snake-bite imitation. That's the only answer… I suppose…"
Harriday reflected, hesitated over something, and then changed his mind.
"I'll carry on with the scrap iron," he said, and went on his way. Dawson turned back to his notes, particularly one that he had made himself to the effect that a genuine snake-bite would show traces of saliva. He considered it for a moment or two, and then switched on the interphone.
"Dr. Andrews?" he asked, after a moment.
"Right here, Inspector. Can I help you?"
"Perhaps. I'm still fretting over those snake-bites. You examined the victims to commence with, and Mr. Ensdale confirmed your reports. Maybe you can tell me something. In the case of the victims you examined, did you find any traces of saliva in the snake-bite wound—as you certainly would from a genuine bite?"
"None at all. Puzzling thing, I know—but there it is."
"Then why did you state positively that the wounds were caused by a snake? Why not admit the possibility of a fake?"
"I'm not concerned with possibilities, Inspector; that's your job. I merely state the medical evidence. I said genuine snake-bites because I couldn't think of anything likely to duplicate them so completely."
"I see. But, in no case, was there a trace of snake saliva?"
"None."
"Much obliged." Dawson switched off and returned his cigarette to his lips, his sharp eyes narrowed over a t
hought. Then the jarring of the telephone disturbed him again.
"Dawson here," he announced.
"Daily Monarch, Inspector. We've had a hospital report that Maudie Vincent died an hour ago. Are we allowed to print that, along with the story of what was the cause of her death?"
"Died?" Dawson repeated, astonished. "But the last I heard of her, she was making good progress."
"So we thought. Apparently Mr. Ensdale, of your scientific squad, called in to see how she was going on, found her as good as expected, and then left. But an hour ago she died. Some kind of relapse from the snake poison."
"I see." Dawson thought for a moment. "Yes, print the story, by all means, but suppress all details concerning the Yard. You can say simply that she was killed by a snake in her shop last night."
"But there's more to it than that, Inspector! Have a heart! What about the phony sovereign on the counter, and that notebook you found on the floor…"
"Suppress all that. That's an order! You'll not be scooped, because the same order will go to the entire press. When anything big breaks—as it must before long—-I'll see you get everything."
"Okay."
Dawson put the telephone down, his eyes hard. Then he checked with the hospital to make certain—but there was no doubt about it. Maudie Vincent had suffered a relapse and died. Not even a question of an inquest being held up for further enquiry. It would be a verdict of 'death from misadventure'.
In the meantime, 'Mopes' McCall was entirely satisfied with himself. The morning newspaper, delivered religiously by the village's only newsagent, and paid for by the Chief in some roundabout manner best known to himself, did not splash the fate of Maudie Vincent. It merely made a passing reference to the fact—in an obscure corner—that she had been bitten by a snake and taken to hospital in a coma. Nothing more.
"And coma is the overture to death," 'Mopes' told himself, between mouthfuls of a late breakfast. "Which makes me safe. She'll pass out before she can say anything—if she hasn't passed out already."
Liquid Death And Other Stories Page 7