Flowering Death

by Angus MacVicar

  “Circulation comin’ back?” he muttered. “I know it must be darned painful.”

  “I think,” she said steadily, “my ankles are worse.”

  He looked up into her face. There was the smallest suggestion of a quirk at the corners of his big mouth, and he was glad to see a faint flush of colour glow in her cheeks. Then he bent down. His lean fingers massaged expertly the silken, dainty ankles. He kept his eyes resolutely on the shoddy carpet. He tried not to be aware of the sweet perfume that she used.

  “That better?” he asked presently.

  “Much, Dr. Dorrance. I shall be able to walk by myself in a moment or two.”

  He grinned.

  “If you think I’m going to carry you in my arms down Somerset Street —”

  They laughed together.

  “You know,” she remarked, patting her hair into place and smoothing out the creases in her white frock, “when I met you first this morning I thought you were — well ... ”

  “You thought I was kind of young and inexperienced?”

  “Something like that ... But Dr. Fayne told me afterwards about your reputation at Scotland Yard. And how cleverly you bluffed the Mallinsons. You know I was receiving a lecture in this room from the man — he was telling me how to behave and how, in the next few days, I was to attract no attention to myself — when your knock came to the door. I recognised your voice at once; but before I could do anything Mallinson had lifted me into the wardrobe. He told me that if I made a sound he would kill me ... ”

  “But you did make a sound.”

  “Yes.” She laughed and Spike thought the sound of her laughter utterly enchanting. “I knocked my head against the back panel of the wardrobe ... It hurt, I can assure you.”

  He caught her hands, this time for no medical reason. And there was nothing of the great criminologist about him then. He looked like a shy schoolboy.

  “Good for you!” he said softly. “That was brave ... I — I’m so glad I found you. I don’t know what I’d have done if I hadn’t.”

  She returned the pressure of his fingers.

  “Am I so terribly important to the — to the investigation?”

  He laughed joyously.

  “Oh, Lord, yes! You’re — you’re everything.” Then suddenly he grew serious. “You’re not going back to Arundel House.”

  Her pencilled eyebrows went up.

  “Indeed!” she returned, and Spike was horrified to detect chill in her tone. “Why not?”

  He reddened. He rose to his feet, brushed dust awkwardly from the knees of his flannels.

  “Oh — er — Miss Nevinson, we can’t risk you being — er — kidnapped again. There’s something in this case which we can’t fathom. It would be dangerous for you to go back.”

  She nodded.

  “I see. But I’m going back.”

  He looked down swiftly into her eyes. His body grew rigid.

  “You’re not going back, Miss Nevinson. I forbid it.”

  “And where, may I ask, am I to go?”

  He took a step forward.

  “Joan — Miss Nevinson! Please do what I say. And don’t be angry with me ... I’m desperately worried. I know there’s something queer about your guardian’s death. I can’t explain ... At anyrate I can’t think of you alone in that house to-night. Listen! I stay with a darling old lady — an aunt of mine. Let us look after you. Please say you want us to look after you — just for a day or two until everything is cleared up.”

  Her eyes dropped. He was so painfully in earnest. And, after all, when she came to think of it, she would be lonely if she returned to Arundel House, with no woman there to share her anxiety. And Fayne and Lancaster might, with their rivalry, make things rather unpleasant. Besides, there was something very comforting and safe about this big young man who looked so boyish and who acted with such courage and initiative. She would give in to him — this time. It was obvious that his masterful way had been assumed only for her good, and her capitulation would not be misunderstood by him in any way. Where certain things were concerned she was confident that she could be the dictator.

  “All right,” she said quietly. “But what will your aunt say, Dr. Dorrance?”

  “She’ll be delighted, I know. She doesn’t see many people. She’ll love to have you. You can send a messenger round to Arundel House for your clothes ... And, oh — er — everybody calls me Spike, you know. Even McGonagle and Spring.”

  “Spike ... What a queer name!”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “But it’s — very like you.”

  “Good Lord! Why?”

  “Really, Spike, I don’t know.”

  They left Aldersyde to discover the Bentley. And, in passing him at the front door, Spike, for no apparent reason, dealt the astonished Walsh a resounding buffet on the back.

  CHAPTER VII

  ON the mantelpiece a black and silver clock of chastely modern design showed the hour to be close on midnight. Sir Percival Merridew, a Turkish cigarette at one corner of his mobile mouth, was presiding at the summing-up of the first day’s work on the McIntee case. Spike lounged at the great man’s right hand behind the solid mahogany bureau, one long leg swinging gracefully over an arm of his easy-chair; while McGonagle and Spring, wearing wooden expressions not quite in accord with their personalities, sat more stiffly, facing their superiors.

  The Assistant Commissioner was a small, slightly-built man with an engaging fashion of speech, a close-cropped sandy moustache and an eyeglass. He had a cherubic countenance and his habit of smiling with one side of his mouth in kindly, fatherly manner belied the energy and determination of his character. Certain of his detractors in Parliament claimed that his methods, in dealing with the criminal classes, were harsh and lacking in humanity. Sir Percival, becoming a little shy, had once replied suavely that the safety of the public was his first consideration and not the well-being of thieves and murderers.

  At the moment a little groove down the centre of his forehead betokened his anxiety.

  “Our prisoners, as you know, will not speak,” he said. “We cannot get a hint of information from them. We’ve been grilling them here since McGonagle brought them in. The girl has opened her mouth only to swear. The man hasn’t spoken at all ... It is my opinion that they’re scared. Maybe their fright is natural in the circumstances. Abduction is severely dealt with in this country. Do you attach any importance to the woman’s reference to ‘the scourge of the flowers,’ Dr — er — Spike?”

  “I can’t say, sir. All I know is that I’ve got a darned queer premonition ... There’s something fishy about this business. I’m ready to believe that someone, by murdering Dr. McIntee, has played the first move in a deep game.”

  If the truth must be told, Sir Percival had a similar feeling; but it was his job to maintain the balance of things.

  “If I didn’t know you, Spike,” he murmured, “I’d say you were an ass.”

  “You’d probably be right, sir.”

  The furrow in the brow of the Assistant Commissioner grew deeper.

  “We’ve discovered, of course,” he continued, “that the precious pair are well known to the police as Mexico Madge and Italian George. At one time they toured the music-halls, in this country, America and the East, doing a knife-throwing act. Later their employment became less respectable. They have been convicted several times for fraud ... Woman’s an American citizen. The man might be anything. Probably Italian. They’ve never been mixed up in a murder-case before. And, mind you, Spike, I don’t think they had anything directly to do with this one either. The flower-decked room at Arundel House isn’t in their line at all ... But I wonder if they have been employed by the murderer?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. What are you charging them with exactly?”

  “Abduction with violence. We’ll get them remanded for a week — same like we got the inquest on McIntee adjourned for seven days.”

  “I see ... By the way, was the furniture-van locate
d?”

  “Yes. Found deserted in a side-street in the Croydon Division. Bloodstained carpet still inside. Number plates changed back again. No sign of bogus upholsterer’s men. The genuine crew of the van, two decent young fellows employed by Matchard’s, the big furniture people, were discovered inside, trussed up like turkeys and quite unconscious. Their story is straightforward. They intended calling at Arundel House to pick up the carpet and, while in that corner of the town, to deliver a wardrobe which had been ordered by another customer in the same street. But while the van, with the wardrobe inside, was being taken from Matchard’s private garage — no one was in the vicinity at the time — two masked men jumped into the driving-seat and overcame the driver and his mate; chloroform was used, I believe. The poor devils only woke up when they were taken to hospital ... The masked men were, in all probability, Italian George and the fellow MacNiven took to be the woman’s lather. I may say that we’ve found no trace of the old boy as yet. I’ve sent men to raid the recognized haunts of Italian George and Mexico Madge, but it may be an impossible task to find their associate. When he discovered the game was up he’d slip quietly from Aldersyde and disappear. We’ve no line on him unless his ‘son’ and ‘daughter’ give him away and I’m quite certain they won’t ... By the way, how is Miss Nevinson? None the worse of her experience?” McGonagle and Spring sat up even more rigidly. It was coming. Old Percy was preparing to work up righteous indignation. Spike’s lazy expression did not change.

  “She’s a bit tired, naturally. Otherwise all right, I think. Tells me she was bundled out of the roll of carpet inside the van and placed in the wardrobe. Then, in Aldersyde, she was taken out, laid on a bed and spoken to threateningly by Italian George. When I — er — appeared at the door she was thrust into the wardrobe once more ... I’m not going to question her to-night, before she has fully recovered from her annoyin’ afternoon, but to-morrow I mean to ask her if she can remember anything, however unimportant, which came to her notice after we left Arundel House this morning. McGonagle has an idea — and a darned shrewd idea it is in my estimation — that her kidnapping was the result of the murderer’s fear that she might inadvertently mention something to us which would put us on his trail. You see the point, sir?”

  The Inspector and Spring exchanged a covert glance. Spike, they realized, was skilfully steering the conversation out of a dangerous channel. But, like a persistent south-westerly breeze, the Assistant Commissioner was not to be denied.

  “Has Miss Nevinson gone back to Arundel House?”

  Spike shook his head.

  “No. You see, I took her to my aunt’s, because —”

  “Because McGonagle and Spring are a pair of fatheads who allowed her to be captured under their very noses.”

  The head of Department Q7 lifted his leg carefully from the arm of his chair. He faced Sir Percival squarely.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. Miss Nevinson’s kidnapping was my fault. My arrangements —”

  McGonagle cleared his throat in a loud manner. The Assistant Commissioner raised sandy eyebrows.

  “No, sir,” boomed the Inspector. “Spike couldn’t help it. Spring couldn’t help it. I am officially in charge of the case.”

  Sergeant Spring leaped to his feet.

  “As a matter of fact, sir,” he said in a low voice, “I was in the house at the time. Spike and Inspector McGonagle, therefore —”

  “Spring!” snapped Spike. “You will be pleased to maintain silence in the presence of your superiors.”

  Abashed, the ruddy-faced sergeant resumed his seat. His breath came quickly. His eyes pleaded with Spike, and he did not observe, therefore, the slow smile which crept up one side of Sir Percival Merridew’s face.

  “You understand, of course, sir,” continued Spike, “that the responsibility was entirely mine. It was a most unfortunate occurrence.”

  There was a short, tense silence. Then Sir Percival began to speak.

  “And if I may say so, Spike,” he retorted, “you and your precious McGonagle and Spring are a lot of damned humbugs! You were all to blame. Forget it, please. There were, I can readily believe, extenuating circumstances ... But in the future kindly be a little more careful of the kind of men you employ to guard a building. By the way, could you give me the names of the two detectives who were supposed to be keeping an eye on Arundel House during the time of the kidnapping?”

  Spike’s face was a blank.

  “Queer!” he murmured, his eyebrows puckering. “I have completely forgotten, sir. I’m sorry ... ”

  He smiled blandly at the great man, and the Assistant Commissioner turned quickly away, to conceal the fact that he was shaking with laughter. McGonagle’s face had lost its appearance of strain, while Spring was eyeing Spike with devotion.

  “Oh, very well then,” said Sir Percival, striving to infuse a note of irritation into his voice. “Can’t be helped. Let the matter drop ... Look here, Dr. — er — Spike, what were your findings with regard to Dr. McIntee’s dusty jacket and muddy boots? You’ve been working on them for the past two hours, haven’t you?”

  The head of Department Q7 nodded.

  “The yellow dust I believe to be some kind of face-powder. Its colour and peculiar scent gives me an idea; and old Maskeleyne, our Oriental expert, has the same notion. Yesterday afternoon Dr. McIntee may have been renderin’ professional services to a Chinese girl who used this yellow powder to match her complexion. Maskeleyne states that similar powder is sold from certain shops in Limehouse.”

  “Good.” Sir Percival’s cherubic countenance was deceptively mild. “And about the mud on the man’s boots?”

  Spike lit a cigarette.

  “That was a more difficult problem, sir. I’ve made an analysis, however, and it’s my opinion that Dr. McIntee must have walked over a piece of ground which had been rendered damp by unusual means. You remember that yesterday was a blazing hot day and that the streets and back greens of London were baked dry.”

  The Assistant Commissioner nodded.

  “And have you an idea from which part of the city the mud has come?”

  “I find that the special type of soil of which it is composed may be discovered in about half-a-dozen localities along the river-bank. Does it sound suggestive to you, sir, that one of these places is Limehouse?”

  “Ha!” Sir Percival’s eyeglass dropped and he began to polish it vigorously with a silk handkerchief, the dimensions of which were scarcely less than those of a small tablecloth. “Spike, I forgive you many things.”

  Spring thought he would send his idol’s stock still higher.

  “And the Chinese coin, Spike,” he ventured.

  “Coin?” observed Sir Percival. “I haven’t heard of it.”

  Spike waved his cigarette.

  “Spring did a smart piece of work there. A two-yen piece was discovered in the pocket of Dr. McIntee’s jacket, and in this connection you may recollect the ancient Chinese superstition which makes it incumbent upon the recipient of a gift or favour to reward the donor with a piece of money, however small. The custom, as you are no doubt aware, is referred to by Confucius, who believed that ill-luck would dog the footsteps of a person who failed to recognize the old belief.”

  Sir Percival’s knowledge of Confucius was limited, and he had certainly never heard of this item in the Chinese philosopher’s catalogue of wisdom; but he did not give himself away.

  “I follow you, Spike.”

  “In Scotland,” continued the head of Department Q7, “we have a similar superstition. I have known poor people, after receivin’ a gift of food or clothing from a bountiful lady, insist upon presentin’ their benefactor with a penny.”

  “It is the same, begorra,” observed McGonagle, “in Ireland.”

  “Very interesting,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner. “And so your theory, Spike, is that yesterday afternoon Dr. McIntee conferred a medical favour upon some poor Chinese girl in Limehouse, whose gratitude could only be concretely e
xpressed by the presentation to him of a two-yen piece?”

  “Excellently put, sir,” returned Spike with great diplomacy. “That is the conclusion to which McGonagle, Spring and I have come.”

  “I know ... Humbugs or not, you are a stout trio. Now, McGonagle, we shall discuss that list of flowers which you got to-night from the flower-show judge, Sir William Farnol. I know old Bill quite well, by the way. We were at Cambridge together ... I understand it is a complete catalogue of all the blooms discovered in the library at Arundel House?”

  With a magnificent gesture McGonagle drew from an inner pocket a sheet of paper. Spike grinned: he had jockeyed old Percy with so much success that the angry critic was now paying compliments.

  “Read out the list, McGonagle,” he suggested.

  The inspector cleared his throat.

  “‘Hybrid perpetual roses of four varieties,’” he intoned, ‘“American Beauty, Gloire Lyonnaise, Marquis of Salisbury and Lady Charlotte Hamilton; common hollyhocks; gladioli of two varieties, Gladiolus Colvillei and The Bride; lilies of the following varieties — white, Burmuda, Martagon, Arum and Panther; digitalis or foxglove; Tom Thumb nasturtiums, cornflowers and a few spikes of spiraea.’”

  “Thank you, McGonagle,” murmured Sir Percival. “Had Sir William any observations to make upon the list?”

  “He had, sir. He described the flowers as being, in every case, outdoor plants. None of them require to be grown in a hothouse. They are all commonly found blooming in English gardens in June and July, with the exception of the Lady Charlotte Hamilton rose.”

  There was a sudden pause.

  “Ha!” ejaculated the Assistant Commissioner. “Please continue, McGonagle.”

  “Sir William tells me that the Lady Charlotte Hamilton is a new variety of rose, introduced by himself into the country from a French stock. He says that not more than half-a-dozen gardens in Britain have begun to cultivate it ... And I may add that it is stocked by no florist.”

  “Well done, McGonagle!” exclaimed Sir Percival. “You have, of course, a note of the half-dozen gardens to which Sir William refers?”