Antidote to Venom

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  Capper shook his head. “No one could suggest such a thing. Don’t be an utter fool. If there was a murder neither of us would get any money. An accident. I’ve thought it all out. It would be sudden and practically painless: and most certainly an accident.”

  Once again George raved angrily. He really was shocked and indignant. “Damn you, Capper, you dirty skunk! You want to murder the old man and you want to drag me in as an accomplice.” He got up suddenly. “I’d see you in hell first.” He moved towards the door, then turned back. “I’ve had about all of you I can stand. But I warn you, if anything happens to Burnaby, I’ll go straight to the police. I may be bad, but I’m not as bad as that.”

  Capper rose also. “Right,” he said. “Just as you like. I can wait. I can keep going one way or another for a year or two. It’s all right.”

  “It’s well you think so,” George returned. “I’ll tell you something you seem to have forgotten. I’ll be paid when Burnaby dies—naturally. But you’ll be in jail.”

  Capper laughed, a cold mocking laugh. “All right,” he jeered, “if you feel that way just go ahead. But when you find yourself left, don’t blame me.”

  George flung himself out, slamming the door. He ran downstairs, and jumping into the car, drove off at top speed. He was furious with this lying scoundrel. Capper would see the inside of a prison for this. The very next day he would lodge an information. He would see the Chief Constable, whom he knew. And he would give him a hint about the man’s hideous suggestion.

  Next day George had cooled down considerably. He decided that the information he had scarcely justified him in reporting to the Chief Constable. Instead he spent the day thinking over the situation. And the more he thought, the less he liked it.

  In his indignation against Capper, he had rather lost sight of his own position. Now he saw it more clearly with every minute that passed. If he could not get money his life would be spoilt. He began to count up his debts. He owed small sums amounting to perhaps £150. Next, there was Abraham’s advance, which he had spent on furnishing Rose Cottage. That was another £150. Lastly there was the cottage itself. Abraham might not be able to get what he gave for it. Suppose he dropped £100 on the sale: another £100. Altogether, as far as George could estimate, he would require anything up to £400 to clear his debt. And if Nancy were to continue in Rose Cottage, he would want a lot more.

  As George pondered over the threat to his own happiness, the importance of punishing Capper grew less vital. What mattered was the raising of the money, not the satisfaction of his revengeful feelings.

  That afternoon he happened to be passing the snake-house when Professor Burnaby came out. George was shocked by the old man’s appearance. He was certainly going rapidly down the hill. What, George wondered irritably, was he doing in the snake-house? Since the permission to work with the snakes had been withdrawn, there was no reason why he should be there; yet he seemed to spend as much time as ever hanging about the place. It wasn’t good enough. If he began meddling, there might easily be an accident.

  Suddenly Capper’s suggestion struck him in a new light. He had not realised Burnaby’s condition. Really the old man had one foot in the grave. He could not be enjoying his life and he was a danger to his fellow men. If a painless accident were to happen.…

  George pulled himself together. What was this he had been thinking? Thank heaven, whatever he might be, he was not a murderer.

  But it was true that the man’s death would be nothing but a blessing for himself and everyone about him. He could say that with truth and yet detest and oppose Capper’s scheme.

  What, he wondered, was Capper’s scheme? An accident, practically instantaneous and practically painless. Was that so very bad? The old fellow might die of some terrible long drawn out disease, or what might be even worse, his mind might give way. How many poor people in this unhappy world would give all they had to end up practically instantaneously and painlessly?

  And then if what seemed best for Burnaby meant George’s own escape from ruin? If it meant Nancy? If it meant, in fact, everything that made life worth living?…

  The sweat formed on George’s forehead as he considered these alternatives. It was not, he told himself, a question of doing right or wrong; whatever he did would be wrong. It was a choice of two evils. Which was the lesser? Which—was—the—lesser?

  By the time he had passed a second sleepless night, George had moved a good deal further. Of course, under no circumstances could he have anything to do with murder. But he now remembered that Capper had said that he would arrange the “accident” and that he, George, actually would have nothing to do with it. He thought it would be no harm to find out just what Capper’s scheme was. If it were true that he himself should know nothing of any accident.…Well, he might ask about it at all events. Asking would commit him to nothing.

  That night George went to a secluded street booth to make an appointment with Capper. But when he put out his hand to lift the receiver he had a curious and upsetting experience. He seemed to see placed before him a choice: of good and evil. He told himself his action was only exploratory: to learn Capper’s plan. But deep down in his mind George knew that he was faced with one of the major decisions of his life. What he did now he would never be able to undo.

  He had had a religious upbringing, and some of the lessons he had been taught as a child recurred with extraordinary vividness to his memory. Of course, he had long ceased to believe in that sort of thing, and yet these memories seemed insistently to be urging him back, away from this deed which he contemplated.

  For a moment, he felt completely unnerved. Then he called back his common sense. This was pure funk. It could do no harm to find out what Capper proposed. If it was really bad, of course he would have nothing to do with it.

  Presently his hesitation passed away and he rang up Capper and fixed an appointment for the following evening.

  All next day George felt uneasy, but he banished the thoughts as mere weakness. After dinner he hired the Gnat and drove over to Bursham, parking as before down the side street. He had determined to take a strong line with Capper, agreeing to nothing which he felt would be morally indefensible.

  The solicitor welcomed him unemotionally. “I’m glad you came,” he said, as he took George’s coat. “You may not like my plan. You may even turn it down. But in our very unpleasant position I think it should at least be discussed.”

  “This commits me to nothing,” George declared, as stoutly as he was able.

  “Of course not,” Capper agreed smoothly. “The idea may appeal to you and it may not. Come upstairs.”

  When they were seated with whiskys and sodas, Capper gave his visitor an exceedingly searching glance from his shrewd eyes. Then, after a moment’s thought, he said the very thing which had already occurred to George.

  “Of course, you realise that we are faced with a choice of evils? It is not a question of choosing right or wrong, but of selecting the lesser of two wrongs.”

  These words and the earnest manner in which they were spoken influenced George as the solicitor had intended. He appreciated Capper’s moderation and apparent desire to do right, and much of his antagonism evaporated.

  “You needn’t harp on that,” he returned. “I realise it perfectly well. Go on, let’s hear the plan.”

  “Right,” Capper answered, “if you want directness I’ll be direct. I won’t tell you the plan because I’ve let you in for this, and if there’s going to be trouble, I’ll face it alone.”

  “I’ll have to know more than that,” George declared.

  “Of course. And you’ll have to be in it to a very small extent. I’m being straight with you, Surridge, and you will see that’s necessary for my own safety. I’m not suggesting you’d give me away: I trust you completely; but this is business, and as a matter of business you must be in it enough to ensure your loyalty. After all, I’
m taking ninety-nine per cent of the risk.”

  George nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “You,” continued Capper, “would have to do four things, and four things only. First, lose and re-find your keys as I describe; second, obtain some snake venom, preferably from a small snake; third, take a snake of the same kind from the snake-house and drown it; and fourth, post the venom and the dead snake to me. That is everything.”

  “And what would you do?”

  “That, for your own safety, you mustn’t know. What would happen would be that on the following evening my uncle would be bitten and die.”

  George moved impatiently. “But, you ass, he couldn’t be bitten. The snake would be dead.”

  Capper nodded. “Quite. You would therefore feel innocent about what you had done.”

  George hesitated. The whole thing sounded horrible to him. Snake-bite was certainly quick, but it was sometimes very painful also. Under no circumstances could he agree to anything of the kind.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “In fact, whatever your idea is, I loathe it and I won’t have anything to say to it.”

  “No suspicion can arise,” Capper pointed out. “It will be clear to everyone that my uncle, disappointed at being refused facilities at the snake-house, took a snake home to experiment. It escaped and bit him.”

  George shook his head. “Suspicion might always arise,” he said, gloomily.

  “Very well, suppose it does? It won’t settle on you, for two reasons. First, though you could have stolen the snake, you could not have got it to bite Burnaby. I will arrange an absolute alibi for you during the whole period. Secondly, there would be no reason to suspect you, because you could have had no motive. Nothing about my sale of your securities will come out. It will be understood that, till probate is granted, you can’t expect to handle your legacy. Probate for my uncle’s money will be granted just as soon, so that I can pay you at the very time you should be getting your own money.”

  “I must have some before that.”

  “Directly my uncle dies I shall be able to raise three or four thousand on my expectations. I can hand you a couple of thousand at once.”

  “But suppose you are suspected and our association comes out?”

  “I won’t be suspected, because, though I would have an obvious motive, I couldn’t get either the venom or the snake.”

  “I’d like to know your plan,” George persisted.

  Capper smiled a little grimly. “Ignorance is always more convincing if it’s genuine,” he retorted, and from this position George could not move him.

  George felt terribly upset. Capper’s scheme seemed safe—for him. If the theft of the securities did not come out—and there was absolutely no reason why it should—no suspicion could possibly attach to him. And he would not commit the murder: in fact, he would know nothing about it. His part would be limited to a quite harmless action. True, he would be taking a snake which did not belong to him, but surely in all these years he had put in enough extra work for the Zoo to balance that?

  And if he declined? Once again George pictured the ruin which must follow. The loss of Nancy, the misery of Nancy, the probable eventual loss of his own job.…

  Two evils indeed: both hateful, both utterly ghastly. Which—was—the—lesser?

  George still tried to temporise. “You spoke of involving me sufficiently to safeguard yourself. What about the reverse? Why, if it suited you, should you not give me away—speaking from a business point of view, of course?”

  Capper, seeing he had conquered, smiled. “That’s not difficult,” he said, in a pleasanter tone. “As I see it, there are four points to be considered. First, you cannot give me away, because you will have provided me with the venom and the snake. Second, I cannot give you away, because I shall have used what you have sent me to kill Burnaby. If either of us talked, we should involve ourselves. Third, I cannot refuse to pay my debt to you, because, if I did, you would proceed against me for theft; and fourth, you cannot get more from me than you’re entitled to, as the papers held by both of us give the amount. Therefore, each of us is completely safeguarded against the other. It’s true, of course, that you’ve no check about the extra two thousand five hundred I’ve promised you, but I’ll pay it all the same.”

  “I’m not worrying about that,” George admitted.

  Capper poured out some more whisky and then leant forward. “That’s all right then; let’s go into details about your part of it. Your keys first. Now there’s a small gate,” and their heads went closer together.

  When, after midnight, George left the house, he found himself definitely committed to the scheme.

  Chapter IX

  Venom: In Action

  George reached home with his mind in a whirl. Now that the die was cast he was already bitterly regretting his decision. Rather, perhaps, he oscillated between two views, at one time dreading and loathing what lay before him, at another thankful that he was avoiding the much worse alternative.

  He felt he must begin to act, partly to finish the burning of his boats, and partly to get the hideous affair over as quickly as possible.

  The first thing to be attended to was the matter of the keys, of which Capper had given him full details. This should be carried out immediately. Capper wanted as much time as possible to elapse between it and Burnaby’s accident, so that a connection between the two should not be too obvious.

  On his ring, George had, besides the keys of his private house, office, safe and desk, keys for various locks about the Zoo. One fitted the main gate and one the side door near Burnaby’s house, and three master keys opened between them the entire range of animal houses. George carried these—they were all small—so that he could at any time of the day or night enter or leave the grounds, or, should occasion arise, visit any animal or enclosure. Before explaining his plan, Capper had asked what keys he carried, and had seemed well pleased with George’s reply.

  George began by thinking out an excuse to use the side door. This door, as has been explained, was a small one for foot passengers only, and led from near the snake-house out on to the road close to Burnaby’s. It was not used by the public, but was reserved for business purposes, and was kept locked. Burnaby had been given a key when he began his researches, so as to save him the walk round by the main entrance, and in order to spare his feelings this key had not been withdrawn from him with the permission to handle the snakes.

  George found his excuse in the illness of his artist friend, Richard Mornington, the man with whom he often walked to lunch. Mornington lived close to Burnaby, and the nearest way from the Zoo to his house was through the side door. George had not been to inquire about him and in the normal condition of affairs might never have gone, but now he felt that friendship demanded a visit.

  That afternoon he paid his call, sitting with the artist for half an hour, much to the latter’s surprise. He walked back to the Zoo, opened the side door with his key, passed through and drew it shut. But he left his bunch dangling from the keyhole.

  Half an hour after reaching his office he decided it was time to open his safe. He put his hand in his pocket for his keys, when lo! they weren’t there. More or less noisily he searched the room, then, having no success, he rang for his secretary.

  “Have you seen my keys, Miss Hepworth?” he asked. “I seem to have mislaid them somewhere.”

  She looked at him with but slightly-veiled disapproval as she replied that she had not. “When did you have them last?” she went on, in an accusing tone.

  “Well, if I knew that, you know.” He smiled. “I had them just before lunch, because I had the safe open then. I remember locking it before going out.”

  “Yes, I saw it open before lunch,” she admitted, unhelpfully.

  “Then after lunch I went round to see Mr. Mornington. He’s ill, you know. I used the side door and I had them then. I mus
t have brought them back with me, but I don’t remember using them since I came in.”

  “You’ve dropped them somewhere,” she suggested, as if administering a reproof to a naughty child.

  “I suppose I must,” he answered meekly, “seeing that they’re not here now. Let’s have a look round the office.”

  He stood feeling in the pockets of his clothes, while with quick efficient fingers and sharp eyes she searched the room and furniture. Presently both had to admit defeat.

  “If I dropped them in the grounds, ten to one someone has found them. Better have Taylor in.”

  She withdrew silently, and he heard her voice at the telephone. Presently a reliable-looking man in a blue uniform appeared. This was the head ranger or grounds caretaker. His duty was to see that the public did as little damage as possible to the flowers, shrubs and various other outdoor objects which the Zoo provided for their delectation.

  “I’ve done a stupid thing, Taylor,” George explained. “I’ve mislaid my keys. There are about eight on the ring, mostly small and of the Yale type.”

  “Yes, sir. Any idea where you lost them?”

  George smiled. “That would be telling, you know. I let myself in through the side door about half an hour ago, so I must have had them then. I walked straight here, but when I looked for them just now they were gone. See if I’ve dropped them in the grounds, will you, and make inquiries if anyone has found them.”

  The man saluted and disappeared, while George sat thinking over the affair. He wasn’t quite clear as to Capper’s motive in requiring all this. It couldn’t be that he intended someone to steal the keys or take impressions, for no time had been arranged for the affair to take place. Yet his direction that they were to be left in the outside keyhole of the door did suggest something of the kind. It was certainly connected with the access of some unauthorised person to the snake-house, as he had insisted that a key of this house must be on the bunch.