Flowering Death

by Angus MacVicar

  “Jimmy” paused, puffing meditatively at his cigarette. Spike had temporarily forgotten their surroundings.

  “Reference to the malady,” continued the young prince, “is made near the end of the volume. The author goes on to state how growths like flowers spring generally from the feet of sufferers, but how, on occasion, the fleshy protuberances are first apparent on the upper part of the body. The disease, he makes evident, is fatal within seven days unless ‘the cure of the knife and the poison’, as he describes it, is administered. The poison, along with an antidote which, it seems, must be given to the sufferer on the day following the operation, are, according to the writer’s account, procurable only from the bark of a ‘rare African tree’.

  “That is the only hint which he gives regarding the mysterious cure, for obviously he had no idea himself as to its method. He continues to describe how it was lost in the mists of the centuries and how, in his belief, the last man to be aware of it was a Buddhist monk living in Upper Burma. This holy man, the tale reveals, summoned his brother to his death-bed to take down from his lips the secret; but as he began to speak, declaring that he himself was the only man in the world to know of the cure, he died ... But if, as you say, Spike, Dr. McIntee was aware of the remedy, then the latter part of the story cannot be entirely correct.

  “My uncle’s old book then gives a sketchy historical survey of the flower-disease, and the statement of the writer is shortly this.

  “At one time in the world’s history — the author is rather vague as to the exact date — the malady was rampant in the eastern races, especially amongst individuals who led degenerate lives. It is obviously an affection of the blood supply of the skin, and I am of the opinion that the germ comes to life in blood thinned and weakened by dissipation; though, of course, if it is administered direct to a victim, as appears to have been the ease in the instances mentioned by the Daily Star, the strongest and healthiest person could not resist ...

  “It is revealed in Abigail, one of the apocryphal books of the Bible, that King Solomon, in his youth, was the first known victim of the disease and that upon the person who cured him, by means of ‘the knife and poison’, the great monarch showered wealth and honours. And since that date, the author points out, the disease has been known in every part of the world as ‘The Pink Flowers of Solomon.’ And it is a peculiar fact that no matter what the colour of a person’s skin may be, the fleshy growths are always pink. Apparently pigment cannot survive the virile attack of the germs.

  “It was about the end of the fifteenth century, my information goes, that the disease finally became very uncommon in the East, cases occurring only at rare intervals. At the reason for its decline I can only guess; but I rather think it had to do with better sanitation and a morality less impregnated with sensual doctrines ... And so the secret of ‘the cure of the knife and poison’ and the knowledge of the ‘rare African tree’ was lost. At least, Spike, it was lost as far as the old fellow who wrote the book was concerned. Apparently, however, the knowledge survived in some secret manner.”

  “Jimmy” Ram-Singh stopped speaking and pressed the glowing stub of his cigarette into an ash-tray, while the head of Department Q7, observing that it was now almost fifteen minutes past eight, stifled a sigh in which satisfaction and apprehension were mingled. He had returned, on a sudden, to reality.

  His friend’s story had interested him deeply; and there was a possibility, he thought, that the old-fashioned writer’s reference to a “rare African tree” might help the various doctors who were busy upon the medical side of the McIntee case. On the other hand, now that the story was finished, realization came to him that soon “Jimmy” would have to rise and leave him to the company of the Hon. Nancy.

  Wasn’t it queer, however, that the girl should be so tardy? There was one trait in her character which, on a previous occasion, had impressed itself upon Spike. She was seldom more than five minutes late for an appointment.

  That she might not come to dine at Harpagon’s that evening did not occur to him. It was obviously in her own interests that she should make open confession of her part in the sinister happenings of the last two days; for, were she to keep silent and attempt to evade an interview with the police, she would be liable to immediate arrest. And the Hon. Nancy, Spike considered, must be aware of this unpleasant fact.

  He smiled across the crystal-laden table at his old class-mate.

  “My dear ‘Jimmy,’” he said, “I don’t know when I’ve been so interested. And I want to thank you sincerely for your co-operation. I’ve been studying dusty medical tomes at intervals during the last two days, but I couldn’t find out a thing regardin’ the flower-disease ... By the way, would you mind giving Peter Todd an interview on the subject — it and when we make an arrest? I mean, we had to treat the fellow scurvily in suppressing his ‘scoop’ and it would delight his heart to get exclusive stuff about ‘The Pink Flowers of Solomon’ from you.”

  “Jimmy” smiled.

  “Of course,” he answered, “I shall be glad to do anything for a friend of yours, Spike. And, in return, will you please keep me posted as to — er — events?”

  “Certainly, ‘Jimmy’.”

  And so it was that Spike, in due course, brought deep satisfaction to a lonely Indian Prince and to an ill-used “Special Investigator.” He had a flair for this kind of thing.

  At the moment, however, he was not particularly concerned with the wants of “Jimmy” and Peter Todd. And the first flush of his interest in the tale of his friend was choked down by a rising anxiety regarding the lateness of the lion. Nancy. He knew, of course, that she could not escape from the clutches of the law; but then things might happen which the law could not prevent. If “Black and White” were to discover that the Hon. Nancy was on the point of revealing something to the police ...

  *

  For another ten minutes the two men remained seated at the little table, discussing in desultory fashion the peculiar aspects of the flower-disease and gossiping amiably about their experiences together as medical students at Glasgow University. Once during this time the head waiter asked Spike anxiously for instructions on the subject of a dinner which had now been kept waiting for over a quarter of an hour. And at last the Indian rose with obvious reluctance.

  “I have enjoyed this little talk,” he said, white teeth flashing in a smile. “But I must go now. You are expecting a companion.”

  “I am, ‘Jimmy’. I have been expecting her since eight o’clock. It is the privilege of a lady to keep one waitin’.”

  Then, as the prince held out his hand, preparatory to taking his leave, Spike stiffened.

  “Wait, ‘Jimmy’!” he muttered. “There’s something wrong ... ”

  The Indian glanced quickly in the direction of the door. He saw Spike’s eyes fixed upon the slim, white-clad form of a girl who had just come in, unattended. He saw that the girl was deathly pale and that her dark brown hair was in slight disorder. He saw that she kept one end of a little white necklet pressed against her left breast. He saw a red stain seeping into the fur.

  Slowly, as if each step were an effort, the Hon. Nancy Sanders approached Spike. The eyes of every person in the room were turned to her, and even the music of Hector Rome’s orchestra was suddenly ragged. Once she leaned for a second upon the edge of a table near the dancing-floor; but almost immediately she came on once more. Her long, clinging frock swayed as she walked and twice she coughed ...

  And then she was standing before Spike and “Jimmy”. Her lips were blue and dry. The fresh colour that was part of her attraction had been replaced by a grey, dull disfiguration of the skin. The scar on her neck, which the white fur had been intended to hide, was now uncovered, by reason of the strange use to which the necklet had now been put; and the old wound was livid. Her left hand kept the fur close against her side; but Spike, too, saw the red patch growing amongst the soft, silvery hairs. It was clear that only by a magnificent effort of will power had she remaine
d upright for so long.

  She held out her hand, and if Spike had not caught it, she would have fallen even then. His grip, however, seemed to revive for an instant her failing strength.

  “I am sorry,” she said thickly, “that I am late, Dr. Dorrance. I am seldom late ... I have been shot. It was the muir —”

  And then with a glazing of her dark eyes she coughed again. Her cold hand slipped from Spike’s. She fell, her body striking the edge of the table, to the soft carpet. The white fur dropped to one side, revealing a bleeding bullet wound just above her heart.

  There was a jarring discord as the number being played by the orchestra came to an abrupt conclusion. Women shrieked. White-shirted men rushed towards the little table near the door.

  Spike and “Jimmy”, who had knelt down quickly, glanced at one another across the small, strangely twisted figure, which lay so still, covered by the costly silken clothes.

  “Dead?” whispered “Jimmy”.

  Spike nodded.

  CHAPTER XV

  JOAN and Aunt Margaret sat on either side of the comfortable fire in the living-room of Spike’s flat.

  The girl was leaning forward, chin on pink knuckles, elbows on her knees, gazing at the tiny flames licking around the coals. The fire-light danced on the silken sheen of her long, shapely legs. Her hazel eyes were troubled and from time to time she stirred and sighed, looking up at the clock on the mantelpiece as she did so and wishing that the hands would not approach midnight with such relentless certainty. The shaded electric bulb hanging behind her put a halo round her fair head.

  Spike’s aunt, apparently, was fully engrossed in ornamenting with multi-coloured threads a long table-runner; but her anxiety regarding the late return of her nephew was no less acute than that of the girl. Her expression, however, showed no sign of worry, and her eyes held a little smile in their depths. Looking across, Joan wondered how the white-haired lady could be so serene.

  Having read all the newspapers that were to be read, Joan had begun to review silently the events of the past two days. She had tried to think of something that would point unerringly to the murderer of her guardian — something that would relieve her, once and for all, of the burden of suspicion — but her efforts had been in vain.

  She knew, of course, that the police suspected someone in Arundel House of being the murderer. She could not, however, discover any fact which would single out one of her former daily associates for attention. Now that she viewed them in the light of suspicion, of course, there were many things which she found peculiar in their relationships with Dr. McIntee.

  Lancaster, for example, had been peculiarly lacking in proper respect for the old man, and on more than one occasion Joan had caught her guardian looking at the actor with an expression in which there might have lurked hatred and suspicion. Dr. McIntee, however, had become so moody of late that his relations even with herself had often been strained and unfriendly. And Lancaster — at the beginning at any rate — had obviously thrown himself on the charity of his uncle, without seeming to be properly grateful for the old man’s help.

  Then Joan had an idea that Fayne, on the other hand, fawned too much upon her guardian and tried too obviously to keep on the right side of his patron. There was an Oriental servility about Fayne which her British independence found revolting, though her common sense told her that Fayne had every reason to cringe before Dr. McIntee. The latter had done a great deal for the young student, and men of the Eastern races, she knew, were apt to go to extremes of gratitude where those who helped them were concerned.

  She wondered, too, about the references to the strange disease of the flowers which had appeared in the morning paper, and which had caused Spike to rush so precipitately from the breakfast-table. There had occurred a denial of the report in the Evening Comet; but Joan’s alert mind saw in this the work of Spike ... Could there be a connection between the Eastern doctor and an Eastern disease?

  Her mind switched back to Lancaster. There was that in his character which did not appeal to Joan. He was a typical Englishman in many ways, bluff in the manner of a gentleman, healthy and casual. And yet in his desire to attract her there had been evident in his character n cold calculating purpose which all his acting was unable to hide. Sometimes, for no reason at all, she had shivered at the look in his light eyes when he regarded her. He might have been looking at a pretty, inanimate object that he was determined to own. And yet since the murder she imagined that she detected fear in his demeanour — a peculiar emotion to be displayed by an egotist.

  And it occurred to her then that Fayne, despite his eastern lack of independent spirit, had actually shown much more courage and coolness than the actor, since the coming of tragedy to Arundel House ...

  She bit her lip and went on to think of Seale. The butler had always been an enigma to her. On the surface he was devoted to his master, and, indeed, Joan had no reason to doubt the sincerity of the man’s display of loyalty. And yet, since the murder, she had viewed Seale with some disquiet. He was so grey and lined, his speech was so abrupt and he moved so silently about the house ... And his eyes had seemed to watch Fayne, Lancaster, his fellow-servants and herself as if striving to read their thoughts — as if he were afraid that one of them knew more than had been discovered.

  The butler had been with Dr. McIntee for more years than she knew, and it occurred to her that a servant of such long standing might have come to learn of something about his master which would lead to —

  Joan glanced again at the clock, determinedly braking the try in of ideas upon which she had embarked. The time, she noted, was almost a quarter to eleven, and still Spike had not come home ... Had anything happened?

  Quickly she resumed the consideration of persons in Arundel House.

  Mrs. Parkinson and Mary Daw did not seem to Joan to be worthy of particular study. Since Mrs. Parkinson had been taken ill before it occurred she did not think that the housekeeper could be connected in any way with her own abduction: and it seemed evident that the person causing the abduction had also been the murderer.

  And poor little Mary Daw was so lacking in character and determination that the thought of her being accused of murdering anybody made Joan smile.

  She began to wonder if what she had to tell Spike would really help much in the way of elucidating the mystery.

  After he had gone out in the morning she had puzzled her brain to think of that something she knew or had learned which might have made the murderer attempt to silence her. Spike had seemed certain that there was something. And then, just before that nice young policeman, Sergeant Spring, visited the flat, she had suddenly remembered an event which might fit into Spike’s theory. At the time she had imagined it capable of some helpful explanation; but as the day wore on and now, while she waited to tell Spike, it seemed dreadfully trivial and almost silly ... She hoped Spike wouldn’t laugh at her when she spoke of the incident.

  She gazed into the fire. She wished that he had been able to keep his promise to spend the evening at home. When he had telephoned, explaining that the business of the case prevented him from returning early to the flat, she’d been grievously disappointed, though she had employed all her will-power to prevent the fact being evident either to Spike or to Aunt Margaret ...

  It was curious, she thought, how Spike had attracted her. She tried to analyse her feelings and found them in complete chaos.

  He was, indeed, intensely masculine, unusual and unexpected in action and speech, friendly. And yet, behind it all, she sensed a streak of ruthlessness and determination. She could not tell why she was able to ignore this ruthlessness and determination. She may have known instinctively that he would not employ them where she herself was concerned.

  And then from Sergeant Spring she had gathered that both the young policeman and Inspector McGonagle regarded their colleague with great affection, and it seemed to her that a man who could inspire policemen with affection must be able to inspire other people with a similar emotion
. That, she told herself, must be the cause of his peculiar attraction for her. He must be one of those rare people by whom everyone is attracted ... Then she smiled a little wistfully. She shook her head.

  “Joan,” she thought: “you’re kidding yourself ... ”

  She raised one knee, and, clasping her hands about it, addressed Aunt Margaret.

  “Isn’t he late? Does he often have to wait out after midnight?”

  Her cheeks flushed a little by the heat of the fire, her hands moving back and forth across the table-runner, the old lady nodded.

  “Yes, Joan. Sometimes when he’s interested in a case he doesn’t leave the Yard all night: but he always ’phones if he’s not going to be back.”

  “You must be worried about him — sometimes?”

  “I am. But I try never to let Spike know. If he thought I was worried he’d lose some of that self-confidence which has made him — well, what he is. You know, Joan: men are like babies. If you fuss about them or show too plainly your anxiety for them, they turn out to be fussy and anxious themselves. One never stops bringing up a man. He is exactly what his mother or his sweetheart, his sister or his aunt makes him ... ”

  Joan smiled.

  “You’re making a good job of Spike, anyway, Aunt Margaret.”

  “Yes. I’ve always bolstered up his self-confidence. That is the main thing. I hope that if he marries —”

  For some obscure reason Joan’s face flushed painfully. And she was relieved in more ways than one when the old lady’s remarks were cut short by the sound of a key turning in the lock of the outside door.

  “It’s Spike!”